Henry & Sarah

Chapter 3 – Broken China



When Henry entered the classroom the next morning, his mind was still filled with the memory of Sarahʼs little performance of some fierce demon child, ready to run him over with her horse. Most women he knew and had known were shy and servile creatures. Never had Henry encountered a girl his age or younger who was as powerful and ferocious as Sarah. Deep inside, he had to admit that this trait about her, this fascinating combination of rebellion and beauty, somehow appealed to him.

The more astonished and slightly disappointed was he when Sarah arrived, as it seemed that she had completely changed. There was nothing left of the cheekiness and self-confidence she had displayed the day before. Instead, she appeared exceptionally shy and self-conscious. Not only did she refrain from speaking to Henry, she also avoided his glances. For some reason unknown to him, she was unable to look him in the eyes without blushing up to a degree that made him wonder if he had said or done anything that might have made her feel ashamed. But he couldnʼt recall anything in particular, apart from discretely approaching her the previous evening before dinner and whispering into her to ear, “Never do that again.” He had, of course, been referring to the riding incident in the afternoon. Still, he couldnʼt imagine that this was the reason for her strange behavior this morning. After all, she had not been that timid at all the night before when—in reply to his remark—she had smiled at him sweetly like a little angel and had claimed with the softest and most innocent voice that she didnʼt know what he was talking about.

Henry was racking his brain if there had been any other situation during which he might have embarrassed Sarah unknowingly, but he didnʼt come to any conclusion. Ultimately, he guessed that something had to have happened to her overnight, something which had caused her to act in such a strange way, although he didnʼt have the slightest idea what that could be. And she wouldnʼt let him know what was going on. She just kept avoiding his glances, which he found rather unfair. After all, he had refrained from telling Lord Partridge all about her almost-attack with the horse although he had felt quite in the mood for it. But ultimately, he had decided that it was better to give her at least another chance.

“Are you alright, Miss Sarah...?” he asked her uncertainly when after two hours she still had not loosened up a bit. But she just nodded imperceptibly and blushed red again.

Henry sighed and shook his head. The fact that she was so inaccessible tried his patience to the utmost. But he decided to no longer try and analyse her peculiar behavior and instead gave her a poem to quietly copy into her exercise book. Apart from the positive aspect that this didnʼt require any talking from her side, Henry found that it would be a good way to improve her spelling, which left a lot to be desired. And as the poem consisted of some fifteen paragraphs, he supposed that this would keep her busy for a while. In the meantime, he began to read a book about Seneca, which he had brought with him from London. Seneca was not one of his most favorite philosophers, but Henry found that reading his works was still better than having to put up with Sarahʼs ever-changing pubescent moods.

From the corner of his eye, he could see her secretly peering over to him every now and then, but he had enough of her for the time being and deliberately ignored her.

Later when the lessons were over and Sarah was leaving, two sheets of paper slipped out of one of her books. She didnʼt notice, and when she had gone, Henry walked over to where the papers had dropped to the floor and picked them up.

On one of the sheets were little drawings; sketches, marvelously done with pencil and charcoal, some of them images of peopleʼs faces, some of them images of flowers. Henry also spotted a small drawing of the beautiful white stallion with which Sarah had apparently tried to kill him the other day.

When Henry looked at the other sheet in his hands, though, he momentarily held his breath. It also showed a drawing; the portrait of a beautiful woman who, to Henryʼs astonishment, looked very much like Sarah. The womanʼs face had been drawn so perfectly that Henry immediately believed to get a vivid impression not only of the looks but also of the deeper nature and soul of the person portrayed. Staring incredulously at the pictures, Henry found it rather difficult to believe that someone who was truly evil and vile at heart should be capable of creating such a piece of art with so much detail and obvious love for the objects drawn.

Later that day, after having eaten some sandwiches downstairs in the company of Thelma and her maids, Henry went in search of Sarah as he wanted to give her the drawings back. But as she was nowhere to be found, Henry supposed that she had gone riding again. And so he decided to sneak into the library instead, where he wanted to find himself something to read, but when he opened the door and entered, he saw that Lady Partridge was there. He noticed to his surprise that she had been crying. She held a handkerchief in her hands and her eyes were sore and red.

She startled when she saw him, then she scolded him for not having knocked. Henry apologized profusely and withdrew. He guessed that Lady Partridge, despite her wealth and carefree life, was a rather discontented woman. He didnʼt rule it out that she even suffered from some kind of depression.

Small wonder with that husband of hers… Henry thought bitterly and gathered that despite Lord Partridgeʼs proud and distinguished bearing, he obviously wasnʼt a saint. The previous night, when Henry had been wandering along the corridors in search of the restroom, he had heard whispering voices coming from downstairs. One of the voices had unmistakably belonged to Lord Partridge and the other one to a woman who had most definitely not been Lady Partridge and who had constantly giggled and uttered teasing words. Henry believed to have recognized the female voice as the one of Emily, the chambermaid. He had been unable to understand what the two of them had been talking about, but then again he considered it as irrelevant. After all, it had been obvious enough that this had been a secret, amorous encounter between the lord and the maid.

