Matilda Graham

Matilda Graham knew her place in the world. She was an artist. The need to create so deep within her soul it couldn’t be separated from her.

“Miss Graham,” Her butler urged from the doorway, “it’s time to get up.”

“Hush Edwin.” Tildie rolled away from the irritating man standing in her doorway and squeezed her eyes shut at the sunlight pouring through the window. Someone had replaced her lovely pink chiffon curtains with some stiff hideous avant-garde creation that hung in narrow strips, casting pale shadows over her face. The fabric, so stiff that if the window had been open, they might not have even shifted in the breeze. Alas, she’d never know. The window no longer opened, despite her many attempts to fix it.

“Miss…”

“Oh fine!” Tildie threw the covers back, ignoring the disgruntled annoyance in Edwin’s murmured complaint followed by the heavy click of her door shutting. If he didn’t want to see her in a state of undress, well then, he shouldn’t wake her at such an uncivilized hour.

She padded across the room, stopping at the window to rest her head on the hated curtains, holding one in her hand as she drank in the morning sunshine. Now she was up she might as well enjoy it. It was a philosophy she’d built when Edwin had first come to her household and started waking her far earlier than she liked.

Before Edwin, she’d been a night owl, often sleeping most of the day away and then running through her home, gathering supplies from the places she’d stashed them. She’d spent her nights giving life to the creativity screaming to escape her brain through the paint brush in her hands. On the rare occasion when inspiration languished in the recesses of her mind, she’d retrieve a bottle of father’s best wine from the cellar and sit under the moon, sipping it from a crystal goblet while she sang dirges to the creatures of the night and the prey they stalked.

Edwin had changed everything.

She couldn’t remember who had brought him or compelled her to accept the changes he’d enforced in her home. It was exasperating. Having a stranger come into your home, make you give up the bedroom you’d just finished decorating in the most perfect way, plan your meals and, most chafing of all, lock you out of your wine cellar. He’d said it was at Father’s orders, but Tildie knew better.

Father was gone. He’d left her, she paused to consider the season and tally the time, a year ago. He’d said she needed the space to create, to be herself, to grow. And, though the house had been changed without her consultation, she had grown. She was more in touch with her creativity than ever.

Someone tapped on the door behind her, the sound followed by the creak of the hinge as it was cracked open moments later. That would be Yvette, the ladies maid Edwin had brought with him. She was only a little better at giving Tildie her space. She’d wait, while Tildie dressed and then escort her to the dining room Edwin insisted upon using. Yvette’s patience was limited, and, if pushed to her limit, the price of complaint was high.

Sometimes Tildie accepted the cost; a day away from her art supplies, her body sluggish as she lay on a thin mattress waiting for her sentence to end. But today she’d acquiesce. She needed to paint.

“There you go Maltida.” Despite the anger she could unleash when Tildie didn’t cooperate, Yvette’s voice was melodic and soothing.

Most of the time Yvette was gentle and kind. And really, having a ladies maid with a backbone was better than having a sniveling little girl who couldn’t think for herself. Tildie never had to tell Yvette when she needed a restorative or a sleeping draught, she never needed reminding of the various tonics and vitamins that kept Tildie’s creativity flowing and not once had Yvette threatened Tildie with harm. A marked improvement from the ladies maid father had contracted before he’d left. That hagraven of a woman had lasted less than a month before Tildie had chased her from the house wielding the iron poker father had used to tend the fire in the hearth on holidays.

After the witch, Tildie had only had a week of peace before someone new had been sent. The new servant, a troll of a man, Tildie couldn’t remember his name, had also run away when Tildie had found he’d moved the knives from the kitchen to the basement. She’d had her home set up just so and didn’t want it changed.

She’d not managed to chase Edwin or Yvette away yet. They’d come together after the hagraven and the troll. They’d hamstrung her nearly immediately by forcing her to switch rooms, though she hadn’t gone willingly. No, she’d been tricked.

Yvette had taken her for a ride to see the ocean and when she’d returned her home had been shifted around. At first she’d thought her room only looked different, but after the shock of the newly colored walls and the removal of the treasures she’d filled her space with had faded she’d seen the truth. They’d given her a room she’d never seen before. Perhaps one in the attic, given the view she had now.

It had been an adjustment, but she’d grown to love it. The higher floor gave her a spectacular view of a city she’d had no idea lay so close to her childhood home in the country. She’d spent many an afternoon musing as to why Father had never brought her there. Edwin never answered the question, but perhaps he didn’t know.

“I prefer my laundry to smell like lavender. Please inform the laundress.” She slipped the dress Yvette held out over her head, wrinkling her nose at the bleachy smell.

“I’ll be sure to mention it.” Yvette smiled at her. “For now, we need to get some breakfast in you. You have an appointment this morning.”

Tildie frowned. Had Edwin mentioned that? A vague recollection of him mumbling something to her as he’d seen her to bed last night whispered in the recesses of her mind. She’d been daydreaming about the painting she wanted to do today and ignored him. When he’d shut the door with a metallic click the silence had been a relief.

“Come on now, Miss Tildie.” Yvette waved her out the door, nodding to the livery men, clad all in white, who waited in the over-bright hallway. “Miss Tildie is having a good day gentleman, I don’t think she’ll need assistance getting to the dining room.”

