(no subject)
When Arthur is writing, he imagines things differently. His brothers, of course, would say that he always thought differently no matter the situation, but they were bullies. His editor always shrugged it off-how the novel was produced wasn’t really a concern to Alfred, all he really cared about was that he got the draft in the mail by the due date. The rest of the world praises any sort of eccentricism from one of the world’s bestselling authors-it’s all part of the creative process, after all. His maid, on the other hand, doesn’t seem to acknowledge or ignore his potentially odd behavior, simply continuing on as if she had accepted it. This, of course, made her an excellent muse in some ways, as Arthur could watch her for however long he wanted and she would simply continue on as if it was completely normal.
Teatime is in some ways the most inspiring time, watching her set up the service and a few light snacks. In his mind’s eye, the bare white walls and navy blue curtains melded into elegantly carved wood paneling and heavy velvet drapes. “Maria, to the left a little,” Arthur commands, waving a hand at her. She obeys without a question, the perfect painter’s model. She picks up the teapot and pours; a graceful motion. Arthur hired her specifically for that-none of the other girls could handle the teapot so well. She slides the teacup towards him with a smooth motion. He can imagine a different world with her; the tea service changes to something much more fine, the tea itself become richer and more exotic. Her hair darkens, but not overly so, and loose wisps from the ornate braids that keep her fantasy self’s long hair back hide tiny pearls.
“What do you think is a good name for a young noblewoman, about twenty years or so, with a little dog?” Arthur asks, picking up the cup and saucer. Maria looks to him, tilting her head.
“Cornelia,” she replies, adjusting the small plate of sandwiches just so before pulling away. “I’m going to dust in your office while you’re eating, if you don’t mind.”
His office has been a source of tension between the two since she started working. Originally, it had been completely off limits to her. She hadn’t quite minded at first, but eventually, during their first winter together, she told him that she simply had to come in and at least figure out where the mice were hiding. She had managed to chase them out of the stove, but not completely out of the flat. He had refused, telling her that just because they were mice didn’t mean that they deserved to be homeless. She replied by telling him that if he wasn’t careful, the mice were going to make homes from his unfinished manuscripts. Arthur relented-but told her she was only allowed to search around for the little rat bastards.
Eventually, Maria made more progress in cleaning the office. Arthur protested every step of the way, but he had to admit eventually that after she had begun dusting his office regularly, his allergies seemed to calm down. Even his little fairy figurines seemed to brighten up a little. Grudgingly, he began to trust her alone in the office; she had devised a system of using a glass cake dome to cover his manuscripts so that she wouldn’t have to worry about replacing his manuscripts just as they were before she started cleaning. And she asked, always asked, if she wanted to clean in there. It was a thoughtful sort of gesture that Arthur appreciated.