He wondered if Lady Partridge had just found out about it, or if she had known it all along; if she was aware of the fact that there wasnʼt really anything she could do about it—unless she was willing to separate from her husband and, by doing so, give up the prosperous life that she was leading. But despite having known her only for a few days, Henry was sure that Lady Partridge would rather tolerate her husbandʼs behavior instead of relinquishing the pleasures that came with her marriage to him.

Henry went back up to his room, took one of his own books, and then went in search of a quiet place in the garden in order to read.

And then there she was, Sarah, crouching under the oak tree, writing something into a leather bound book. He wondered if he should walk over to her and give her the drawings, but he didnʼt dare. He guessed that it would be regarded as inappropriate if he bluntly approached the lordʼs daughter outside the classroom.

And so he simply sat down on a chair a little bit further away from Sarah and pretended to read, all the while pondering, though, what it could possibly be that she was writing about.

* * *

Dear Diary,

I am terribly confused. Everything feels so strange.

It is difficult to talk about it, now that Mr. Abbott is sitting nearby. I see him secretly peering over to me every so often, and his gaze is so intent that it makes me worry he might be able to read my thoughts.

And he mustnʼt find out what is going on in my mind! It would leave me so utterly embarrassed that I would not be able to look in the mirror ever again without blushing as red as a poppy.

The reason why I feel so embarrassed is that last night I dreamed about him. And I must admit that it was a rather uncouth dream that left me feeling overwhelmed with emotions as yet unknown to me.

I have never felt this way in the presence of a man; definitely not in the presence of all the young, inexperienced fellows whom I was introduced to in the past: family friendsʼ sons or sons of distant relatives, all invited by my Uncle Horatio, who has always been so keen on matching me up with someone of his standing or even higher, just to shed a good light onto his own family.

Gladly, I would have married someone and leave this awful house if only any of these silly fools had given me the feeling that with the marriage I would enter a safe haven where I would feel welcomed and loved. But that has never been the case. Most often, the families of these young men turned up their noses upon seeing me and ultimately rejected me, being all too aware of my true background.

The only one who has never wasted any further thoughts about my past is Damian, although I am sure that it is not mere love that draws him to me. In fact, it is all about that important business deal that his father arranged with Horatio and that will come into effect once Damian and I will get married. And in Horatioʼs opinion, that day can not come soon enough. But apart from that, it seems to me that Damian views me as kind of a trophy that he wants to obtain, as if he was hunting me down for the mere purpose of taking the credit afterwards—the credit for having managed to break my will and make me his obedient wife.

Ever since Damian has begun to become a regular visitor to the mansion, there have been times when I almost longed back to the days when the foolish silly boys came to court me. I would gladly choose any of them now if it meant that I could avoid a marriage with Damian. But it seems as if my fate has been sealed by Uncle Horatioʼs decision alone to make me Damianʼs bride. I have never even been asked if I want to be his wife at all, and nobody seems to care that I do not love Damian. I do not even like him.

Henry Abbott is still looking at me and seriously believes that I do not notice.

If being close to him in reality feels the same way as it did in my dream…?

* * *

“I have not been aware that you are an artist...” Henry said to Sarah when he handed her the drawings the next morning. He was on the brink of asking who the woman on the picture was, but he didnʼt dare to pose such an intimate question; and intimate it would have undoubtedly been considering the fact that Sarah never gave anything about her herself away.

Sarah took her drawings wordlessly and put them back in her book, a slightly embarrassed expression on her face.

During lesson she was quiet as usual, but Henry noticed that she at least seemed to listen to him, and she had stopped avoiding his glances.

The next days pretty much followed the same pattern. At the end of the week Henry found that despite the rather strange and awkward atmosphere in the classroom still some work had been done after all. He proudly marked it in his calendar that he had already survived five full days in the house of the Partridges and hoped that this would encourage him to endure all the other weeks to come—if they came at all. Deep inside, he was filled with the fear that Lord Partridge would not be pleased with the overall result and would eventually dismiss him.

Henry found himself spending more and more time in the kitchen than upstairs in the noble part of the mansion where he felt somewhat lonely and forlorn with hardly anyone around. Sarah, for example, had the habit of darting straight out of the classroom and rushing out to the stables. There she jumped on her horse and was gone for the best part of the afternoon. Henry hardly got to see her except during lessons and dinner time.

Lord Partridge wasnʼt in all day either—not that Henry would have attached a certain value to have him around. The lord spent most of his time checking upon the staff in his plough factory in town. And when he wasnʼt busy doing that, he went hunting with friends. Two days ago, Henry had had the opportunity to make the acquaintance of one of these friends, a certain Baron Copperwood who normally lived in London but who owned a summer residence near Oxford. During the conversation with him, Henry had learned that, apart from collecting pinned insects, Baron Copperwood had the habit of ridiculing everything and everyone in his vicinity. And he loved to tell insinuating jokes. Henry hoped that he would never have to meet that unpleasant man again.

The only people who were around in the mansion during the day were moody Lady Partridge and Emily, the chambermaid. Henry found it almost unbearable, however, to be trapped in a room with both of them. With Lady Partridge secretly knowing that Emily had an affair with Lord Partridge, and with Emily guessing that Lady Partridge was aware of this, the tension between the two inevitably hung in the air like a toxic cloud. But, of course, Lady Partridge held the whip hand and hence treated Emily in an extremely cruel and bullying manner by deliberately creating dirt in places that Emily had just cleaned up.

