To Live and To Breathe (Could Be #2)

Chapter 9

"Well, do you enjoy working for the Lancasters?" Timothy asked, desperate to break the silence with something—anything. Mary sat opposite him, eyes downcast, wearing an expression he'd seen reflected back at himself only too many times. This wasn't one of the stormy bursts of anger or sadness she'd exhibited before. This was long-held grief. It was shame. That anyone should have caused Mary pain like that—

Mary stirred and nodded with an attempt at cheerfulness. "I do enjoy it, but I've always been close to my employers. The Lancasters have such a large staff that I seem to live in a world apart."

Timothy drummed his fingers on the side of his cup, savoring the warmth seeping through the porcelain. "Would you rather it wasn't that way?"

Mary wrinkled up her nose thoughtfully. "No, I don't suppose I do," she said, looking at him with a glimmer of amusement. "I'm surrounded by people like me."

A pang entered Timothy's heart. People like her. He wasn't like her. He wasn't anything like her. He shifted, and his wooden leg felt even heavier than usual. "I'm sorry I asked you to come here—" he began, but she stopped him.

"No, Timothy." She almost sounded frightened. He looked at her with furrowed brow, and she laughed again—painfully. "What I mean to say is that I'm glad we could meet like this."

"You are?" Timothy asked before he could stop himself, then hated that he'd let such a vulnerable question out. He didn't want her to see that he was no more stable than the last time they'd met. He didn't want her to know how bitterly he'd repented getting himself into this situation. He'd begun their meeting with a pounding heart, but Mary had been so truly herself that he'd slipped into the path of their old relationship as easily as if they had not been parted for four years. But it wasn't right—it was too familiar—people would talk. Even the terror of knowing she'd heard some of his writing hadn't been able to shake him out of it. He needed to stop being so selfish. Stop dragging her into his misery.

"I am glad," Mary repeated, breaking him out of his cycle of self-loathing.

Timothy looked at her with half fearful hope, and she smiled, banishing the sorrow from her countenance. "Next week you should come with me to Martin Street and meet my family," she said. "They've heard so much about you, I'm sure they'd be delighted to meet you at last."

She'd told her family about him? Nothing Mary had said thus far had electrified Timothy like those words. Not even knowing she'd heard some of his writing, poor soul. Meet her family! He was torn between the warmth in his chest and the pain of possibility. They must know him as the crutches-bound boy that had wasted away in such thorough self-imposed isolation that he'd nearly kidnapped Mary to ease his own suffering. His struggle to get up and put his feet on the floor never seemed to change, but at least now he tried. He didn't want to have to face them knowing that was the judgment they had formed of him.

"Of course," Mary went on in a thoughtful tone, and he looked at her again, terrified of what she might propose next. "You'll have to bring St. Vincent. My sister Kathleen would be heartbroken if you didn't."

***

Timothy went home that evening filled with a bewildering mixture of elation and dismay. She didn't exhaust him like most people did, but that was what made it so hard to stop. Against his better judgement he had consented to see Mary again in a few days, and now he berated himself for it most mercilessly. The question of meeting her family had remained unfinished—so he was free on that point at least.

"Timothy you fool," he grumbled, climbing the stairs that led to his parents' rooms. "You deserve every bit of trouble this is going to send your way. People are trouble. They only ever leave—even Mary. They can't help it. You're better off leaving well enough alone."

Mrs. Wright's cheerful greeting as he stepped through the door dragged Timothy back to the present. Mustering his frayed attention span, he looked vaguely to where she stood bent over the child's stove, stirring something that didn't smell terrible.

"What's for dinner?" he asked in an effort to appear less internally ruffled than he was. The last thing he wanted was questions. If his mother found out where he'd been that afternoon she'd think he was keeping company, and nothing would persuade her otherwise. His collar grew hot just thinking about it. Timothy was not that stupid. He had no prospects of being able to support a wife, and he knew it.

"Margaret borrowed some broth from one of the neighbors and made soup," Mr. Wright answered from where he sat at the table, reading a paper.

"It smells good, mother," Timothy said, surprising even himself when he could say such a thing honestly.

Before Mrs. Wright could reply, the door behind him opened and Mrs. Mason issued boldly through it, preceded by three of her cats. St. Vincent let out a fearsome screech upon sight of the furry intruders, and Timothy bit his tongue to keep back a groan. Their landlady was a wizened old creature usually only known by her floorboard-rattling good morning, but on occasion she materialized in the flesh to collect rent or conduct a raid on their dinner whenever Mrs. Wright managed something worth dipping into. Timothy hoped it was the latter this time, since he had little to contribute towards his keep.

"What a delicious smell carried down the staircase this evening, Margaret!" Mrs. Mason said, making a beeline for the stove while Mrs. Wright looked helplessly at her husband and the landlady's cats encircled St. Vincent's cage.

While the parrot eyed the felines with undisguised disgust, Timothy limped to his rescue, alarmed by the cats' lashing tails. He balanced on his good foot and tried to nudge them out of the way with the other. "Keep back, you villains," he grumbled, careful to keep his tone quiet enough that Mrs. Mason couldn't hear her precious pets being abused.

"Keep back, you villains!" St. Vincent screamed, drawing every eye in the room to them.

Timothy laughed painfully in the ensuing silence. "I really have no idea where he learned to talk like that." He followed it up by giving the bird a dirty look, and Mrs. Mason shook her head as she went back to the spoon she was sampling the soup with.

"Odd creature," she said, and Timothy made good of her distraction to escape with St. Vincent to the pantry until their guests were gone. Just as he was closing the door, he heard his mother explaining that they only had the bird because an eccentric relative had left St. Vincent to them.

"No," said Mrs. Mason. "Your son. He's an odd one, that."

Timothy shut the door.

–––––––––

Maison is the French word for house, so I decided to name Mrs. Mason after the word since she provides the house the Wrights live in.