More than once I caught him watching me when I cleaned the room he occupied, and I wondered if he was playing a sort of game in his own head. Was he imagining that it was the second half of the eighteenth century as well? He was the rich landowner and I was the peasant he graciously employed? I couldn’t help but assume it excited him to have an obedient housemaid all his own.
In my sixth week, I think he tested me in this regard. The professor asked me to do something that wasn’t in the list of expectations, just to see if I’d obey, I suspect. “Megan, please go fetch me some iced lemonade from the fridge.”
Intending to pass this test with flying colours, I lowered my gaze but kept a slight grin on my lips, showing him my willing deference. “Yes, sir.” Then I hurried to the kitchen immediately and returned only a minute later.
Professor Brooks was pleased enough to smile at the way I presented his icy glass, sweating against the heat of early June.
“Will that be all, sir?”
“That’ll be all,” he said. “Thank you, Megan. You’re a good girl.”
I could have just about died the way he said that, calling me a good girl. It didn’t feel childish, or even as if he was remarking on my thirty-six years compared to his fifty. The wording choice came across as sweetly authoritative. Female servants were often referred to as ‘girls’ back in those days, regardless of age.
It meant even more to me that he called me good. I was doing well here, then, just as I’d hoped. I was being obedient enough, and polite enough and quiet enough. Submissive enough. There was this urge welling up in my heart to only prove myself further. He could ask me to change the weather and I think I’d try.
We were at dinner some days later when he seemed to become a lot more talkative than usual. We always ate at the same table, which was historically inaccurate, he told me more than once. But it was a lot less lonely, with just the two of us. Tonight we were having a special meal at his request. It was a type of beef and potato stew often eaten in the era in which we both pretended to live.
“My goodness, you’ve outdone yourself, Megan. You’ve really outdone yourself tonight. It’s like going back in time. You’ve perfectly recreated this dish.”
I felt my cheeks going pink at his compliment. “Thank you, sir. I just followed the instructions given to me.”
“Not everyone follows instructions as well as you. Trust me, Megan. I teach eighteen to twenty-two-year-olds. I can barely get essays double-spaced.”
The stew seemed to really put him in a good mood. It may have been another test that I passed, following such strange directions to the letter. The spices had to be tied up in cheese cloth, for example. Twice I had to look up archaic words in the large Oxford dictionary that boasted its own podium in the professor’s study. (My cell phone had once again died of neglect.)
“Have you knit anything new lately?” he asked. This was a common topic, as he was keen to check up on my passions, as he called them.
“I’ve been working on a lovely pair of socks,” I said. He nodded and asked to see them sometime. “Is it alright to ask what projects you’ve been working on lately, sir?”
“Yes, of course. Of course. I don’t wish to bore you with it, though.”
“I won’t be bored.”
“No? Oh! Have you a budding interest in history?”
“Yes, sir. More and more lately.” I offered him a little grin, but kept it respectfully shy.
“Is that so? Well, lately, with all my extra free time in summer, I’ve been reading some historical fiction. Just for fun, really. Would you enjoy joining me in that?”
“Reading with you? I’d love that! I’m sure you’ve got wonderful taste in books.”
“And you as well, I’m sure. Let’s try a book a week. One week you pick, one week I pick.”
“Can we start tonight, sir?”
I couldn’t wait to see what he’d pick out. A person’s choice in books were often the quickest way to knowing their heart and soul.
“We’ll start tonight!” he decided, and pat the back of my hand softly before focusing all his attention back on the beef stew.
It became a new way to spend time together, and though it seemed that reading was a very solitary activity, it truly brought us closer. It was just us two in our own little bookclub. I soon became not only his housemaid, but his companion, of a sort. We could talk for hours sometimes, especially when the book had some mysteries alongside the historical elements.
Some books were straight from history itself. By the middle of July, the professor had chosen Jane Eyre for the weekly read. It was the life story of a servant girl, though her master, Rochester, was quite a bit more cantankerous than Professor Brooks. The novel departed from all the rest in that this was a love story by the end. Our discussion over it began with the both of us being a little reticent and demure. There were some nervous laughs and blushes.
“I didn’t expect to like it as much as I did,” I said. Was it because it was so easy to relate to Jane now? Though I doubted Jane enjoyed her servitude quite as much as I did.
“This is the third time I’ve read it,” he said.
“So one of your favourites, I take it?”
