The morning sunlight filtered softly through my window, casting gentle rays across my room. I stretched and took a deep breath, feeling a mix of excitement and apprehension about the day ahead. It had been a few days since I settled into Mr. Beaumont’s mansion, and I was still trying to break the wall in our relationship.
After breakfast, I made my way to the sitting room, where Mr. Beaumont often spent his mornings. I knocked lightly on the door before stepping inside. He was seated in his usual armchair, gazing out the window with an expression that seemed lost in thought.
“Good morning, Mr. Beaumont,” I greeted, attempting to infuse warmth into my voice.
He turned his head slightly but didn’t meet my gaze. “Morning,” he replied flatly, his tone neutral.
I stood there for a moment, waiting for him to invite me further into the conversation, but the silence stretched awkwardly between us. I cleared my throat, trying to find a way to bridge the gap. “I thought I could make us some tea. Would you like that?”
He shrugged, his indifference apparent. “I suppose.”
I nodded, determined to make the effort. I moved to the small kitchenette and prepared a pot of tea, hoping that the familiar ritual would ease the tension. As I poured the steaming liquid into two cups, I couldn’t shake the feeling of isolation that hung in the air.
Returning to the sitting room, I offered him a cup. “Here you go,” I said, trying to keep my tone light.
He took the cup but didn’t express any gratitude. Instead, he examined the contents with a raised eyebrow. “You made this?” he asked, skepticism creeping into his voice.
“Yes, I thought it might be nice to share a moment together,” I replied, forcing a smile despite the sting of his indifference.
“Right,” he said, taking a sip but not elaborating further. I settled into the chair across from him, glancing around the room, searching for a topic to discuss.
“Have you always lived in this mansion?” I asked, hoping to spark a conversation.
His gaze remained fixed on the window. “It’s been my home for a long time,” he answered, the weight of his words heavy with unspoken memories.
I tried to probe deeper. “What do you love most about it?”
He finally turned to face me, his expression unreadable. “Love? It’s just a house. A shell. It doesn’t hold any feelings.”
His response stung, and I felt the chill of his indifference seeping into my bones. I wanted to push back, to remind him that a home is more than just walls and furniture, but I hesitated, unsure if I should challenge him.
Instead, I took a sip of my tea, trying to regain my composure. “Well, I think it has a lot of character,” I said softly. “There are so many beautiful things here.”
He scoffed slightly. “Beauty is subjective.”
I bit my lip, feeling the weight of his words. It was clear that he was not only indifferent but also protective of his emotions. “What about the garden? It’s lovely,” I offered, hoping to find some common ground.
“Gardens need care. I don’t have the energy for it anymore,” he replied curtly.
The conversation felt like running into a wall. I took a deep breath, reminding myself that building rapport with him would take time. Perhaps I could find ways to engage him without pushing too hard.
“Maybe I could help with the garden,” I suggested, trying to sound enthusiastic.
He glanced at me, a flicker of surprise crossing his features before he returned to his placid demeanor. “That’s not necessary.”
I nodded, feeling a sense of defeat but unwilling to give up. “Alright. But if you change your mind, I’d love to help.”
The silence that followed was heavy, and I could feel the tension thickening in the room. I focused on my tea, hoping to calm my racing thoughts. I started to wonder if I was simply wasting my efforts, I needed him to warm up to me so I could atleast break the news of my pregnancy to him.
For all I knew the idea of having an unmarried young lady with a child could be unpleasant to him, but he doesn’t seem to want to break the ice anytime soon.
After a long, uncomfortable pause, I decided to change the subject. “Do you have any hobbies, Mr. Beaumont? Anything you enjoy doing?”
He looked at me, his eyes narrowing slightly as if trying to gauge my sincerity. “I used to enjoy reading,” he said finally, his voice quieter now.
“Really? What do you like to read?” I asked, eager to keep the conversation flowing.
“Novels. Classics,” he replied, his tone softening just a fraction.
“That’s wonderful! I love classics too. Do you have a favorite?” I pressed, encouraged by the slight shift in his mood.
“Les Miserables,” he said after a moment of thought, a hint of nostalgia in his voice.
“Such a powerful story! Victor Hugo really captures the struggle of humanity, doesn’t he?” I replied, heartened by his engagement.
Mr. Beaumont nodded, and I could see the faintest trace of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Yes, it does. It’s a reflection of life.”
The conversation began to flow more easily, and I felt a surge of hope. Perhaps I was breaking through the layers of indifference, even if just a little.
As we continued to talk about literature, I could sense the barriers around him starting to soften. I cherished those moments when he seemed to let his guard down, even if only for a short while.
Later that day, I found myself in the kitchen preparing dinner. The aroma of simmering vegetables filled the air, and I felt a sense of accomplishment as I cooked. I wanted to create a warm environment for Mr. Beaumont, hoping to spark more connection between us.
When I set the table, I couldn’t help but feel nervous about how he would react to the meal. What if he didn’t like it? I took a deep breath, reminding myself that I was doing my best.
As we sat down to eat, I served the food and watched as he took a bite. “It’s decent,” he said with a hint of surprise in his voice.
“Just decent?” I teased, unable to hide my smile.
He met my gaze, a flicker of amusement dancing in his eyes. “More than I expected.”
We shared a light laugh, and for the first time, the atmosphere felt less strained. I realized that every small moment of connection mattered, and I was determined to keep building on them.
After dinner, I suggested we read together after cleaning up. “It might be nice to read a chapter from your favorite book,” I offered.
He considered my suggestion, and to my surprise, he nodded. “Alright. I’ll fetch it.”
As he left the room, I felt a wave of excitement wash over me. Perhaps this was the turning point I had been hoping for. I was beginning to see glimpses of the man he used to be, and I was determined to help him rediscover that joy.
With every passing day, I was learning that even the heaviest indifference could be softened with patience and understanding. And with each small victory, I felt more connected to Mr. Beaumont.
Maybe, just maybe he’ll come to accept me, not just me but my child aswell.