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She catches him off-guard one evening after a few too many sherries, defenses dulled by alcohol, good company, and a crackling fire.
“Why haven’t you given me permission to call you Siegfried yet?”
The question had been lingering on her mind for days since she’d gifted the same permission to Helen Alderson after so many years of familiarity. She’d tried doing the same with Tristan years ago when he’d been sick with the flu and she’d sat by his bedside stroking his hair the way a mother would. But he’d grinned weakly up at her, pale and shaky, and protested. It’s a matter of respect, Mrs. H.
But somehow she suspected Siegfried’s reasoning wasn’t so wonderfully charming.
Although many of the rules that he’d set forth for her when she’d first started had fallen away as they developed their own routine and she found her own place in his house, it was only here that she feared straying from the forced formality. Even while everyone closest to them called him by his given name, he’d never so much as hinted or suggested she should do the same.
It stung; made her feel small. And she was done feeling small—not for Edward, not for her husband, and certainly not for Siegfried Farnon.
Beside her on the settee, Siegfried stills for a moment before abruptly standing, hand running over his stomach absentmindedly, nervously, a forced bark of a laugh escaping him.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Mrs. Hall.”
“Oh, aye?” She asks ruefully, jaw clenching. “No idea at all what I’m referring to, Mr. Farnon?”
Siegfried flushes and places his empty whiskey tumbler on the silver tray, shaking his head and backing away and out from the living room and her questions, some half-formed protests mumbled under his breath.
She stands, exasperated, and raises her voice, following him down the hallway to the kitchen. Insufferable man. Chasing her employer through the labyrinth of hallways in his own home to finish conversations he was intent on running away from was certainly not something she expected she’d have to deal with when she’d first taken this position.
“I asked you a question! You tell everyone—insist on it, in fact!—to call you Siegfried. Never mind the fact that I’ve darned your trousers and mopped your brow when you’ve had too many at The Drover’s and seen you strip to your underthings in my kitchen—“
“Mrs. Hall that is quite enough!” His wayward wanderings had led them both into the kitchen with no where left to run. He turns, eyes darting about wildly for an exit. The only way out is through her and she has no intention of backing down, not until this is resolved. Siegfried blusters at her. “I don’t wish to discuss—“
She cuts him off, crossing her arms over her chest and glares at him. “Well I would.”
Siegfried throws his hands up in the air. “Really, Mrs. Hall—“
“Will it be easier for you if I give you permission first? There, let’s have it then. No more Mrs. Hall. Call me Audrey or Aud, if you can manage it.” It comes out sharper than she intends, more pleading than she’d hoped, but that’s what Siegfried brings out in her some days—frustration and the same manic, frantic energy.
He sighs, the fight seemingly going out of him. “Mrs. Hall—“
“Audrey,” she insists, jaw set stubbornly and eyes blazing. It was of dire importance to her that he recognize this small hurdle between them, this small inequality that stung and smarted her pride and her heart.
He runs a hand through his hair, looking for all the world a man facing the gallows rather than his housekeeper and friend and a simple conversation. “I know our—“ He searches for a word before settling on—“arrangement isn’t conventional and you know I’m not one to kowtow to expectations, but on this I must insist.”
She lets out a huff of frustration, steps forward and jabs her finger into his chest repeatedly. “You lunatic of a man. I—“
He bats her hand away, side stepping her and heading for the hallway. “Oh really, Mrs. Hall, I thought you above this sort of childish bickering.”
She follows him, having no problem being just as stubborn and unreasonable as he can be.
“Audrey,” she insists again, voice raised with emphasis.
“Just let it be, woman!”
“Then tell me why.”
“Because!”
“Because why?”
“Because I’ll forget myself!”
He wheels on her, eyes wild and chest heaving, looking for all the world he’d just said something he hadn’t intended. Siegfried steps closer, expression imploring, hands reaching for her but not quite all the way, hanging outstretched between them—half measures for them both always.
“Don’t you understand? If I think of you as Audrey, as the beautiful woman living in my home, who plays Scrabble with me and drinks my whiskey when I’m not looking and supports my business and my family as if they were her own…You know me better than anyone in this world and I cannot lose you. I cannot—“
His voice catches, cheeks flushing a soft pink. He steps closer to her, hand that much closer to her, reaching and reaching. “I need a reminder that you’re Mrs. Hall, my employee. That I am your employer and that anything more would be improper. And if we erase that line between us—that one last remaining line—I don’t know where we go from there.”
Audrey felt the breath catch in her chest, eyes stinging with tears, her heart beating wildly from the adrenaline of their exchange and the implication of his words. She’d long ago tucked her heart away from him, reminding herself time and time again that they couldn’t—shouldn’t. But it hadn’t stopped her from loving him anyway; hadn’t stopped her from loving his brother as if he were her own or caring for his home—their home—as if it were her household to run.
She just never thought Siegfried would ever return her affections and certainly not with this degree of passion.
Gathering the last remains of her sherry-fueled courage, she stepped forward, taking his hand in hers, their palms sliding together. His palms were calloused, just like hers, and she shivered at the way they fit together, at the warmth of his skin and the soft, desperate way he clutched at her.
She tilts her head downwards to catch his eye, refusing to let him hide. They’ve done enough of that. When her eyes meet his, she’s surprised to find his eyes dark with desire and anticipation.
Audrey squeezed his hand and drew it to her hip, settling it there. “Do you think my heart gives a damn about honorifics? Do you think I’d—” She took in a deep breath, steeling herself for a moment. “Do you think I’d love you any less?”
Siegfried’s head shot up, eyes searching hers, his hand tightening at her hip, as he steps forward. “You—you love me?”
“Aye,” she says with a laugh, happiness and joy and relief bubbling up within her. “I rather think I do.”
