Short story
Madam
By Fiona Cummings
A portrait hung on the wall of the vast lobby in the house
where I worked. I never knew who the lady was. Or what she did in life. All I
knew was, I had to protect it, polish it, and I was compelled to admire it.
The chunky bronze which framed her story book of a face, added
a dull lighting to the dark background of the place in which she was sitting.
She wore red velvet by the looks of it. Her lips were painted the same shade, and
cheeks were slapped red, a false colour,
but I guess in those times, they didn’t have the fine make up ladies satisfy
themselves with now days? Her skin was of
olive complexion. Her hair was long,
thick and she wore it heavy on the top of her head, with wisps hanging from her
forehead and around her ears, which boasted the finest jewels, of emeralds,
diamonds and pearls. Her dark hair, was in a bun high on the top of her copious
curls, which were creeping out from the tangled tortoise shell clip, in which
her maid I’m sure had sloppily stuck in the thick locks that day, preparing her
lady for her picture.
Her cheek bones were of sharp formations and her nose was spelt
like and sharp towards the end. Her eyes
were of dark caves. Deep within her longingated skull. Dark, demon like,
drained of all life. The map around her mouth, showed off her melancholic mind.
Just how long had she had to sit there? What was she
thinking? Who did the painting? What were they thinking about? Did they talk to
each other? Why was the painting done, and for whom?
Out of all the beautiful and interesting paintings around
the house, even when there are days where exhibits are shown for the public,
nothing interests me as much as this person, this lady.
Why? What was my fascination?
I felt as though I could talk to her, she still was in the
room as real as the days when she would walk the floors I clean. One day I feel
I shall be on bended knees and I will look up from my cloths, bucket and wax,
and she will be standing there.
Looking down on me. Who is she?
I swear I can smell her fragrant scent. Lavender and
rosehips
Hints of bergamot too. I wonder if one of those bottles in
the glass cabinet in the upstairs landing, would be her perfume bottle.
I wonder if the lace cloth on the bedside table, the one we
have to be so careful with, as it is incredibly
fragile, is the one she crafted, all those years ago.
Who is she?
I asked his Lordship, but he prevailed from providing me
with any information.
In his condescending cruel voice, he chronicled my rights to
remain anonymous. Showing me papers of his untidy hand writing, in an ink from
the dark ages, I mean, has no one told him, we have moved on?
You really would know that answer, if you could see what I
can see in this house?
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