The Now Former Lady Deveroux Ch. 02

Chapter Two

With yet another morning spent laying in the bed that used to be Annette's room, staring out the window with a heaviness in her heart and a weariness in her form, Samantha begins to feel that she's becoming proficient in the activity. If she'd descended downstairs before noon any day in the last few weeks, she couldn't recall it. No, most of her mornings were swept away under the rug, skipped in favor of the afternoons which held a miniscule more promise.

So, Samantha peels herself off of the mattress and throws a pinafore over her nightgown. She would have rather jumped into a freezing lake than be seen in such attire when she was a Lady, yet now it was her most common household attire. She'd hardly been able to take most of her belongings when she was cast out, and many of the things she had taken she had sold in order to amass enough to live on without being entirely at the mercy of the detectives'.

Harold, Cordelia's beloved pet pigeon, seems to have formulated an understanding of her lazy schedule, and is never to be seen in the mornings or early afternoons. He returns only in the evenings, and typically only because he could see Samantha setting out a plate of seeds for his consumption. They hold an uneasy alliance of need: Harold requires food, and Samanta requires something which forces her out of bed. He's off exploring this morning, though, she was never sure where he went.

Her morning, which was afternoon to the rest of the world, is met with the melancholy of a woman without purpose. She ambles from room to room, sometimes staring off at a wall without registering any of its effects. The townhouse is a little cluttered, adorned with the endless trinkets and baubles Cordelia Jones had gathered from her detective work, most of which have been placed into a careful organization from Cordelia's servant-turned-partner-turned-lover, Annette, who was also Samantha's dalliance-turned-ex-lover. The darkwood walls, if Samantha cared more she would identify the tree they were cut from, spot a variety of maps and paintings, adoringly framed. She spends most of her time in the conversation room and the dining room, and only sometimes in the kitchen when her hunger would finally pry her into a sense of direction for only an hour or two of the day.

She's just about to settle into her schedule, biding time until the Fleeting Faery would open its doors and she could commiserate with Bill once more, when her borrowed home on 167th Mill Street receives a knock upon the door. She ignores it, figuring it was simply another prospective client for the detective who had not yet heard she was out of the country. A second knock repeats, an almost sing-song rhythm, which also goes unanswered. By the third entreaty Samantha is annoyed, so she rises from her place on the couch and storms over to the door, preparing to send the petitioner away with as much callousness as possible.

She throws open the door and finds her hostility deflate upon seeing the black-and-white robes of the nun she was hoping was only a strange dream.

"Miss Deveroux," Esther says warmly, her shoulder sporting a small bag whose effects tug against the fabric.

"Sister Levy," Samantha sighs. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, I was at the market," she tells her, voice buzzing with the charitable enthusiasm of a Sister who'd not yet become an old crone, "and whilst there I found myself moved with concern for you, adjusting to the pitiable life without servants at your beck-and-call. I came by to bring you groceries," she nudges her shoulder which carries the bag, "and to see if loneliness has overtaken you."

Samantha crosses her arms over her chest. "I'm quite alright on my-,"

"As I feared," the nun confirms, nonchalantly strolling past her to enter the home. "I'll prepare lunch," she declares.

With the door closed behind her, Samantha marches after her, face contorted into a mild offense. "I didn't invite you in."

"Because you're too proud to ask for help," Esther diagnoses, setting the shopping bag down upon one of the counters in the kitchen. She meanders through the kitchen as she speaks, acquainting herself with the facilities. "So, I didn't offer. I am simply helping, and you are simply being helped. No asking required." She turns to Samantha, eager to see if the woman would put her foot down and demand she leave the home, and seems delighted to see her relent. Samantha pulls over a chair from the dining room and drops into it, resigned to accept her company. "Atta girl," Esther grins.

The nun retrieves a mixing bowl and spoon, then produces flour and processed yeast from her shopping back. Combined with water, she quickly begins the early steps of making a dough for bread. Her head pops over her shoulder, black veil obscuring the back of her head while the white collar of her habit covers her neck, leaving only her face visible. "How was your morning?"

