The Professor And The Housemaid

The Professor and the Housemaid

Stepping over that threshold felt like stepping into another world, the day I met Professor Brooks. He lived in a house that could easily be mistaken for a museum. The furniture looked over a hundred years old, the rugs were all intricate Oriental patterns, and relics or stacks of books covered nearly all surfaces. A not-unpleasant aroma of dusty vanilla filled every room. Only the kitchen had any sense of modernity at all, but behind the stainless steel appliances, each window opened to timeless green gardens instead of sprawling concrete suburbia.

During my tour, the professor would excitedly tell me the stories behind various curiosities and treasures. Here was a painting that once hung in a French castle, and there was a replica of a war horn the Celts used in battle. He actually played it for me, without any prompting on my part, and it was the most bone-chilling call I'd heard in my life.

"Imagine hearing that in a foggy, overgrown forest in the dead of night, Megan!" he said. Then he put away the horn and looked at me in some surprise, as though he'd forgotten the original intent of the tour was not to teach me history as normally did at the local university. "Tell me about yourself. What fascinates you?"

At the moment, it was him, honestly. He was so passionate about history that I began to guess he was teaching at the university purely for his own enjoyment. But I answered with the usual sorts of things. "I love knitting. I've been making my own patterns to sell and also selling some of my creations, but unfortunately it's not really making ends meet. And my landlord just increased the rent..."

I said too much. I didn't mean to pull out the pity card, but there it was all the same. My eyes took in the elegant carpet I stood on now.

Professor Brooks let me get away with my social awkwardness scot-free. "You love to knit. That's wonderful. People have been knitting since about the twelfth century. Did you know that?"

"I didn't, sir."

He smiled, maybe at my title for him, or maybe because he was about to go off on a new diatribe about the history of fabric arts. "You know, historically, the Mediterranean-" he stopped himself mid-sentence. "Sorry. I'm sure you've got other interviews to attend."

I nodded, hoping to appear very sought-after and employable, which I was not. There were no other interviews.

"Well, what do you think about the job?"

"You have such a beautiful home, Professor Brooks," I said. "I'm just a bit confused about the full responsibilities of the job."

"I see. Yes, so, I'm struggling to keep up with everything now at my age. I turned fifty last week, and hiring some help is my little birthday gift to myself. I'd like you to clean, do the laundry, cook, and generally make it so my workday ends once I leave my office at the university. Back in Victorian times, this job title would have been called housemaid... I didn't think that word would look quite right in print these days."

It made sense now. He'd called the job 'live-in domestic helper' in the advertisement, which was posted only in the local newspaper and on the bulletin board in the grocery store. Professor Brooks had no modern sensibilities at all. I hadn't seen a single piece of twenty-first century technology since I arrived, and now assume whatever laptop or cell phone his job insisted upon had been left neglected in his office.

"So... are you still interested?" he asked.

I asked for a moment to think it over. The job was enticing, as much work as it was. The bedroom and bathroom he offered me looked like they belonged in a five star hotel. One from the 1920's, but still. All my meals and general needs, like toiletries and the like, would be provided separately from my paycheque. And the paycheque itself! No other offer in my four months of job hunting even came close.

Another aspect of this unusual job intrigued me, though it embarrassed me greatly. The position of housemaid was just about the most subservient position I could imagine. And that was always something that struck my fancy. The idea of waiting hand and foot on Professor Brooks - with his dignified salt and pepper hair and his kind blue eyes and the way he looked so dashing in a suit - it made me a little weak in the knees. The fourteen year age gap between us, plus his tenured career teaching at the university, only further cemented his natural and gentle authority over me.

I immediately wanted to please him, hoping to see him smile, and admittedly, testing if he was up for any fun at all. Anyway, he seemed like the kind of man who had constant fanciful thoughts of travelling back in time, so why not make me, his birthday gift, truly special?

So I asked him, "Will there be a uniform, sir?"

His eyes rounded for a flash. Surprise? Interest? I wasn't sure, but he recovered quickly. "Hmm?" he double-checked.

"I imagine housemaids in Victorian times had a uniform of some kind, and I take it you're the kind of person who prefers things to be historically accurate. Also, I think I'd look out of place here in leggings."

"Ah yes, they would have certainly worn a uniform at that time. Well, ahh-"

Professor Brooks kept the rest of his hemming and hawing to himself, going silent for a good minute. Then, to my relief and joy, he told me that it could certainly be arranged.

"I suppose, come to think of it, that it would be rather delightful indeed for you to look the part!"

So he was open to a little bit of fun. Maybe agreeing to the job directly after that was too vulnerable or even flirty. But when I'm nervous, I'm not always the most socially skilled. "I'd like the job, sir! And I wear a size medium, just so you know."

He dabbed a pocket handkerchief against his forehead. I devilishly hoped I played some role in that, though the unusually warm April afternoon surely took the majority of the credit. "Excellent news, Megan. I'm so glad to hear it. Well, when can you start?"