As for Roderick, the butler, he was usually far too busy to talk to anyone, which only left Jeremy, the stable boy, and Angus, the coach driver, to have a conversation with. But having tried to talk to them once, Henry found that this wasnʼt really fulfilling. He simply had not been able to come up with a conversation topic that would have been of interest for all parties involved. And when he had left the stables, he had even believed to hear Jeremy chuckle behind his back. Henry guessed that Jeremy obviously thought of him as an arrogant would-be member of the upper class. And so Henry was not keen on crossing the stable boyʼs paths all too often in the future.

Despite Thelmaʼs strict regime and all the industriousness in the kitchen, Henry felt much more welcome there. The girls seemed to really like him because they beamed when he entered and appeared mesmerized by whatever he said. They had begun to lovingly call him Mr. Henry. He didnʼt mind. It felt good to be a little wooed. Thelma usually watched it going on for a while but soon interfered when she found that Henry distracted the girls too much from doing their work.

“You are behaving like a bunch of silly geese...” she would then say to Heather and Ada, shaking her head disapprovingly. “As if this was the first time you get to see a young man.”

Henry guessed that this probably wasnʼt too far from the truth. Apart from daily encounters with Jeremy, the girls hardly had the chance to get in contact with young men their age, kept put under lock and key as they were in the mansion with hardly any free time at all.

After having called Heather and Ada back to reason and having reminded them of their duties, Thelma would sit down at the table and push a plate with sandwiches over to Henry. Then she let him in on the gossip of the day while she was peeling potatoes or kneading dough; the latter in preparation for some of her delicious cakes, which were served in the afternoon for teatime or in the evening as a dessert.

Today the news had it that the next morning would see the arrival of Damian Cox. Henry recalled having heard his name on the first evening during dinner—Damian, the aspirant to Sarahʼs hand in marriage.

“What an idiot he is. I donʼt like him,” Thelma muttered. “I really donʼt know what the lordship finds in him. And now they are even taking him on this weekend trip to Bournemouth at the coast. Miss Sarah will surely not be amused...”

Henry believed to sense an air of sympathy for Sarah in Thelmaʼs voice.

“Actually, have you tried my pancakes yet? It is a new recipe,” Thelma suddenly asked. Henry had noticed that before: Thelma normally began to talk about a certain subject and then, when it got really interesting, she would suddenly change the topic and talk about something else, usually something completely incoherent and trivial.

“Heather, go and get Mr. Henry one of them pancakes!” she called over to the girl, who quickly wiped her hand at her apron before rushing over to a tray which lay on a table next to the oven. The tray was covered with a towel, and when Heather lifted it, Henry saw that underneath it there were a dozen crispy and lovely smelling pancakes.

Just that Henry wasnʼt really interested in pancakes at all right now. The news about Damianʼs upcoming arrival had made him curious, but Thelma would not tell him more. She was too busy shouting at Heather because the latter had left the cakes in the oven for a little bit too long so that some of them were burnt.

Two hours later, when Henry took one of his strolls through the garden, and even later when he had returned to his room in order to have a little nap, he realized that his thoughts were still circling around Damian Cox—a fact that surprised him a little.

It is none of my business, he thought, feeling slightly frustrated at the fact that he had been unable to provoke more out of Thelma about Sarahʼs mysterious future husband. He was by now desperate to know why exactly Sarah didnʼt like the man.

At about five oʼclock, Henry heard the front door being slammed, which meant, as he knew by now, that Sarah had come back from riding. Shortly afterwards, a heated quarrel flared up down in the hall between the girl and Lord Partridge.

Out of pure curiosity—the afternoon had been boring enough—Henry got up, left his room, and tiptoed along the corridor until he reached the staircase where he carefully leaned over the banister and peered downstairs.

He knew it wasnʼt appropriate to eavesdrop on what the lord and Sarah were talking about, but as the subject Damian Cox was still on his mind and because he heard Lord Partridge mention Coxʼs name, Henry couldnʼt withstand the temptation to secretly follow their conversation. Apart from that, the dispute was so loud that he guessed he would have heard it anyway, even if he had stayed in his room.

“Sarah, you know very well that this travel to the coast was arranged a long time ago,” he heard Lord Partridge say in his usual calm and indifferent manner.

“But I will not go—not if Damian is coming too!” Sarah erupted, her shrill voice echoing in the stairwell.

God, what force... Henry thought, feeling little shivers creeping up and down his spine.

“I will not allow any further discussion about it, my dear,” Lord Partridge retorted. “We are leaving tomorrow, and I expect you to be ready for departure at half past nine after breakfast.”

Henry heard Lord Partridge walk off and Sarah stomp up the stairs, snorting with rage. He didnʼt want the girl to catch him in the act of crouching at the landing, eavesdropping. But as she was taking three steps at a time, she was so quick that it didnʼt leave him any time at all to turn around and head back to his room unseen. He managed, however, to quickly stand up and pull a highly surprised and innocent face which, as he hoped, would convince Sarah that he had just happened to walk along the corridor and had accidentally overheard their conversation.