“Audrey,” he murmurs, hand coming up to cup her face gently, barely touching her as if scared she may break or disappear under this touch. She stepped into his touch, eyes sliding closed as he stroked his thumb over the curve of her cheek.
Siegfried stepped forward, crowding her against the hallway, trapping her between the wall and his body. Her eyes flew open and she found him simply staring at her in awe, eyes dark and searching, his nose brushing hers as he leaned in.
He pressed a soft kiss to her cheek and she melted into him, a hand coming to rest on his chest, fingers curling into the soft fabric of his shirt. “Audrey,” he repeated, more fervor this time. She let out a soft hiss of surprise, heat curling low in her belly.
But he didn’t stop. He kissed the soft skin of her jawline, another whisper of, “Audrey,” filling the space between them. She sighed, hands traveling up to his hair, fingers digging into his hair and scratching slightly at his scalp. The motion forcing a pleased sort of rumbling through Siegfried’s chest.
He kissed her forehead—“Audrey…”—and her other cheek, the tip of his tongue licking ever-so-gently at her skin. This time her name fell from his lips in a ragged breath, his control slipping from him.
Audrey cupped his face in her hands, bringing him closer, mimicking each of his kisses—a kiss to his bearded cheek, the tip of his nose, the line-worn expanse of his brow. And with each kiss she whispered the name she’d been longing to call him, “Siegfried.”
The sound of his given name on her tongue loosened something in him, something long since held back, and he surged against her, pressing close and tilting her face towards him, his fingertips cradling the back of her head. His voice was husky and broken as he uttered her name with reverence and finally—finally—pressed his mouth to hers.
He came alive in her arms—all that manic, frantic energy he so willfully threw around the village and his practice finally focused singularly on her. His mouth was soft and pliant against hers, lips chapped and dragging against her own softer ones making her toes curl in her slippers.
When the tip of his tongue brushed against the seam of her mouth she didn’t hesitate to open beneath him, letting him in, wanting him closer, wanting to touch and know every part of him. She knew so much about him—from how he preferred his eggs in the morning to the fact that he cheated like a criminal at parlor games—and now she knew this: that Siegfried Farnon tasted of warm whiskey and honey and that he growled low in his throat if she scratched her nails down his back to pull him closer.
And pull him closer she did. For years she’d told herself she couldn’t have this part of him and now she was standing in their hallway with her hands roaming over his chest and shoulders and back, tugging him closer by curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, her pinky finger just dipping into the place where the fabric of his shirt gave way to skin.
Siegfried groaned against her, pressing closer, teeth just grazing her bottom lip as he tilted his head this way and that to kiss her more deeply, more passionately. Her body felt aflame with desire for this perfectly imperfect man in her arms.
“Siegfried,” she sighed, breaking their kiss and tilting her head back, gasping for air. But Siegfried didn’t seem to mind the change in pace, his mouth latching onto the soft, supple skin of her neck and shoulder, happily licking and sucking and nipping at the skin there. He kissed her, touched her, like a starving man.
When he pulled back, still holding her in his arms, his hair was disheveled—curls escaping in small tufts across his forehead courtesy of her fingers in his hair—and his pupils were blown wide, a pink flush over his cheeks and neck. He looked like a wreck in the most delicious of ways.
I did that to him, Audrey thought with no small amount of satisfaction, the sight of her normally put-together Mr. Farnon undone by her sent another wave of heat through her. She wanted so badly to continue down this path, to see how far undone she could make him. But no matter how modern the age may be, she wasn’t ready for that—not with a ring and another man’s name still hanging off her.
There were a proper way to do things, after all.
As if sensing the change in her, Siegfried’s ministrations slowed, gentled. He pressed a soft kiss to her forehead, lingering for a moment and simply breathing her in. “We should stop, I suspect, before we cannot stop.”
He gathered her in his arms, simply holding her, swaying back and forth in a dance to their own heartbeats. She turned her face into the warmth of his neck, breathing him in, and allowing herself to place one last kiss to the weathered, tanned skin at the base of this throat.
At her touch, Siegfried gave a small start in her arms and she grinned, rather pleased with the power she now held over this man. He pressed a soft kiss to the top of her head and squeezing gently before letting her go, dragging a knuckle down the line of her cheek.
“I’ll clean up the sitting room, take care of the fire and locking up. No, no—“ He held up a hand and silenced her protestations, giving her a rueful grin. “I need a few minutes alone before I’m quite ready for bed anyway.”
Audrey blushed but nodded, pressing up onto her tiptoes to kiss his cheek. “We’ll be alright, won’t we? This won’t change anything?”
Siegfried caught her hand in his, bringing it to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. It was as if now that he could touch her, he didn’t want to stop. “Oh, I daresay this will change everything between us, dear one. But for the better. For a start, you can call me Siegfried; call me anything you like, really.” He placed another kiss to her palm before pressing her hand to his heart, eyes blazing with something fierce. Emotion seized her at the promise.
"Can I call you a madman?"
"Yes," he murmured, leaning down to kiss her softly.
"A lunatic?" The words were mumbled against his mouth as he pressed another kiss to her lips.
"Yes."
She felt daring, drunk on his kisses and his words. The next words slipped free before she could recall them. "How about I call you mine?"
Siegfried pulled away, expression fierce and his grip on her tight, like he couldn't--wouldn't--let her go. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and rough with emotion, eyes shining. "I would be honored."
Audrey forced herself to pull away from him and head towards the stairs, wobbly legs and shaky nerves making the motions difficult. Biting her lip, she looked over her shoulder to find him still standing where she left him, his eyes tracking her every motion, his gaze a comforting weight around her.
“Goodnight, Siegfried,” she called out, cheeks pink with giddiness.
His voice echoed up the stairs, soft and reverent.
“Goodnight, Audrey.”