Samantha crosses one leg over the other, resting her hands wearily into her lap. "It has been fine." She provides nothing else to the conversation, a small portion of her mind wondering if it would still be too late to invite the nun to leave.

After a few moments of silent work, Esther calmly replies, "Mine has been excellent, since you didn't ask. Ask me why it has been excellent."

Samantha rolls her head to one side and disinterestedly asks, "Why has it been excellent?"

"There is that noble disposition," she teases, looking quite pleased with herself. "I awoke early to find my spirit invigorated. Morning prayers were grounding and refreshing, and Sister Minerva even let me lead the hymns." She pulls back the billowing sleeves of her habit, carefully tucking them away as she adorns herself with an apron. She picks up the spoon and begins mixing the flour, water, and yeast together. "And then, I had time to speak with Father Billings and his insightful roommate, Mr. Thornbry, only to find that the two of them were acquainted with you. Father Billings even told me the most scandalous story about you at a ball thrown by Lord Hastings."

"Dear Jesus..." Samantha mutters, recalling the occasion when the then Deacon Billings had stumbled across herself and Annette in the hallway during the ball. She'd played it cool in the moment, but there was a part of her which was terrified at the scene, sure he would expose their deeds to others. It was a miracle he remained quiet about the matter, resolving only to speak with Annette at the behest of Sister Pullwater.

"Oh, I'm sure He saw it too," Esther quips. Her face beams, as though the story was a happy affair. "I'm not shaming you. I'm politely impressed."

"Yes, I have enormous capacity for scandal," Samantha utters back, pulling her hands up across her chest.

Esther drops her voice lower, delighted by her salacious knowledge. "According to Father Billings, Miss Baker seemed quite well taken care of," she smirks. "I didn't know she was twice-born, how incredible."

Samantha hadn't known Annette was either when they'd first met, and was further surprised at how much she'd enjoyed that fact about her. To know that Annette, as a child, was so sure of her own womanhood that she underwent the process of rebirth, taking on a new name and social identity, was admirable. It almost made Samantha feel insecure about her own womanhood, and jealous of Annette's. She'd taken her birth as an assumed fact, that she was born a woman and simply must be. Annette had defied the expectations of her first birth and attested to the womanhood within. It was marvelous and made Samantha appreciate something which she had taken for granted.

She sizes up Esther and replies, "I am increasingly less and less convinced you are truly a nun." She intends to continue her criticism upon the decorum of the Sister, when she notices Esther's hands begin to knead the dough she was making. "That is not the correct technique," Samantha asserts.

"Surely it is," Esther ignores her, continuing.

"No, it won't develop structure if you don't-," she sighs and stops herself, rising from the chair and approaching the counter. "Move over."

"Nonsense," the nun declines, though wears a smile upon her face. "This is correct."

Samantha adjusts her pinafore and waves Esther away from the station. "No, it isn't," she repeats, tossing her hands down into the warm dough and letting her memory take over. It returns to her quickly, despite the fact that it has been years since she'd last kneaded dough, and she moves with the skill of practiced habit. "You need to stretch the dough, not tear it. If you tear it, you prevent it from strengthening, and then it will turn rough and won't rise correctly."

Esther leans her hip against the counter to watch. "I didn't realize you were the expert."

"My mother taught me," Samantha answers her, a little puff of nostalgia entering her mind as her fingers pull the spongy dough. "We used to make fresh bread every morni-," she stops abruptly. She looks over at Esther, who is smiling as though having performed a carefully crafted trick. "What, am I now performing a favor for myself?"

"I know how to knead dough, mostly," she says pleasantly. "But it took you four seconds after touching the dough to lighten dramatically. For a moment, you very nearly seemed pleased with yourself."

Samantha shakes her head and continues. "I was merely correcting your error. That is all."

"Tell me more of your mother," Esther invites. "What was she like?"

Samantha feels a light burn in her forearms and fingers from the effort, but takes delight to see the flour slowly incorporate the water into itself. "She was from Andland," Samantha answers, "and emigrated to Bellchester in search of work. I was an infant then, and my father was a worthless lout who abandoned her." She takes a few moments to steady her breath, feeling the exertion of kneading. "She had few options, so she entered collar service to provide for us. Not a lot of families would take on a servant who came with a child, but Miss Jones was simply the mistress of a nobleman, Lord Hastings. She was Cordelia's mother, and was more than happy to help us considering that Lord Hastings would foot the bill."