He had expected Sarahʼs facial expression to be furious, devilish even. But when she reached the landing where he was now standing, he saw that she looked far from angry. Instead, tears were running down her face, and all that lay in her tear-filled eyes was sadness. She was sobbing heavily, and he was certain that he had never seen someone being so devastated and tortured in his whole life apart from his own mother on the day his father had died in her arms. Never ever since his arrival at the mansion it had become so obvious to him that this girl was in fact in no need of a cane or hazelnut rod but rather of a hug and a shoulder to cry on. Henry wondered if anyone in her family had ever made an effort to find out about her innermost feelings and desires; if anyone had ever comforted her when she was sad; if anyone had ever told her that she was beautiful.

When Sarah noticed Henry, she momentarily stood rooted to the spot, but then she just kept tumbling up the stairs in direction of the next floor where her room lay.

“Sarah...” Henry said softly. But she was just rushing past him, ashamedly covering her face. He extended his hand in an attempt to grab her arm and bring her to a halt. His fingers had already got hold of her wrist and squeezed it gently, when something happened that Henry had seen coming practically every single day he had spent in the mansion so far: In his dreadful visions he had seen the huge and expensive-looking vase on the pedestal, which decorated the stairwell, falling down and breaking apart. He had always felt that this vase was just waiting for the moment of someone unfortunate to walk by and knock it off by accident.

And now, this very moment had come when Sarah—angry because of Henryʼs fingers around her wrist—whirled around, broke free from his grip with a sweeping gesture, and hit the vase with her elbow. The precious china fell off the pedestal and crashed down to the ground, bursting into a thousand little pieces. The sound of its impact echoed through the house, and it was as if one had decided to take the whole lot of the crockery which could be found within the mansion walls and smash it in one go—and Lady Partridgeʼs highly treasured tableware consisted of at least a hundred plates and cups.

Henry expected Sarah to turn around and run for it, leaving him with the mess and maybe even being so rude as to claim that he himself was responsible for all the damage caused.

But she did none of it. Quite contrary she stood absolutely still, incredulously staring at the broken pieces of china at her feet, a horror-stricken expression on her face.

“Oh my goodness…” she breathed, her voice trembling. “I did not mean for this to happen…”

“Sarah?! What in the name of God is going on?” Henry heard Lady Partridge scream downstairs in the parlor. The next moment, she came running up the stairs.

Henry noticed tears welling up in Sarahʼs eyes, and suddenly he felt overwhelmed with sympathy for the girl whose despair and regret seemed so genuine to him that he swore to himself he would never trust his own judgment anymore if he erred regarding her sincerity.

“Miss Sarah, please donʼt cry,” he whispered softly. Sarah slowly raised her head and looked at him out of pitiful eyes.

“Do not say a word,” he added. “Just let me do the talking.”

Sarah cast him a questioning glance but then nodded quietly. She had become so pale that Henry almost feared she would faint.

But instead it was Lady Partridge who actually fainted when she arrived at the landing and realized what had happened. Henry gathered that the vase had been an heirloom, or that it at least had been rather valuable—although he couldnʼt really see why someone would want to pay a lot of money for it or shed so many tears over it, as he himself had found the vase rather ugly.

Letting out a faint whimper, Lady Partridge slowly sank to the ground. Henry rushed over to her in order to soften her fall. Then he held her in his arms, fanning her with his hand, until Lord Partridge equally came running up the stairs, alarmed by the noise.

He didnʼt speak as his glance was darting between Henry, Sarah, his wife, and the broken vase on the floor. Sarah, still frozen with shock, didnʼt move and was only staring bewildered at the porcelain, as if she hoped that by doing so she would be able to join the pieces back together again.

“I am so sor—” she began, but Henry quickly cut her off.

“Lord Partridge,” he began whilst handing him Lady Partridge, who gradually regained consciousness, “I can assure you that this is not Miss Sarahʼs fault.”

“What are you talking about, young man?” Lord Partridge barked.

“Well, what I mean is that it was in fact myself who kicked the vase. I just happened to walk along the corridor when I saw Miss Sarah on her way to the upper floor. I then decided, however, to return to my room because I had forgotten my books there. And when I turned around—maybe a little bit too quickly—I accidentally kicked the vase off the pedestal with my elbow. I am utterly sorry about this incident and will most definitely pay for the damage.”

Lord Partridge eyed him up and down as he was carefully considering if he should believe Henry or not.

“Well, I am quite sure you will not live long enough to earn the amount of money this vase was worth... Anyway, it obviously was an accident. There is nothing we can do about it,” the lord mumbled.

With relief, Henry noticed that Lord Partridge seemed to have softened a little bit, whereas Lady Partridge was still trembling and holding on to the banister.

“Oscar... someone must go and call Oscar...” she croaked.

“Of course, my dear,” Lord Partridge replied matter-of-factly, padding her hand in a weak attempt to comfort her. Then he turned to Sarah again.

“Sarah, I still want you to go up to your room and stay there for the rest of the day. Take it as a reminder for the future to move about the house like a lady and not like a hysterical bull. Actually, it should have been Mr. Abbottʼs task to teach you that.”

Lord Partridge cast Henry a reproachful glance while Sarah was silently creeping up the stairs.

“I will most definitely take care of this from next week on,” Henry replied, bowing slightly in front of the man whose anger he had so miraculously managed to soothe.

“Good,” Lord Partridge said. Then he supported his wife as she was staggering down the stairs.

