The Stranger

Burn and Freeze

Grace poured the hot water into the pail over the sink and clouds of mist unfurled over her head, red tinge blotching her face from the upsurge of misty heat. She put the washboard in the lathered water and reached for the small, dark pile of fabric from the basket over the slab.

It was an overcoat, a jacket and a similar but shredded waistcoat.

The black, rich fabric of the attire felt smooth under Grace's uneven finger, the wool was superbly steamed and ironed. The black gleamed ever so mildly under the glare of the cloudy sky by the window, making Grace wonder at the likely spending it would have interested.

Yet, while the livery seemed exclusive and elegant, it was as far from being extravagant as it was from being cut-rate.

Whoever he was, he was an identity of consequence; that much she had known from the first moment her skin had made contact with his. And if the clothes were any indication, Grace knew she was falling far short in her social standing.
Perhaps that was why he had acted so coldly with her? Perhaps her behaviour_ No, that was unlikely. But perhaps that explained the incessant gazing? The intriguing stares sent her way? The undemanding intrusiveness he so plainly exuded every minute she had been in his proximity?

Was he being quiet because he was being condescending?

Grace's glazed eyes found focus as she looked down at the work at hand.

Only barely was the superimposing blood and grime visible around the dark lapels of the overcoat and the jacket and it truly made one speculate over the fact that a 'storm' could be that rapt at damaging. The waistcoat on the other hand seemed ripped around the sternal section of the fitting by a harsh impact that had then gone on deeper to ruin his shirt and split open his chest.

The trouble, to Grace, seemed that she wasn't convinced such fine material should be handled in the inferior syndicate of hot, hard water and cheap soap. She feared she would ruin the clothing entirely, even if it had already been tampered in some rather violent ways.

If she did try to clean it and in process, ruined it beyond resurrection, would he ask her to compensate the mar? Would he ask her to mend it despite?

Grace wanted to be blunt for once. He seemed like an sincere man, even if he jittered her nerves in way nothing, no one ever had.

Yet, sincerity somehow didn't countersign kindness.

So hesitantly, gently_ Grace put the coat pile into the warm water and let it soak until the lather had turned fawn coloured. Through the cloud of beige froths, Grace saw the chilly reminder his wound in the crimson water.

She shivered at the implication.

The weather that had been merry all morning was starting to lose its ruddiness as storm-cloud started to gather the ether of sky by late morning. The wind became heavy and wet through the short period Grace finished the tribulation and washed her hand. The sky was foretelling another tempest.

The house was suddenly dark in the middle of the noon.

In the powerful gusts of wind, the banging windows cackled up and down the house making Grace rush to them and lock them shut. She pulled each curtain on to keep the cold wind at bay.

Only when she had lit the candles around the kitchen and made a robust fire in the hearth did she hear the slamming sound of another windowpane, which came from somewhere down the passage. She had completely forgotten about one chamber that held the utmost significance in her entire house for now.

When Grace entered the guestroom, she had half expected to be met with an insistent complaining by the occupant of the chamber for her slackness toward his comfort.