Tildie preened at the pride and the hint of a smile in Yvette’s command. She was a good girl, Father had always told her that too.

“Who is coming to see me this morning?” She addressed her maid kindly, for today Yvette was being kind.

Yvette’s arm brushed hers as their soft soled shoes whispered in the silent hallway. She wore wine colored slacks and the most hideous top Tildie had seen yet. Yvette had a large collection of tops that varied from tacky to detestable. Today’s fell closer to detestable than usual. A paler color of the wine in her slacks, it bore a random print of the most lazily drawn flowers Tildie had ever seen. And, to make it even more dreadful, it was a pullover. They all were. She curled her lip at the horrid garment and waited for Yvette’s answer.

“You have a meeting with,” Yvette paused as if searching for a name, “Dr. Trevino.”

Tildie furrowed her brow, gasping as recognition hit her. “Oh yes! The professor Father introduced me to before he—“ Tildie dropped off. She didn’t like to speak of Father’s leaving. They hadn’t let her say goodbye. And she missed him terribly.

Yvette raised one eyebrow at her and nodded as she pulled the heavy door that opened into the dining hall.

Tildie’s shoulders drooped at the sight of what they’d done to her precious dining room. No longer the dark formal room she’d loved, they’d removed the heavy drapes and replaced the long dark table with several smaller round ones. They hadn’t even kept the soft, padded chairs, replacing them with hard plastic.

Today she didn’t complain. She loved visits with the professor and the more quickly she ate, the sooner he’d be here. She often wondered if he arrived hours before their meeting and simply waited for her. She’d inquired once if she could skip breakfast and see him sooner but Yvette and the cook had told her skipping breakfast was bad for her health. She supposed they were right. Without breakfast Tildie couldn’t stomach the restoratives that kept her creativity alive.

She dug into the repugnant porridge cook served today. She knew better than to complain, or worse throw it in cooks face. At least there were raisins to blunt the slimy texture. When she’d scraped her bowl clean and dutifully swallowed the pills Yvette handed her, she stood again.

“Will I have time to paint today?” She gazed eagerly into Yvette’s face, searching for the answer before her maid could form it.

“After lunch Miss Tildie.” Yvette hooked her arm into Tildie’s. “Now let’s not keep the professor waiting.”

It was terribly gauche to walk arm-in-arm with one’s maid, but Tildie was so caught up in the joy of seeing the professor and painting in the same day she ignored the gaff.

The professor always met her in the study. Not Father’s study though. It was one Tildie had never seen, like the bedroom she now occupied. She’d long ago assumed it was simply part of the attic floor she’d never explored and, once again, promised herself she’d explore it tomorrow. If Edwin would let her.

As she reached for the door handle her attention was caught by a scream down the hallway. A woman? Or a man who either had a high pitch or was in pain. He screamed to be let out. Tension seized her.

“Who has broken in Yvette?” She cast a panicked look at her maid.

“Don’t you worry. Edwin is taking care of it.” Yvette soothed her with a pat on the back and tilted her head toward the door. “The professor’s waiting.”

She put the screams out of her mind, nodded and pushed the door open.

“Miss Graham.” Dr. Trevino rose from the desk he sat behind, pushing aside several thick folders, no doubt filled with his research, and took three long steps to cross the room. He held out a strong hand, shaking hers firmly when she offered it. “Please, have a seat.”

“It’s so nice of you to visit me.” Tildie smiled shyly at the handsome man as she sank into a plush couch. “You are surely very busy with your research?”

“In fits and starts Tildie.” He settled into a wing chair and pulled a clipboard from the table beside it. “But today, I want to talk about you.”

Tildie met his gaze, gratified to be the focus of such important work. “I’d be glad to answer your questions, Professor.”

“You’re in a cooperative mood today, aren’t you?” His eyes crinkled warmly behind dark rimmed spectacles.

“I have time to paint this afternoon, and I have the most lovely plans for my picture.”

He noted something on his clipboard and looked back at her. “And how have you been feeling?”

Tildie knit her brows. Had she been unwell the last time he’d been here? It felt so long ago, she wasn’t sure. “Was I ill the last time we met?”

“I might not use the term ill,” he shrugged at her, “but you were having trouble with the adjustment.”

The adjustment. Ah yes, the last time she’d seen him it had been just after Edwin had moved her room. “I’m feeling well, my room isn’t what I’d make it, but I have a lovely view.”

The professor nodded, scribbling a few notes before looking back at her. He waited, letting the silence thicken between them.

“I do so wish he hadn’t locked me from the wine cellar. A bottle of wine and a night staring at the stars is more restorative than anything else I know of.” She stared into the Professors eyes, hoping he’d offer to talk to Edwin.

“Well, the…” he paused as if looking for a word.

“Restoratives?” Tildie offered. She remembered the reasons Edwin had given her for locking the wine cellar.

“Yes, the restoratives don’t mix well with wine. You need to be as creative as possible for your painting plans.”

She’d never thought of it that way. A renewed sense of inspiration filled her, several paintings filling her mind’s eye. Would she have time to do them all today? Yvette was unlikely to let her skip a meal in favor of creation.

For now, she turned her attention back to the professor. The sooner she finished their visit, the sooner Yvette would bring her to the solarium and her painting supplies.

Because, above all, Matilda Graham was an artist.