Henry let out a sigh. It was then that he noticed that Sarah was standing on the landing of the upper floor, looking down at him. When their eyes met, a small grateful smile blossomed on her lips. It was the first time that Henry saw her smile ever since he had set foot in the Partridgesʼ house.

He didnʼt have a chance to smile back at her, though, as the next moment, Sarah turned around and quickly disappeared in the darkness of the corridor.

* * *

Sarah wasnʼt present during dinner because Lord Partridge had confined her to her room.

Henry wondered if she had recovered from the fright which she had got in the afternoon. The memory of her tear-filled eyes and the bewildered expression on her face simply wouldnʼt leave him; just as the memory of her first genuine smile.

Lady Partridge wasnʼt quite herself either. Still shaken by the loss of her vase, she hardly ate and was only surly staring at the plate in front of her, trying to keep her composure. After some twenty minutes, she stopped eating altogether and withdrew to her room.

Shortly afterwards, her brother, Dr. Oscar Scott, arrived.

“Good evening, everyone,” he merrily called over to Henry and Lord Partridge as he was passing by the open door to the dining room.

“Do join us for dinner once you have looked after my wife,” Lord Partridge said to him. “You might as well eat her portion since she has left all the food untouched. What a terrible waste...”

Dr. Scott nodded and disappeared upstairs.

After a little while when he returned, he took a seat next to Henry and didnʼt hesitate to straight away plunge into the delicacies laid out in front of him.

Henry was honestly relieved to see the doctor. He considered him as very nice company and found that his presence lightened up even the most miserable atmosphere because he simply wasnʼt as stiff and controlled as the others. Somehow, however, Henry could not shake off the feeling that Lord Partridge didnʼt like his brother-in-law to the same extent and guessed that it was because Dr. Scott often offended against social etiquette by never mincing his words and by making remarks that Lord Partridge considered as ʻinappropriate.ʼ Still, Lord Partridge would neither complain nor banish him from the house. Henry assumed that Lord Partridge tolerated Dr. Scottʼs presence because the doctor helped battered Lady Partridge to lead a somewhat normal life.

“Is she feeling any better?” Lord Partridge asked without looking up from his plate.

“Sound asleep. I gave her a sedative,” the doctor answered, shoving a forkful of mince pie into his mouth without having concerns about coming across as rather hedonistic. “Which vase was it anyway?”

“Countess Montgomeryʼs gift for our twentieth wedding anniversary,” Lord Partridge said flatly.

“The one with that horrible pattern of lilac pansies and cherubs?!”

Dr. Scott broke out in chuckles, whereas Lord Partridge sneered at this remark.

“It was in fact a quite costly and unique specimen. But I do not expect you to know anything about these kinds of things. I do, however, agree that its style was a little bit over-ornate because of the cherubs.”

Hearing that the vase had originally been a wedding present, it became clear to Henry why Lady Partridge had overreacted. It had not been about the vaseʼs value alone. If Lady Partridge was in any way susceptible to superstition, she surely saw the incident as a bad omen for her marriage, which was in pieces anyway.

“Tell me, Mr. Abbott, would you care to come with me to London for the weekend?” Dr. Scott suddenly asked.

Henry was overjoyed at this offer. For the past hours he had been wondering how he could possibly spend the weekend in the mansion with nothing in particular to do but sit in Thelmaʼs kitchen; and he gradually began to worry that he went on the good womanʼs nerves. The idea of going to London had already crossed his own mind.

“I would love to, actually,” Henry replied.

“Wonderful!” the doctor exclaimed. “I would be more than delighted if you came. I am sure we will have a jolly good time. Apart from that, I find it truly boring to spend hours on a train with no one to speak to. And it is even worse if you have to share your compartment with folks that are eager to speak to you but that you would rather like to avoid because they talk a load of rubbish—or smell.”

The two men broke out in laughter.

“Have you ever been to Bournemouth, Mr. Abbott?” Lord Partridge suddenly asked in an obvious attempt to strike a more serious note. “It is particularly nice during this time of the year. The air is still a little bit crispy and not too hot.”

“No, Lord Partridge, I havenʼt had the pleasure yet,” Henry answered. He didnʼt really care about the weather in Bournemouth. All he thought about was going back to London for a while; just to get away from the oppressive atmosphere in the mansion.

Although he could feel Oscarʼs eagerness to keep talking to him even after Roderick and Emily had cleared the table, Henry excused himself and went to his room. He wanted to have an early night so that he would be refreshed and sharp the next morning. But as soon as he had lain down in bed, he began to toss and turn, unable to find the so much desired sleep.

He got up again and opened the window, hoping that a little bit of cool air from outside would make him tired. But the air wasnʼt cool at all and turned out to be quite muggy instead.

Apart from that, the owl was crying again. Henry had already noticed the bird on his very first night in the mansion. It had sat on a branch of a nearby tree, cheekily peering into his room and crying for hours. And it had kept coming back ever since.

"Shush! Go away or keep quiet..." Henry hissed. But the little owl was rather unimpressed by his attempt to chase it away.

The sultriness and the nasty owl had the undesired effect that Henry felt even more awake now.

With a sigh, he slipped back into his clothes. Then he grabbed a candle, left his room, and in the semi-darkness trudged along the corridor and downstairs to the basement.