The backgrounds of her mind slowly slip into the memories of those days. She remembers the relief her mother had felt when they'd first landed the contract, and how delightful it was to know that they'd be in a home where they would be safe. It wasn't too much work, and Miss Jones had little need for a servant, and so oftentimes they felt like wonderful friends living together. It was a small home, and it was a little crowded with the four of them, but Samantha remembers it fondly.

"Yes, but what was she like?" Esther insists, her voice interested. "What do you remember about her?"

"She was always singing," Samantha recalls, hearing her gentle timbre echoing in the far reaches of her eardrums. Her mother's voice was light and gentle, and she sounded like she must have held the spirit of a bird within her. "It was only sometimes a recognizable tune. Most often she would improvise a song, usually about whatever little thing she was doing."

Without thinking, Samantha finds herself imitating her mother, gazing down at the forming dough in her fingers and singing out, "'Yeast may be small, but it's not the least, and it's quite able to bring a feast.'"

It takes a moment to realize that her voice had left her mouth, and that she'd been swept away into the memory of her mother. Her face puffs pink and she quickly averts her gaze so that Esther could not see her. "She loved to cook," Samantha adds. "She loved to get her hands dirty."

Esther doesn't speak, instead listening to her as though she was telling the most important story one could tell. She's surprised to find herself desperate to say more, feeling the necessity of getting the words out as the nostalgia overtakes her. Samantha stretches the dough out, thrilled to see it holding together and forming a thin sheet, before pulling it back together to continue.

"There wasn't much space for us," her voice adds, a little whisper of emotion tucked inside of it, "so I remember sharing a bed with her until I was eight or nine. I was so insistent then that I got my own space to sleep... but now..." Her voice drops a little lower, and the feelings underneath begin to percolate up. "... Now I only wish I could lay my head into her chest and rest. I never slept so well as I did in her bed."

To her greater surprise, a single tear escapes her eyelashes and drops down her cheek. Samantha halts her work, whipping away the trail it left behind and rapidly squashing the emotion which caused it. "Forgive me, I..."

Before she can say anything more, Samantha feels the flowing black robes of Esther's habit wrap around her as the nun embraces her. Esther takes a long breath in, inhaling as though her breath could stabilize Samantha's pain, which only reminds her further of the warmth and comfort of her mother's bed. She pulls away quickly and stares at Esther.

"What are you doing?"

"It is called showing compassion, perhaps you've heard of it?" Esther's head tilts to the side, one part teasing and one part empathetic. "Typically, when people cry, they appreciate comfort."

Samantha takes another step away, shaking her head in disbelief. "What are you doing here? What is this?"

Esther leans back into the counter, gently poking at the dough which was almost finished. "I've just moved to a new part of the country and I know no one apart from the clergy. I'm lonely. You're lonely. It seems we could offer one another shelter from solitude."

Samantha holds up her hands and waves away the idea. "Just go back to your convent with your ridiculous robes and leave me be."

The nun doesn't move. "I love the other Sisters dearly, but I have no interest in my life being sequestered in a church whilst there is a whole city full of people to explore."

"So, amongst this whole city, you've elected to torment a lonely woman in pain?" Samantha accuses.

Esther doesn't take the bait, instead taunting her by replying, "Should you like me to leave, you need only say the words and I will leave you to wallow in despair."

Samantha falls silent, grumbling internally, and returns to finishing up the dough. It would need only a few minutes more before it would be ready for her to set it aside in a covered bowl to proof. She doesn't look at Esther, but utters, "If you're going to stay, you could at least prepare the oven."

"As you direct, so shall it be," Esther places a hand on her shoulder, squeezing it as she turns away.

She's annoyed at how easily Esther has worked her way into this space in her home. Samantha tests the dough to confirm it was ready, and glances over at the woman beside her, contemplating the value of her company. She'd never have chosen the companionship of a cloistered woman, and yet, it was not as though she had many other options. Cordelia and Annette would be gone for a minimum of a few months. All her friends from the nobility had discarded her the moment the news broke. She hadn't the heart to flirt with any women at the Faery, which left her only Bill for a conversation partner, and he was rapidly growing tired of the burden of her misery.