“Yes,” he said. “It’s… a great tale of courage.”
“And love,” I added.
“Love can be courageous,” he said softly. Then he cleared his throat and said it was rather hot. “I only wish the ceiling fans worked as well as you, Megan. Would you like to take a walk as we continue our discussion?”
That became the first of many walks that summer. We didn’t even always talk about books. Sometimes he spoke of himself, and his past. He had a harder life than I imagined, seeing his wealth and admirable career. Professor Brooks lost both his parents young, and was sent to live with various relatives for a year or two at a time. He found his solace and peace in learning. I wondered if he liked history so much because it never changed.
I let him know of my own childhood. It wasn’t idyllic other than by comparison to the professor’s. I struggled in school with a couple of bullies, and my parents were too busy working to notice anything other than my mistakes. They had no time for either reward or discipline, yet it didn’t equal out in the end. I was barely into my adult years when I learned I craved both from a boyfriend or husband. Perhaps this desire was unhealthy, but it was beyond the point of repair now. It was in me and I needed it – and what difference would it make if two adults consented?
Professor Brooks was the closest I’ve ever come to my fantasies coming true. He not only accepted my submission, but praised it with kind words and sometimes a gentle pat to the head or hand. It was more than that, though, as he also spoke to me like a friend – especially during our nighttime strolls through the upscale neighbourhood.
By early August, we’d had seven official meetings of the bookclub and four times as many walks. It became our habit to wander the sidewalks after dark with the crickets singing and the gentle cool breezes invigorating us both.
Usually no one took notice of my unusual uniform at this hour, but that would soon change. A man who swayed more than he walked had quite a lot to say about me and my outfit. I couldn’t tell if he was complimenting me, rude and slurred as it was, or insulting me.
I could only react by stiffening up in fright, but the professor had it handled. I never heard him raise his voice until now. He shouted at the drunkard and told him in no uncertain terms it was reprehensible to speak to any lady in such a way. Then came a mess of a thrown punch that the professor easily ducked. The drunk took a face-first tumble onto the nearest lawn, all due to his own aggressive momentum.
It was like being bathed in warmth, what Professor Brooks did. He protected me, physically and emotionally alike. I still shook, as my nerves had some catching up to do. Professor Brooks had his hand on my back, and remarked on my state. That was when I put my hand out, hoping he’d take it in his. He did so immediately, and didn’t let go until we were safely back inside. It felt like harm couldn’t possibly reach me.
That night he came around to my bedroom, but not in the way one might think. It was a quarter to eleven and he peeked inside after knocking. “I know it’s a bit silly,” he said. “But I wanted to make sure you were alright after tonight.”
“I’m alright now,” I promised. “Thanks to you.”
He grinned in relief. “Good. Good.”
I don’t know what came over me then. Maybe his courage earlier tonight ignited my own. “Professor Brooks?” I asked. “Was there ever a Mrs. Brooks?”
He studied the floor a moment before meeting my eyes again. “No, there wasn’t. I focused on my career and passions so intently that I forgot about love until it was much too late.”
“It’s not too late,” I said.
It seemed like something any friend might say to another to raise some spirits, but all that was left unsaid since May stuck to those four little words like glue. The professor cleared his throat. “Uh, don’t forget to make a new bookclub selection. It’s your turn.”
“I’ll pick out a good one. Goodnight, sir.”
“Goodnight… goodnight, Megan.”
I knew in my heart I had to make my book selection a doozy. It had to be so absolutely obvious where I hoped this relationship would go next. I looked down at the paperback peeking just barely out from its hiding place between the mattress and the box spring. This would do nicely.
***The book I’d chosen left no part of my desires to the imagination. Handing it to him, and knowing he’d read it, made me blush all on its own. It felt as though I was baring my body and soul to him, all at once. The paperback novel was part historical romance and part BDSM smut. There was a reason I’d kept it with me all these years. And, thankfully, It was written just well enough that the learned professor wouldn’t scoff and put it down by page two. That was the real challenge in all this.
I kept out of his way more than usual as he read. It made my heart pound, as if it knew it was out there in someone else’s hands. This would either end everything or start everything. I don’t imagine he’d want to continue having me as his housemaid if our feelings weren’t mutual, or if the more explicit fantasies of mine turned his stomach. What had I done? Living the fantasy in my mind alone was better than nothing at all.
Leave a Reply