Faces of the Wind

Chapter 29

Adrian knelt on the cold pavement, half his luggage scattered around him. Not minding his trousers getting soiled, he let his bottom fall on his boots. The dilemma has numbed his mind and, amidst his oblivion, part of his coat began to soak in a reeking puddle.

"Hazel!" He heard a woman cry, followed by the tapping of a pair of shoes trotting on the stone pavement.

He looked up and saw a woman in a plain coat. She turned to answer the older woman who has called her name. She met his gaze for a long moment. The familiarity of her features felt like a pat on the shoulder. Helpless and forlorn, he looked at the mess around him, took a deep breath, packed his things and grudgingly stood up. After all, he had a new friend and patron in town, and he knew where to find him.

It was a twenty-minute walk to the famous art critic's house, and it was something to look forward to despite everything. Caleb must have put in a good word for him and, sure thing, John Ruskin would attend his exhibition and the press would write about it... and Sir Martin will eat his heart out. This difficult day was destined to end and remain in the past for eternity. His father always said that hardship always bore triumph and that life was a cycle of mornings and nights. Neither affliction nor bliss lasted forever.

He climbed the few stone stairs and knocked on the large, wooden door. His fingers were red and itchy; he should not have worn fingerless gloves in this weather.

The door did not creak when it opened. It revealed the grumpy face of a fortyish woman in a frilly white cap, a spotless apron and a black dress.

She shook her head inquisitively. "How can I 'elp ya?" She asked when she grew tired of waiting for the young man with the ruffled hair and stained coat to speak.

Adrian forced a smile and ran a hand through his hair. "Oh, yes," he forced a brief giggle, "I am here for Mr. Jefferson... Caleb Jefferson," he rubbed his chin and smiled.

"Then ye go' the wrrong 'ouse, laddie," she replied and attempted to shut the door but Adrian pushed it open with a hand.

"Please, tell him it's Adrian Blackford," he half-pled.

"Wha' parrt of wrrong addrress did ye no' undurrstand?"

"Isn't this Mr. John Ruskin's house?"

"Aye, tis'is 'ouse, but I assure ye, therre is none wi'the name o' Caleb Jefferrson 'ere," she said and attempted to shut the door again but Adrian did not move away.

Something lurched inside him. "This isn't possible," he said, his heart sinking.

"If ye'rre no' leavin', laddie, I mus' call the constables and'ave ye rremoved," the woman threatened, her stare more intense and her droopy face flushing with anger.

Adrian released the door and stepped back, and the housekeeper slammed it in his face.

***

After having given the man with the lecherous gaze a smack across the face with the serving tray, Hazel thought it best to immediately quit her job at the teashop. It would save her the extra humiliation she wished to be spared. Her hands trembled with fury as she vigorously put on her shabby coat and beige bonnet without tying a bow under her chin.

She dashed outside the teashop and into the street. A frantic Mrs. Macy called for her and scurried after her.

Hazel could not ignore this kind woman, so she turned and, as soon as she did, her eyes met those of a man kneeling over his scattered belongings on the pavement. Her heart stopped. She knew him. It felt as if blood has drained from her face. She couldn't look away, anticipating his reaction and praying he would not recognize her. To her gratitude, he looked away and went about with his business. He must have fallen and dropped his things, she thought.