Samantha wraps the dough into its bowl with a cheesecloth over it, then places it on a spot along the windowsill. She wouldn't normally have considered it, for fear that a cold window would inhibit the yeast's growth, but it sits in direct sunlight and it is a pleasant early spring day. It should suffice. Esther successfully ignites the oven, and turns back to Samantha with a proud look in her eyes.

"What does your hair look like?" Samantha asks, giving in to the itching question. "It's strange to only see your face."

"It is a light brown, with but a hint of curls that abhor the humidity."

Samantha almost removes her pinafore apron, then remembers she only has a nightgown underneath. If Esther was to stay, she should change into a proper outfit for the day. "Show me," Samantha directs, curious.

To her surprise, Esther complies. She carefully pulls down the veil, letting her braided hair twirl out from the fabric. The braid is a messy ash brown, with strands of baby hairs escaping from the binds all around. She smiles, shaking her head slightly as she adjusts to the feeling without the headdress.

"I didn't think you'd actually do it," Samantha admits.

"I didn't think you'd tell me about your mother," Esther replies.

Samantha is surprised with how easily the two of them transition into a quiet afternoon as the day draws on. The Sister evidently also brought along a few books: her journal, a copy of the Bible, and some other collection Samantha doesn't recognize. She sets up in the living room, tucked into the armrests of one of the chairs, and reads contentedly. Samantha, meanwhile, takes the opportunity to change clothes and begin tidying up the house. She'd been neglecting those duties in her isolation, and Esther provides an opportunity to be responsible for it.

They eat in polite conversation and return to silence once more, until the early evening, when Samantha acquires her coat and declares, "I'm going to go for a stroll."

Without a word, Esther gathers her things and quickly replaces her veil onto her head, tucking the rest of her objects into her shoulder bag and making her way to the front door, where she waits for Samantha. "And apparently you are coming with me," she tells the nun.

"Well," Esther adjusts her bag, "I'd not risk allowing you to be bored."

- - -

In the following week, Esther's company in the early afternoon becomes a fact which Samantha takes for granted. She'd arrive after her morning duties at the orphanage and the church, removing her veil once entering 167th Mill Street. The first two days she'd brought food and insisted on preparing it for the two of them, only for Samantha to remark that she was an unfortunately mediocre chef. From then on, Samantha would arise in the morning, earlier than she had been the past weeks, and would have lunch prepared by the time Esther arrives.

It's an unexpected stability, knowing the nun would come calling each day. As awkward as the idea of befriending a Sister was to Samantha, she could hardly deny that it improved her mood not to be shut in and alone until sunset. They'd read together, sometimes make pleasant conversation, and occasionally take walks if the weather permitted. She teases Samantha when she feels the former noblewoman has committed some philosophical error, and Samantha pokes fun at the rigidity of the convent's lifestyle.

And through it all Samantha finds herself thinking constantly of her mother. When she's alone and preparing the home for Esther's arrival, she's no longer consumed by silence and dread. She sings little songs just as her mother would, she finds comfort in the familiar actions of cooking and cleaning. It's wretched, in its own way, and she still misses the delights of luxury, but it is stabilizing in a way she cannot deny. Surely, she was still meant for more than this life, but at least now she could say that she was living at all. Through the dread, there were a plethora of moments she questioned whether she existed any longer, relegated to the life of a spectre haunting this abode.

But, after five days of the nun's company, she makes no appearance one afternoon. Samantha awaits her, having decided not to cook until she arrives so Esther could have input on the menu, but finds herself alone for an hour past the woman's typical arrival. She considers waiting longer still, when she's struck by the sudden realization that the day was Sunday, and Esther would likely have responsibilities at Mass. She retrieves her coat and departs, unwilling to take the risk the Sister would not arrive at all because of this, and accepting the responsibility that if she wished for company she would need to acquire it. After a week of consistent company, Samantha could no longer bear the idea of returning to solitude.