Read Online Love Shadows by Catherine Lanigan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Catherine Lanigan
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force of nature, and truly one on the stormy side, Sarah didn’t have the foggiest idea how she was going to turn the woman away. She could not afford a housekeeper right now, especially on a reduced salary. She would have to be very diplomatic if she didn’t want to hurt the woman’s feelings.
“We need to talk about this,” Sarah said, opening the door. Miss Milse bent over and grabbed an armful of her favorite cleaning utensils.
This was going to be tough. Sarah took a step backward to give Miss Milse plenty of room to enter the house. The mop handles clanged against the metal bucket. It was an everyday, ordinary sound that should have gone unnoticed and been absorbed into the walls like any of the other sounds that meander through a house on a given day. But in that moment, the bucket’s tinny sound and its reverberation spoke to Sarah like a call from the angels.
The house is empty. Even with me in it.
“I start in kitchen,” Miss Milse said, her lips forming a straight, nonemotional line.
Sarah shook her head. “The kitchen is clean. There isn’t much to do with only me living here....”
Miss Milse’s eyes left Sarah’s face and looked past her into the dining room. She frowned. Sarah’s eyes followed hers until she saw what Miss Milse saw.
There were no flowers from the garden on the mahogany Queen Anne table. Tall silver vases on either side of the marble-topped hunt board were not filled with English ivy the way Ann Marie had always kept them. A cobweb, glistening in the morning sunlight, stretched between the arms of the Venetian crystal chandelier that had belonged to her father’s grandmother. Every generation of Jensens had painstakingly cared for the chandelier and passed it on to the subsequent generation.
The windows had not been washed this spring or summer, and across the wide-planked cherry floor, dust motes spun like fairy sprites.
Sarah looked up at Miss Milse. “I can do this myself,” she said in a low voice that lacked conviction.
Miss Milse sucked in a long breath and widened her stance as if she was readying herself for a physical battle. “I clean. I make it like Mizz Jensen always like.”
“It’s just not necessary,” Sarah began but before she could say another word, Miss Milse interrupted her.
“No. I take care of house when your fadder vas sick. Den. Your mudder. Den she die. I not hear from you. I come to you. I clean.” She poked Sarah in the shoulder with a stubby finger.
Sarah tried to smile, but lost energy before it landed on her face. “You don’t understand, Miss Milse. You see, I, er, lost my job. Well, not really. I hope to go back to my work someday. Soon, perhaps. Maybe when that happens I can call and have you come clean.” Sarah looked at the woman’s stubborn expression, hoping she’d made herself clear.
Miss Milse looked down the hall at the mirror that had not been dusted, at the chairs that had not been lemon-oiled and at the floor that needed waxing and buffing. She scrutinized the gilt-framed paintings and heirloom family portraits that hung on the wall. She took in the sweeping wood and carpeted staircase that had not been waxed, vacuumed or dusted since the last time she’d been in the house over three months ago. She looked back to Sarah.
“House needs me to clean.”
“But I can’t pay you what my mother used to pay.”
Miss Milse shook her head. “You pay less.”
Sarah’s shoulders drooped. This wasn’t going well. “I want to pay you, but it’s just not the right time for me.” She looked away, feeling absolutely wretched. “I can’t pay you at all.”
Miss Milse stood stock-still.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said and met her eyes again.
Slipping out of the corner of Miss Milse’s nearly lashless blue eye was the first tear Sarah had ever seen the woman shed. This huge block of a woman who never understood the first joke Sarah had told her and who almost never laughed or smiled or showed any emotion other
“We need to talk about this,” Sarah said, opening the door. Miss Milse bent over and grabbed an armful of her favorite cleaning utensils.
This was going to be tough. Sarah took a step backward to give Miss Milse plenty of room to enter the house. The mop handles clanged against the metal bucket. It was an everyday, ordinary sound that should have gone unnoticed and been absorbed into the walls like any of the other sounds that meander through a house on a given day. But in that moment, the bucket’s tinny sound and its reverberation spoke to Sarah like a call from the angels.
The house is empty. Even with me in it.
“I start in kitchen,” Miss Milse said, her lips forming a straight, nonemotional line.
Sarah shook her head. “The kitchen is clean. There isn’t much to do with only me living here....”
Miss Milse’s eyes left Sarah’s face and looked past her into the dining room. She frowned. Sarah’s eyes followed hers until she saw what Miss Milse saw.
There were no flowers from the garden on the mahogany Queen Anne table. Tall silver vases on either side of the marble-topped hunt board were not filled with English ivy the way Ann Marie had always kept them. A cobweb, glistening in the morning sunlight, stretched between the arms of the Venetian crystal chandelier that had belonged to her father’s grandmother. Every generation of Jensens had painstakingly cared for the chandelier and passed it on to the subsequent generation.
The windows had not been washed this spring or summer, and across the wide-planked cherry floor, dust motes spun like fairy sprites.
Sarah looked up at Miss Milse. “I can do this myself,” she said in a low voice that lacked conviction.
Miss Milse sucked in a long breath and widened her stance as if she was readying herself for a physical battle. “I clean. I make it like Mizz Jensen always like.”
“It’s just not necessary,” Sarah began but before she could say another word, Miss Milse interrupted her.
“No. I take care of house when your fadder vas sick. Den. Your mudder. Den she die. I not hear from you. I come to you. I clean.” She poked Sarah in the shoulder with a stubby finger.
Sarah tried to smile, but lost energy before it landed on her face. “You don’t understand, Miss Milse. You see, I, er, lost my job. Well, not really. I hope to go back to my work someday. Soon, perhaps. Maybe when that happens I can call and have you come clean.” Sarah looked at the woman’s stubborn expression, hoping she’d made herself clear.
Miss Milse looked down the hall at the mirror that had not been dusted, at the chairs that had not been lemon-oiled and at the floor that needed waxing and buffing. She scrutinized the gilt-framed paintings and heirloom family portraits that hung on the wall. She took in the sweeping wood and carpeted staircase that had not been waxed, vacuumed or dusted since the last time she’d been in the house over three months ago. She looked back to Sarah.
“House needs me to clean.”
“But I can’t pay you what my mother used to pay.”
Miss Milse shook her head. “You pay less.”
Sarah’s shoulders drooped. This wasn’t going well. “I want to pay you, but it’s just not the right time for me.” She looked away, feeling absolutely wretched. “I can’t pay you at all.”
Miss Milse stood stock-still.
“I’m so sorry,” Sarah said and met her eyes again.
Slipping out of the corner of Miss Milse’s nearly lashless blue eye was the first tear Sarah had ever seen the woman shed. This huge block of a woman who never understood the first joke Sarah had told her and who almost never laughed or smiled or showed any emotion other
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