Faces of the Wind

Chapter 31

Unlike the blooming trees of March, Adrian slowly shriveled and the youth in his heart began to waste away. It took the harsh walls of his unkempt lodging five weeks to dim his imagination. The cold and hunger, the two aches he could not bring himself to withstand, drained the will out of him.

He dragged his feet every morning to the Medleys' establishment, where he painted inside a miserable studio and retired to his shabby room before sunset, nostalgic for all the warmth that filled his life prior to his father's passing. Now, he was often bitter and resentful—two emotions visible in all his recent paintings and charcoal sketches.

Only the Macys could make the corners of his mouth twitch every now and then. A strong camaraderie has grown between him and all seven members of this family, and little Oliver was especially fond of him he would tag along behind him whenever he's in the quarters until a parent or an older sibling told him to quit bothering the gentleman. But Adrian was never bothered; he could barely notice the urchin on most days, nor could he notice much of what happened around him. He was often inattentive and withdrawn.

A loud rap at the door yanked him out of a nightmare that drenched him in sweat. He thought it was gunfire from Lord Longfeather's pistol. He threw the blanket off, got out of bed and tucked his long linen shirt under his breeches then jumped to open the door.

Standing at the bottom of the four stairs was Bob Macy, carrying an oil lamp in one hand. "Evenin', son."

Adrian's expression was an intense frown that formed a deep fold from the inner corner of his left brow and gradually faded as it cut its way up to his hairline. He squinted at the man who was in his late thirties yet insisted on calling him 'son.' His brown downturned eyes and round nose were tokens of his forthcoming nature, and his kind voice had the power to sooth the most ailing of hearts.

"Confound me!" Bob held his lamp a bit higher to further illuminate the weary face of the gaunt young man who stood a few feet above, "I must've woken ee!"

Adrian cleared his throat and faintly shook his head. "No, Mr. Macy... but what time is it?"

"'alf past seven, I reck'n."

"I waste a ton of time asleep." Adrian scratched the back of his head, ruffling his unruly curls in the process. "I doze faster than Mrs. Bumbleton."

"We though' ee'd like to join us for a cuppa tay," Bob put his free hand in his pocket to warm it, "Mrs. Macy d'bake a nice mince pie, too."

An invitation to the Macys' was always tempting. The house in the evening was all noise and bustle one could just sit, listen and watch without having to make an effort to converse. Most importantly, they seemed to feel for him on his most silent days and give him a remedy without him putting his pain into words.

"I must first wash up," Adrian said, "please, come in."

"Oh, ayes," Bob's face beamed as he sprung upstairs, "pre'y cold ou' here."

"That vile Mr. Jefferson is t'come collect rents in the mornin'," Bob said as he tried to warm his hands on the poor fire. He noticed his half-finger gloves were ripped in a new place even though his daughter Molly has mended them not long ago.

"Vile, despicable, horrid, sneaky he is—he leaves a trail of weeping mothers and helpless fathers in his wake," Adrian replied, wiping his hands on a thin towel in sudden vehemence. "They give me my wage only to take back half of it for this matchbox, leaving me with an empty belly on most days," he now spoke from between clenched jaws.

Bob drew a wooden chair close to the fireplace and sat on it. It wobbled he thought he would fall but then realized it had one short leg. "'ave ee tried talkin' to Mr. Medley 'bout yer wages? Molly's employer d'seen tha' mural you painted in the chapel in Harley Street and she d'say that's the work of an artist!" He watched Adrian put on his beige coat and dirty black boots.