Faces of the Wind

Chapter 32

A week has passed and Adrian longed for Arden to acknowledge him. She was his only hope to a connection with a nigh past that now seemed long gone and buried in a place so dark and forgotten. Perhaps she wished to break all ties with the days he pined for and yearned to revive.

He walked like a withered man, half hunched, staring at the pavement beneath his dirty boots, fearful that if he looked up, he would have to face his new world—a world of his own creating, with challenges of his own doing. The oppressive influence of Edgar Medley he has brought upon himself, the abandonment of his family in Steventon who never wrote to him and the daily physical withdrawal have all weighed him down and turned him into a gaunt creature with downward-turned features. He hasn't eaten more than some stale bread and water for days. He earned very little and could not manage his finances; he spent money faster than he made it.

A hand gently rested on his shoulder and sent a reviving streak of warmth down to his heart. He stopped and the painting equipment inside his large brown canvas bag pattered. He absently looked to his left and saw a small bundle in a woman's hand.

"Take this, my boy," Mrs. Macy said.

He furrowed his brows.

"Tis a mu'on pie."

He looked at her and smiled in his head but his lips did not twitch.

"You look like you're about to faint," she added, pressing the bundle into his hand.

He accepted it, unwrapped it and ate it in three gulps. He thanked her and was on his way. He thought he saw Arden—or Hazel—walk past him, but she avoided looking at his face. Why did it wound him so much? A sudden urge mounted inside him to follow her and vent it all out in her face. It was as if by doing so, he would relieve his heart of the unbearable weight of his neglectful family, his deceased father and his oppressive employer. Ah, his employer. It was about time he spoke to him about those starvation wages and pointed out that his work was deserved some appreciation.

Everywhere he looked, the world lay beneath a veil of black tulle.

***

After waiting for over an hour outside Edgar's office, a secretary who looked as if he has survived the Great Famine of Ireland told Adrian the 'master would now see him.'

He pushed the squeaky wooden door into the office, which met him with Gothic shadows cast on the glossy floor. Edgar was reading something and did not look up even though he could hear his guest's footsteps nearing him.

"How are you today, Adrian?" He asked in his snobbish, cool tone and mousy voice.

Adrian felt light-headed and wished to sit, but he thought he would wait on his feet until he received a proper invitation. "Still alive," he replied in a feeble voice, "I suppose."

Edgar looked up with his shallow, heavily hooded eyes. "Sit down," he said, his expression dull.

As if to avoid tripping, Adrian carefully and slowly sat on the striped Chippendale chair opposite to Edgar. He has noticed that, unlike the rest of the establishment, this room has been recently refurbished.

"I believe Mr. Jefferson has brought to your attention that starting next week, you will be working in the small studio opposite to the one you normally occupy," Edgar said, clasping his hands as his fleshy elbows rested on the big desk in front of him.

"I don't recall—"

"Ah," Edgar interjected, "I have been to the new inn in Harley Street yesterday and seen the mural you completed last week."