Chapter Text
She has white cropped hair, and a brown woolen skirt. A cream high collared shirt with ruffles that cascade like waves to her sternum. Her nails are primed and as sharp as her heels. They make a repetitive thud, as she walks down the hallway to the foyer.
Blue eyes catch inquisitive brown ones. A raised eyebrow, and Andrea’s sheepish blush.
“Mr. Tomlinson.” Her voice is light and airy, commanding the room with a hold Andrea has never been witness to before.
“Madame Priestly. I hope you found the journey here amicable—”
The voice drones on as Andrea sits shrouded in the shadow of the staircase railing. The clipped pleasantries do not engage her nearly as much as this masculine woman, with alabaster skin that glows in the lamplight. She looks like an oil painting.
The open door invites the night darkness to crawl up plush carpet. The whistling wind. The rhythmic tap of a winter monsoon. And most damning, the oppressive march of the grandfather clock underneath her, a quarter past ten.
At the movement of the pair below, Andrea rushes while crouched. Through the door behind the study, and beside the empty nursery— the servants staircase that stays blessedly desolate.
Finally. Her body slumps to the floor, as she releases the breath she’s been holding since supper.
“Andrea!”
“Heavens! Cassidy, you scared me!” She exclaimed clutching her heart. Open mouthed gasps that contrast the girls' unbridled giggles.
“I’m sorry, but you should’ve seen–” A hiccuped laugh. ”Your face! You’re all red and—” A chuckle. “And you almost jumped!”
“Lower your voice, you creatine!” Andrea said with an admonishing huff, which unfortunately did nothing to demotivate the muffled amusements of an eight year old girl.
With lively red hair and a freckled face, her mouth opens with a toothy grin. An upper incisor missing, and a deep scar on her chin, she looks like an endearing young girl— the opposite of what she should be, Andrea realises.
“Why are you even here! It’s past light's out.” Andrea rises from the steps, walking up towards the girl.
“I could tell you the same thing!” Cassidy grumbles, before slipping her hand into Andrea’s waiting ones. “I wanted to ask you how she was.”
“Oh.”
‘Well?” She says with a grunt as she attempts to climb two stairs in a single step, her unsteady legs leaping as she tightens her grip on the older woman.
“She was fine. Normal, I guess.” Andrea replies.
“Normal?” An incredulous stare.
“Yeah, I mean normal like the last one.” She rolls her eyes.
“The last one was not normal, Andy.” Cassidy mutters under her breath, before she pauses. They stand in front of a heavy dark wood door. “Was…” A pause. “Was she scary?” Her eyes are downturned, fixated on plank flooring as Andrea’s thumb caresses scarred knuckles.
“Oh Cassidy… Of course she wasn’t.” Andrea doesn’t stop to wonder if it was the truth, just blabbers on in the face of the girl’s sudden hesitation. “Don’t worry, okay? I’m here, I’ll take care of both of you.”
She bends down to tuck a strip of hair behind Cassidy’s ear, before pulling her into a strong hug. She breathes in the citrus scent before standing up.
“Now, how about I tuck you in?” Andrea continues, and her heart clenches at the blossoming smile.
The sunrise leaves vivid fragments of dancing yellow light. Andrea awakes with a groan. Her clothes are pulled on with a frantic fight of linen and back lacing, and she trips in her attempts to rush down stairs. By the time she has arrived at the kitchen her hair sticks to her damp forehead.
“Morning, Emily!” She exclaims, trying to hide her heaving chest. Her eyes roam the black robes and white apron before settling on a bright red flower that crawls atop the front pocket’s left seam. “You look nice today.” She chirps with a nod towards the woman’s apron.
Emily all but gleams before scoffing down the smile, “Embroidered it myself.” A smirk. “Fancy-work is a woman’s domain, after all.” She states as she hands her a set of plates. “Pity you never learned, Miss.” The words hold a familiar smug undercut, and Andrea bites down the retort at her tongue.
“I suppose so.” The woman sighs, turning toward the breakfast room. The warmth hits her before its luminescence; she’s grateful Emily has already set a roaring fire as grey clouds infect the newly blue sky.
Andrea places the bath buns and bread into a silver serving dish, before retrieving the butter bell from an upper cabinet. Eggs. Fruits. Cheese. Mr. Tomlinson has ordered quite the feast, Andrea gathers. Some nuts for Cassidy, and berries for Caroline.
While she finishes placing the silver wear, her ears pick up a rhythmic clack. The same thin visage and rouge lips. Her tall figure is framed by the doorway, as she watches stoically dressed in— Andrea’s eyes widen, indigo.
An indigo bodice paired with an ink black skirt. Puffed sleeves featuring delicate blue needlework. “Top of the morning.” Andrea calls out, and a sudden dryness coats her mouth as she watches the woman’s lithe digits, uncallused by labour, play with a gilded pocket watch.
“Good morning.” The quiet voice echos. Her eyes roam over Andrea, dissecting piece by piece.
While Andrea could reason it had been a few seconds or so, it truly felt like minutes. Minutes of this affluent woman's eyes on her, deeming her interesting enough to examine so deeply. Andrea wondered how commanding the fireplace must be to ignite her burning skin.
A rumble. At Mr. Tomlinson’s heavy footfall behind them, Andrea finally jerks back to life, quickly folding the napkins before his arrival.
A stilted curtsy. Downturned eyes. “Good morning, Sir.”
Andrea’s heart lunges at her throat when she realises the other woman doesn’t follow, and the anxiety only magnifies as Mr. Tomlinson makes his way towards her. His fingers clench the daily paper that he holds at his waist.
But instead the familiar show of dominance is replaced with a tight smile, as he holds out his hand. Bows down. And touches his lips towards the woman’s knuckles— or rather her ring?
“Good morning, Madame.” “To you as well, Mr. Tomlinson.”
“I see you have met my ward, Andrea.” He’s eyeing her with a pointed look. One that does nothing to shake the hold of confusion. “Ahem.” He clears his throat leaning his head towards the Madame.
“Oh, Um!” A scrambled curtsy. Her gaze fixated on scuffed shoes and worn socks— A stifled, amused chuckle, greets her.
“Andrea.” The Mister sighs, under his breath. Still as she rises the older woman’s face holds the ghost of a smile, and Andrea’s unbridled embarrassment is suddenly ever so forgiving.