Having been a regular guest in Thelmaʼs kitchen, he knew very well where the door to the wine cellar was—next to the broom cupboard; unlocked. He rummaged through the shelves, came across the bottle that had not been emptied during dinner, and then went in search of a glass in the adjacent kitchen. Equipped with both bottle and glass, he climbed up the stairs again.

He didnʼt go straight back to his room, however. Instead he slowly opened the door to the library, careful not to make any noise. Then he walked over to the window, opened the bottle of wine and filled the glass. Upon taking a first sip, he felt how his muscles relaxed and his spirits returned. He leaned against the window frame, peered out into the night and began to reflect on his life.

He had to admit to himself that he obviously had had a misconception about living and working in a mansion, amidst the upper class. He found that it wasnʼt as appealing as he had always thought. Family life was strict and lacked the warmth which he himself had experienced when growing up. Not that his father had always been kind, especially not after coming home from a long day at work, or when he had drunk. But Henry had always sensed that deep in his heart, his father had been a good man who had truly cared for the well-being of his wife and his children. Otherwise he would have never committed himself to such a degree to his mining job which he had hated so much.

Apart from that, it had never ever played such an important role in Henryʼs family what other people thought. And never ever would it have crossed either his fatherʼs or his motherʼs mind to make Henry marry someone whom he did not love. As for work, they might not really have supported his ʻfoolish visionʼ of becoming a teacher on the outset—for the mere reason that they had believed this was a rather lofty thought. But in the end, when Henry had proved to be excellent at teaching, they had been proud of him. Yes, his parents had always backed their children.

Henry was unable to tell if the superficial demeanor of the Partridges applied to all the other upper class households as well. But ultimately, he wasnʼt keen on finding out and considered his experience in one family of that kind as enough to last for a lifetime. He wouldnʼt apply for a similar position elsewhere.

As for the Partridges and the problems with their daughter, Henry decided that Sarah wasnʼt the only one to be blamed. He agreed that she surely wasnʼt easy to deal with, but Henry wondered up to what degree the rest of the family had contributed to the fact that she reacted the way she did.

Henry suddenly regretted that he had quit his secure position at elementary school. He missed his colleagues and the pupils. For a fleeting moment, it crossed his mind to return to London and ask Mr. Lambert to employ him again, but he immediately dismissed the thought. He didnʼt want to ʻeat humble pieʼ and found that it would be rather silly if he had to admit in front of the headmaster that his desire to rise the ladder had not worked out. He would most certainly become an object of ridicule. No, he was quite certain that going back wasnʼt an option for him.

America.

He had always wanted to go there. Despite the fact that he didnʼt have the slightest notion of what exactly he would find there or if he would make his luck at all, he had always been fascinated by the idea of following into the footsteps of his brother Paul who, at a very early age, had decided to board the next available ship and leave his hometown for good. He kept writing letters to Henry, telling him about his life. And in every letter he reminded Henry about his long-lost dream and encouraged him to pack his bags as well, to leave it all behind and even bring their mother along. Paul claimed he was positive that Henry would find work in no time.

Henry might have been a little daredevil in his eager mission to become a teacher, but so far he had not had the courage to do something as courageous as leaving his home country for good. Furthermore, he wasnʼt sure at all whether he would be able to convince his mother to leave London and move to America, too. After all, she had always been of the opinion that old people should stay in their familiar surroundings even though she was not yet that old.

Letting out a sigh, Henry looked up at the stars and took another sip of the wine.

Then he saw the piano in the corner. He had always loved the smooth elegance of the instrument, had loved the way it felt to let oneʼs fingers slide over the keys. Mr. Batton, the music teacher at elementary school where Henry had been employed, had given him piano lessons. In return Henry had given Mr. Battonʼs son some private English tuition. Henryʼs ability to play the piano could not really be called out of the ordinary, but it was enough to play the odd tune every now and then whenever the whim took him. Quite often he had sneaked into the schoolʼs music room after lessons when nobody had been around, and had practiced a little bit. And although the piano at school had been a very old-fashioned model and annoyingly out of tune, Henry had always been completely immersed in the music upon playing.

The piano in the Partridgesʼ library was an entirely different caliber than the one at elementary school. It was a fine grand piano of an excellent brand. Henry guessed that it was probably just as costly as the broken vase. It looked new and polished, just as if nobody had ever used it since its acquisition.

Henry suddenly felt the urge to sit down and play and wondered if he should dare. It was late at night and he thought that if anyone heard him, they surely would doubt his sanity. But the effect of the sweet wine had made him somewhat careless, and with a secretive smile on his lips he sat down on the bench and carefully opened the fallboard which covered the keys.

He randomly let his fingers slide over the length of the keyboard when suddenly a melody, a lovely slow ballad, came into his mind. He started to hum it quietly, closed his eyes and kept playing, letting the notes fill the air, and forgetting time and space.

* * *

Sarah couldnʼt sleep. She was tossing and turning in her bed as her mind kept wandering back to the moment when the vase had fallen off the pedestal.

It truly had not been her intention to break it, and she felt more than miserable about it. Even though she didnʼt like Priscilla very much, she would not maliciously and wilfully destroy the things her aunt cherished the most.

Then she thought about the next day and tried in vain to come to terms with the fact that she would be spending two days with Damian and her family at some boring seaside resort.

