settling on the bed cross-legged to eat the stale scones she'd saved from yesterday.
Her mind went round and round with Mr. Gerard. It was incredible. She must have dreamed it. She stretched out her bare legs, turning her toes this way and that. She thought she had rather pleasing ankles, trim and snow-white and refined. He would have seen them. She put her fingers over her mouth, flushing, and tucked her feet up under her gown with a bit more maidenly reserve.
Her hands were still all shaky with reaction, and the saucer rattled immoderately. She drew the curtains before she pulled the pins from her hair. The room took on colors as light filtered through the gay patchwork of scraps she'd brought home from the cutting room.
With jittery moves, she reached for her chemise and drawers, and found them still damp from her scrubbing the night before. After examining the grime at the knees, she bundled them up to launder at the bath and shrugged halfway out of the nightgown, too flustered to do things in proper order and put her petticoat on underneath first. She sat down with the gown rumpled around her waist. Her hair fell over her bare shoulders as she brushed it out with Miss Myrtle's silver brush, one hundred strokes on each side, trying to find some calm in the routine.
But her mind skipped around in a distractingly foolish way, not concentrating on the problems at hand at all. She absentmindedly coiled up her hair and pinned it before she put on anything, stepped into her calico skirt, and buttoned her blouse, trying to use Miss Myrtle's hand mirror to see if anyone could tell she hadn't a stitch on beneath it.
She put up her hair, after dropping the pins four separate times, and when she was ready, it was still over two hours before the bath would open. So she sat back down on her bed and pulled out her money box to refigure her accounts, although she knew perfectly plainly what her situation was.
She set the note and coins in piles, arranged in order of value, until the whole of her hoard lay on the bed: a single pound note, three shillings, and twenty pence, before subtracting this week's rent on the room and the sewing machine. Precisely eight shillings and tuppence with which to eat, bathe, and launder. Even if she found a position, she wouldn't have enough to carry her through until she was paid, especially if the employment agency arranged to have the premium taken out of her first month's wage.
There were still Miss Myrtle's silver-handled brush and mirror. But not yet. She was not going to part with them yet. She picked up the mirror lovingly, turning it over and over in her hand.
She stopped, and rotated it back half a turn, gazing down into the reflection.
With a stifled shriek, she dropped the mirror and sprang back on the bed against the wall, staring upward. In the early morning shadow of the peaked ceiling, he lay along the attic beam like a panther, utterly still, watching her.
Leda began to breathe in choking gasps. He moved, pivoting down from the beam like smoke materializing into substance. With controlled grace, he lowered himself by his arms, dropping lightly to the floor on one leg.
"Waterfall," he reminded her incisively—and Leda closed her eyes and regulated her breath.
For a bare instant.
"You
villain
!" she screeched, when she'd got her breathing in hand. "You—you
voyeur
! What were you doing up there? In my
room
! You were
watching
me! And I was—oh, my
God
, I was—"
The horrible realization of what he must have seen put her out of wind again; she had to pause and discipline her inhalation, which showed an alarming tendency to outpace the capacity of her lungs. She grabbed up the brush and threw it at him. He barely shifted, avoiding it, and Leda scrambled for the poker on the floor.
"Brute!" she cried. "You contemptible
wretch
! Get out of here!" She swung the poker at him wildly; it whizzed past his nose and she swung again, but he only altered his stance, not giving up
Her mind went round and round with Mr. Gerard. It was incredible. She must have dreamed it. She stretched out her bare legs, turning her toes this way and that. She thought she had rather pleasing ankles, trim and snow-white and refined. He would have seen them. She put her fingers over her mouth, flushing, and tucked her feet up under her gown with a bit more maidenly reserve.
Her hands were still all shaky with reaction, and the saucer rattled immoderately. She drew the curtains before she pulled the pins from her hair. The room took on colors as light filtered through the gay patchwork of scraps she'd brought home from the cutting room.
With jittery moves, she reached for her chemise and drawers, and found them still damp from her scrubbing the night before. After examining the grime at the knees, she bundled them up to launder at the bath and shrugged halfway out of the nightgown, too flustered to do things in proper order and put her petticoat on underneath first. She sat down with the gown rumpled around her waist. Her hair fell over her bare shoulders as she brushed it out with Miss Myrtle's silver brush, one hundred strokes on each side, trying to find some calm in the routine.
But her mind skipped around in a distractingly foolish way, not concentrating on the problems at hand at all. She absentmindedly coiled up her hair and pinned it before she put on anything, stepped into her calico skirt, and buttoned her blouse, trying to use Miss Myrtle's hand mirror to see if anyone could tell she hadn't a stitch on beneath it.
She put up her hair, after dropping the pins four separate times, and when she was ready, it was still over two hours before the bath would open. So she sat back down on her bed and pulled out her money box to refigure her accounts, although she knew perfectly plainly what her situation was.
She set the note and coins in piles, arranged in order of value, until the whole of her hoard lay on the bed: a single pound note, three shillings, and twenty pence, before subtracting this week's rent on the room and the sewing machine. Precisely eight shillings and tuppence with which to eat, bathe, and launder. Even if she found a position, she wouldn't have enough to carry her through until she was paid, especially if the employment agency arranged to have the premium taken out of her first month's wage.
There were still Miss Myrtle's silver-handled brush and mirror. But not yet. She was not going to part with them yet. She picked up the mirror lovingly, turning it over and over in her hand.
She stopped, and rotated it back half a turn, gazing down into the reflection.
With a stifled shriek, she dropped the mirror and sprang back on the bed against the wall, staring upward. In the early morning shadow of the peaked ceiling, he lay along the attic beam like a panther, utterly still, watching her.
Leda began to breathe in choking gasps. He moved, pivoting down from the beam like smoke materializing into substance. With controlled grace, he lowered himself by his arms, dropping lightly to the floor on one leg.
"Waterfall," he reminded her incisively—and Leda closed her eyes and regulated her breath.
For a bare instant.
"You
villain
!" she screeched, when she'd got her breathing in hand. "You—you
voyeur
! What were you doing up there? In my
room
! You were
watching
me! And I was—oh, my
God
, I was—"
The horrible realization of what he must have seen put her out of wind again; she had to pause and discipline her inhalation, which showed an alarming tendency to outpace the capacity of her lungs. She grabbed up the brush and threw it at him. He barely shifted, avoiding it, and Leda scrambled for the poker on the floor.
"Brute!" she cried. "You contemptible
wretch
! Get out of here!" She swung the poker at him wildly; it whizzed past his nose and she swung again, but he only altered his stance, not giving up
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