my dream too. Perhaps it was this detail that made it seem so real.
Tears flooded my eyes, unstoppable and useless. A sob escaped my throat, stronger than my notorious self-control. The house keeper found me in that state when she returned to the kitchen. “Here are the fresh roses for our lord and master,” she said cheerfully. Then she noticed my tears and brought her hands to her chest. “Miss Bruno! What happened? Are you ill? You’re not crying for Mr Mc Laine's reprimand, are you? He's a tease, as moody as a bear, and adorable when he remembers to be nice... Don’t worry about whatever he told you, he's already forgotten about it.”
“That's the problem,” I said with a tearful voice, but she didn’t hear me, already lost in one of her dialogues.
“Let me make you some tea; it’ll make you feel better. I remember that once, in the house where I worked before...”
I silently put up with her endless chatter, appreciating her failed attempt to distract me. I drank the hot drink, pretending to feel better, and I didn’t accept her offer to help me. I would carry the roses up. The woman insisted on accompanying me at least to the landing, and seeing her gentle determination, I couldn’t refuse. When I returned to the office I was the usual Melisande, my eyes dry, my heart in hibernation and my soul compliant.
The hours passed, as heavy as concrete, in a silence as dark as my mood. Mr Mc Laine ignored me for the whole time, speaking to me only when he couldn’t avoid it. The spasmodic desire for that day to end as soon as possible was the same as the one I had that morning to see him again. Could it have been only a few hours earlier?
“You may go Miss Bruno,” he dismissed me, without looking into my eyes.
I wished him a good evening, as polite and cold as he had been.
I was looking for Kyle, at his request, when I heard a sob coming from under the stairs. My eyes opened wide and I was uncertain about what to do. I hesitated, but then I came to the source of that noise, and what I saw was astounding.
Kyle was weeping with his face in the shadows, his shape indefinable. The man had a paper tissue, and was just a pale copy of the seducer I had met previously. I stared at him in amazement.
He noticed my presence, and stepped forward. “Do you feel sorry for me? Or are you having fun?”
I felt that I had been caught in the act of spying on him, like an indiscreet busybody. I resisted the temptation to justify myself.
“Mr Mc Laine is looking for you. He’d like to retire to his room for dinner. But... Are you okay? Is there anything I can do for you?”
His cheeks coloured with dark spots, and I guessed he was blushing from embarrassment.
I stepped back, also metaphorically. “No, sorry, forget what I said. I don’t want to get involved in other people’s problems anymore.”
He shook his head, unusually gallant. “You're too nice to be a busybody, Melisande. No, I... I'm just upset about my divorce.” Only then I noticed that he didn’t have a tissue in his hand, but a crumpled sheet of paper. “She's gone. All my attempts to heal the break have failed.”
I almost laughed. Attempts? And how had he tried to fix things? By coming on to the only young woman in the neighbourhood?
“I'm sorry,” I said uncomfortably.
“Me too.” He took another step forward, coming out of the shadows. His face was full of tears, contradicting the bad opinion I had of him.
I gazed at him uncertainly, in great embarrassment. According to the etiquette, what was one to say to a person who had just divorced? How could you cheer him up? What could you say without hurting him? Of course, when the etiquette was drafted, divorce didn’t exist.
“I'll tell Mr Mc Laine that you're not well,” I said.
He seemed to panic. “No, no. I'm not ready to go back to the civil world and I'm afraid Mc Laine is just looking for an excuse to kick me out of Midnight rose. No, just give me a minute to pull myself back together and I’ll go to him.”
“A minute to pull yourself back together, of course,” I echoed, unconvinced. Kyle looked terrible, his hair dishevelled, his face flushed from his tears, his white uniform wrinkled, as if he had slept in it.
“All right, then. Goodnight,” I said, longing for the shelter of my room. It had been a terribly long day, and I wasn’t in the mood to console anyone, except myself.
He nodded to me as if he didn’t trust his voice.
I went in the kitchen before going upstairs. I didn’t feel like having dinner, and it was only right to inform the kind Mrs Mc Millian. She gave me a radiant smile, and pointed to a pot on the fire. “I'm making soup. I know it's hot, but we can’t just eat salads until September.”
I was overwhelmed by a feeling of guilt. I cowardly changed the answer that was about to come out of my mouth. “I love soup, heat or no heat.”
Before she started with her chatter, I told her about Kyle, leaving out the most embarrassing details.
“He really seems upset about the divorce,” I said, sitting at the table.
She nodded, continuing to mix the soup. “The relationship was destined to end. His wife moved to Edinburgh a few months ago, and they say that she already has another man. You know how unpleasant gossip can be... He's not a shin of a saint, but he's fond of this place and didn’t feel like leaving the village.”
I poured a glass of water from the jug. “Is that why he can’t bring himself to leave?”
The housekeeper served the soup in the dishes, and I started eating eagerly. I was hungrier than I thought.
“Kyle always says that he’s sick and tired of this place, of the house, of Mr Mc Laine, but he wouldn’t leave. Who else would hire him?”
I looked at her over my plate curiously. “Isn’t he a registered nurse?”
Mrs Mc Millian broke a bun in two pieces, meticulously. “Of course he is, but he’s mediocre and lazy. It can’t be said that he works hard here. And often his breath smells of alcohol. I don’t mean to say he’s a drunk, but...” Her voice conveyed her disapproval.
“I love this house,” I said, without reflecting.
The woman was amazed. “Do you really, Miss Bruno?”
I bent my eyes on the plate, my cheeks burning. “I feel at home here,” I explained. And I was honest. Despite the mood changes of my fascinating writer, I was at ease among those walls, far away from the pain of my past.
Mrs Mc Millian began to babble on, and I was relieved when I emptied my plate. My mind ran on deviating and uneven tracks, and the final destination was always, inevitably, Sebastian Mc Laine. I was torn between the uncontrollable need to dream of him again, and the desire to leave any illusion behind me.
Kyle peeped into the kitchen a few minutes later, more annoyed than ever. “I hate Mc Laine,” he began.
The housekeeper stopped her sentence in half to reprimand him. “Shame on you, speaking like that of the person who feeds you.”
“I’d