As she could see that there was no point in trying to find any sleep, Sarah climbed out of bed and opened the window, hoping that letting in some cool air would finally make her tired and distract her from her brooding. But the air wasnʼt cool at all and turned out to be quite muggy.

At least that stupid owl has gone, she thought. The bird had been sitting on a branch of one of the nearby trees for months, crying all night long. Recently, however, it had been surprisingly quiet; ever since she had thrown a shoe out of the window and in the owlʼs direction, in an attempt to chase it away. Sarah guessed that the owl had now found a tree in front of the window of some other unfortunate whose sleep it could rob.

But then Sarah suddenly became aware of something else. For a moment she thought it was just her imagination playing tricks on her, but then she clearly heard it: the sound of someone playing the piano in the library. The piano had not been used for ages, ever since Horatio and Priscilla had finally given up forcing her to take lessons against her will.

Driven by curiosity, Sarah quickly closed the window, put on her cardigan, took a candle, and slipped out of her room. She tiptoed along the corridor, careful not to wake her aunt and uncle, then she sneaked down the staircase until she found herself on the ground floor in front of the door to the library where the music was coming from.

Then, she carefully pushed the door open.

* * *

This tune should be dedicated to someone, Henry thought, waiting for some kind of inspiration.

To a girl.

He sniggered when the only name that spontaneously came to his blurred mind was Sarah.

Sarahʼs Dream… Thatʼs it. Thatʼs the title: Sarahʼs Dream…

Lost in thoughts, he continued playing when his glance suddenly fell on someone hovering in the doorway, watching him quietly.

It was Sarah.

Startled, Henry stopped playing.

“I... I am sorry if I disturbed you in your sleep,” he stammered, smiling apologetically. “I should have asked for permission before using the piano... and stealing the wine.”

Sarah didnʼt seem to care about the wine. Her eyes were riveted to Henry and his fingers on the keys. Again, Henry desperately tried to decipher the expression on the girlʼs face; in vain. But one thing he knew for sure: She wasnʼt angry. Instead, she appeared relaxed and rather friendly.

But he didnʼt have much time to analyse her moods. He was far too busy taking in her looks. Her long, brown hair flowed down over her shoulders, and she wore a thin, linen nightgown but no shoes. She also wore a cardigan, which she wrapped a little bit closer around her body when she became aware of Henryʼs intensive stares.

Henry blushed and forced himself to tear his eyes away from her enticing sight, wondering how it was possible that the girl looked like the devil one moment and like an angel the next.

“Would you mind playing that again?” he suddenly heard Sarah say, her voice unexpectedly soft.

She is just teasing me again, Henry thought warily. But deep in his heart he knew that this time she wasnʼt teasing him.

He took a deep breath and nervously wiped his hands, which had become rather sweaty all of a sudden, on his trousers. He felt terribly nervous at the thought of performing in front of an audience, even if it was only a small one. It was, however, a very distracting one.

Still, he began to play the melody again just as Sarah had asked him to. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed how the girl casually strolled in his direction, taking a detour along the bookshelves and tracing the covers of the books with her index finger as if she was reading their titles—a diversionary tactic which Henry considered as pretty easy to see through but amusing nevertheless.

Then she wandered past his back and hesitantly lowered herself next to him on the bench where she sat stiffly, quietly listening to the music, not breathing a word.

Henry hit several wrong keys. Sarah staring at his fingers made him nervous. Her smell made him nervous; this sensual fragrant of something sweet which he believed to be vanilla.

Eventually, the song came to an end. Henry had no recollection of how long he had been playing. Somehow he was relieved that it was over, because he had made an awful lot of mistakes. On the other hand, it wasnʼt a relief, because he would have to fill the now existing silence with words instead of music; and he didnʼt know at all what to say to Sarah. With her sitting so close to him, he was afraid that only utter nonsense would come out of his mouth and that he would make a terrible fool out of himself.

“Why did you do it?” Sarah suddenly whispered, her voice as sweet as her scent.

Surprised by the girlʼs unexpected willingness to talk, Henry looked up.

“I... I simply couldnʼt sleep and felt like... having a drink... or two,” he croaked.

“That is not what I mean,” Sarah said.

“What do you mean then?”

Sarah let her fingers slide over the surface of the keys without really touching them.

“I mean...why did you lie for me today when I broke the vase?”

Henry felt numb, like in a dream, as if someone had wiped out all of his memories. He could hardly remember what Sarah was talking about when she mentioned the vase, even though this incident had been memorable enough.

He called himself a fool. Within the past days he had spent a considerable amount of time with Sarah. Why should he feel awkward in her presence now? But then again, the current situation was an entirely different one compared to all encounters he had had with Sarah before. First of all, during lesson they were usually separated by two desks, whereas right now Sarah was sitting only a few inches far from him. Secondly, Sarah didnʼt speak when they were together in the classroom, and now she talked to him with a mesmerizing voice which stood in no relation to the screaming wild brat that she normally tended to be.

The third and final reason for Henry to gradually lose his composure was that Sarah wore a frighteningly small amount of clothes. And she bore no resemblance to the buttoned-up, obstinate little school girl. No, this was Sarah, the highly attractive, charming, and scantily dressed young woman who threatened to completely turn his head.

