Mightnight Embers

1648

The day had turned around me like a carousel. I was busy from dawn to dusk, tidying the mountain of pots, pans, and dishes before I could comfortably lay in the boxed bed only paces away from my workspace. The embers were burning low, filling the room with a soft midnight warmth.
Suddenly, there was a knock at the kitchen door. I sighed, wiping my hands on my apron. I opened the door and saw Meneer standing before me. He seemed relaxed, and his eyes sparkled when he told me that Mevrouw was asleep. My stomach wound knots around itself. I remembered Heylwigis‘ stern words circling in my mind. More than my reputation, I remembered my mother, and how her infidelity had soured my opinion of her.
He made his way in, coming closer to me.
“Perhaps you should be with your wife,” I said with viper.
He recoiled.  Perhaps my words were too strong.
“She is not my wife.”
“Then she is your whore?”
He smiled playfully, “When Titus was but a babe. He is grown now, and like him, I have outgrown her.”
I stepped back and he followed me. I looked into his bronze eyes, calm and kind. His copper curls tumbled out of his hat like a painting. I shook my hand free from his, which I only now realized was in his grasp.
“Be that as it may,” I turned away, “I am no fool. You should not come here.”
“What is it that to mean?” He said as I turned my back.
“Is she not promised to you? Are you not to wed?” I asked, relaying what I had overheard Mevrouw say to Heylwigis, who had nodded politely, trying to disguise her insincerity.
“Wh- no,” he said firmly, “No I have not promised to wed her.”
I turned to face him. From the way his expression changed, I suppose I looked rather scornful. He moved closer to me, putting one rough hand on my cheek. I traced the wrinkles around his eyes, that spread to his cheeks when he smiled. His beard was roughed with grays. There was a certain charm to him. The way he smiled. The way his eyes sparkled with kindness. I felt him push a curl behind my ear.
“How I love this color,” he said, gentle as a whisper, “A mix of both russet and golden brown.”
I pulled away from him, my heart racing, “Not like this.”
He knew what I meant and lowered his hand.