Henry grabbed his glass of wine. He desperately needed a sip before dealing with that lovely little creature that almost appeared translucent like a ghost in the soft glow of the candles and the light of the moon which fell through the curtains.

When he finally looked at her, his glance inevitably slipped over the outline of her small breasts underneath the nightgown. Henry quickly looked away again and rubbed his eyes with his knuckles. This was far too much to cope with after such an exciting day. He definitely needed some sleep now. And he needed to keep his fingers off the wine before it made him do things which he would surely regret later.

“You have not answered my question,” Sarah said.

Henry cleared his throat.

“I lied because...” he began, “well... I believe that it was not your real intention to break the vase. And apart from that, it was partially my fault too, as I should not have held you back from going upstairs to your room. But most of all, I saw it as a chance to prove that I do not want anyone to hurt you. Does that answer your question?”

Sarah nodded quietly.

Somehow Henry sensed that she was at her most vulnerable right now. Having dropped her protective shield of anger and aggression, she now turned out to be a completely different Sarah compared to the one he had spent the past days with. He wished she would remain like that forever. He also wished she would allow him to touch her.

“I can play the piano too, you know,” Sarah suddenly said.

A little smiled crossed her lips; only a faint one but still a very endearing one, which left Henry completely spellbound.

“Really?” he answered, unable to take his eyes off the girlʼs sweet mouth.

Sarah didnʼt notice the way he was gawping at her.

“I only know one simple tune, though,” she said, placing her hands on the keys of the piano.

“I would love to hear it,” Henry said, sounding more seductive than intended.

The next moment, Sarah began to play a standard piece of which Henry knew that one learned it in the very beginnings of taking piano lessons. He found that she actually did quite well apart from hitting a wrong key every now and then. But she obviously didnʼt mind. On the contrary; it seemed to rather amuse her as she began to laugh merrily whenever it happened.

And what a wonderful laughter it was.

Oh good Lord, donʼt do this to me... not her... not now... Henry thought, desperately trying not to entirely succumb to Sarahʼs charms.

The wine, it is just the wine... he reassured himself. Yes, he was certain that everything would be different the next day. After having had a good nightʼs sleep, the whole situation which he encountered himself in right now would be nothing but a mere memory, gradually fading; he would soon be back to his senses and go about his daily activities as usual. Maybe he would spend some more time in the house of the Partridges before finally heading for America. Yes, he now knew exactly what he wanted, and there was definitely no place for Sarah and any foolish feelings for her.

“I am not really good at playing the piano at all. This particular passage...” Sarah played a particular sequence of tunes and hit the wrong key again, just as she had done before. “You see, I never get this right.”

Henry looked at her fingers. Slender fingers. Perfectly trimmed fingernails. A skin as soft as a peach.

He couldnʼt resist.

He slowly reached out for her hand which was still resting on the keys.

“May I?” he asked politely.

Sarah appeared puzzled. Still, she nodded.

Then Henry gently took her middle finger which lay on one of the white keys and carefully positioned it on one of the black keys right next to it. A shiver ran through his body when he realized that her skin felt just as soft as he had imagined. Carefully, he pressed her finger down.

“Cis, you see?” he whispered. “Not C. That is the reason why it sounds wrong.”

The sound that the key had made gradually ebbed off, leaving Henry and Sarah in complete silence. It was so utterly quiet that Henry even believed to hear her breathe; and her breathing appeared a little bit too fast for a human being in a state of complete calmness. This was rather the breathing of someone whose equilibrium had got entirely out of balance. Just like his own.

Henry slowly let his fingers slip off Sarahʼs hand. He was savoring the moment which, as he knew, would be over far too soon. He wasnʼt sure if she too felt that the air was vibrating between them. He definitely felt it. At least, Sarah appeared confused and insecure. She withdrew her hand quickly, grabbed a fringe of her hair and played with it, twirled it frantically between her finger and thumb. She lowered her gaze, but still Henry could see that her cheeks were almost as red as the roses in the garden.

With a satisfactory grin, Henry noticed that his approach obviously had not left her cold. He hoped that it wasnʼt all too easy for her to see that he was nervous, too. In fact, he was so nervous that he secretly hoped for something to happen that would take them both out of this awkward situation. And it seemed that Sarah longed for the same.

The sudden creaking sound of a door made Sarah jump up from her seat.

“Someone is coming—I have to go!” she exclaimed anxiously. “They must not see me here at this time of the night...!”

Henry knew that what she really meant to say was, ʻThey must not see me here at this time of the night with you.ʼ



Henry sighed, feeling equally relieved and disappointed. But he knew there was nothing else he could do than be grateful for having had this sweet experience even if it was over now.

Wistfully, he looked after Sarah as she left. Then, as if Sarah had sensed his piercing gaze and his longing for a final word before they parted, she came to a halt, turned around and quickly strode back towards him. As she stood in front of him, she suddenly placed her hand on his left shoulder, bent down and ever so quickly planted a tiny kiss onto his cheek.

“I apologize for having given you a fright with the horse the other day...” she breathed. Strands of her hair brushed his face. Little sweet clouds of vanilla filled his nose.

“Never mind...” Henry whispered in a daze, his eyes glued to her lips.

Before he realized what had happened, her hand let go of his shoulder and she was gone in a rush, leaving him behind with his skin burning from her kiss and his heart burning with desire.