***

During the two weeks I needed to prepare for the move, I had researched my new job to some degree. All Victorian domestic servants were expected to be quiet, obedient, and respectful. Fortunately for me, this was almost exactly the same as the way I daydreamed about in my little submissive fantasies. It was thrilling, if not a little naughty perhaps.

On my first day, I was immediately presented with my uniform. It was a modest white pinafore apron over a deep blue knee-length dress, and felt surprisingly silky and comfortable. I showed it off to Professor Brooks and spun around once so he could see even the pretty bow tied at the back.

"You look so-" he stopped himself and changed course. "Well there's a few more uniforms like in the wardrobe. But I regret to tell you this isn't perfectly accurate. Normally the dress would be even longer, and black, but it's certainly difficult to find Victorian era clothing these days. But it's close enough, and suits you so well!"

"Thank you, sir." Victorian servants were meant to keep their words short and sweet, so I did.

"Very good," he said, rather aristocratically.

I bowed my head once in a respectful sort of nod, keeping in mind to stay politely quiet unless directly spoken to. I was playing a role. He was playing a role. I hope he was as pleased about it as I was.

"Well, then. Let me show you the ropes!"

The first part of this involved him explaining in depth where that expression came from. Sailors training new recruits, as it turned out. There were a whole lot of ropes on ships. Once he got that impromptu history lesson out of his system, he showed me a schedule he'd created, along with a separate sheet of expectations. It was something like a syllabus for domestic work, and appeared to be typed out on the typewriter that sat in his study.

Professor Brooks was doing his best to be a gentleman. None of my new responsibilities would raise any eyebrows, as much as I wished otherwise. Or perhaps I didn't. His respect for me was part of his allure. He was a safe person; a trustworthy man. I've never been one for scoundrels. The kind of relationship I wanted most featured a deep, full trust, first and foremost. So his professional courtesy only made him more desirable to me.

He was patient, too, giving me plenty of time to get comfortable in my new position. This was a good and necessary thing. There was a learning curve to Professor Brooks and his unique needs. The historical artifacts and replicas had to be cleaned with gloved hands, for instance. And I was to be very careful about the books. It seemed chaotic to me, but he would get distressed when he couldn't find a book in one of the little piles adorning most surfaces, often including the floor. To top it all off, he needed total silence more often than not, especially in the hours after dinner and before bed. That was when he would read and research in the study.

Once I figured out the best routine for handling all the cleaning, laundry, and cooking, the job could become tedious at times. A cleaner mind might have filled the vapid task of mopping or dusting with deeper thoughts, or at least little daydreams. I, however, kept playing a sort of mental game with myself. I would imagine it was truly Victorian times and I was a mere helpless servant girl. In my mind, I was a very hard-done-by young lady. Sometimes I even scrubbed the floor on my hands and knees, forgoing the mop, just because it seemed more in character.

In truth, I felt freer than I had in ages. There was no WiFi here, no television sets, and none of the hassles of modern life. In the last days of May, my cell phone lost all its battery and I hadn't even noticed until I went to call my mother for our weekly chat. My life now was simple and safe and the numerous social burdens of modern life floated away. More often than not I used my day off to knit, read, and explore the paths through the nearby woods.

All I had to do was attend to Professor Brooks, and it was my pleasure to do so anyway. I studied him the way he studied history. I learned his habits and needs and wants. His main frustration was usually his students looking at their phones instead of listening. So I made sure to hang on his every word, which was simple enough. Most of what he said was quite interesting. As for his wants... I soon began to suspect he was the yang to my yin.

More than once I caught him watching me when I cleaned the room he occupied, and I wondered if he was playing a sort of game in his own head. Was he imagining that it was the second half of the eighteenth century as well? He was the rich landowner and I was the peasant he graciously employed? I couldn't help but assume it excited him to have an obedient housemaid all his own.

In my sixth week, I think he tested me in this regard. The professor asked me to do something that wasn't in the list of expectations, just to see if I'd obey, I suspect. "Megan, please go fetch me some iced lemonade from the fridge."

Intending to pass this test with flying colours, I lowered my gaze but kept a slight grin on my lips, showing him my willing deference. "Yes, sir." Then I hurried to the kitchen immediately and returned only a minute later.

Professor Brooks was pleased enough to smile at the way I presented his icy glass, sweating against the heat of early June.

"Will that be all, sir?"

"That'll be all," he said. "Thank you, Megan. You're a good girl."

I could have just about died the way he said that, calling me a good girl. It didn't feel childish, or even as if he was remarking on my thirty-six years compared to his fifty. The wording choice came across as sweetly authoritative. Female servants were often referred to as 'girls' back in those days, regardless of age.

It meant even more to me that he called me good. I was doing well here, then, just as I'd hoped. I was being obedient enough, and polite enough and quiet enough. Submissive enough. There was this urge welling up in my heart to only prove myself further. He could ask me to change the weather and I think I'd try.

We were at dinner some days later when he seemed to become a lot more talkative than usual. We always ate at the same table, which was historically inaccurate, he told me more than once. But it was a lot less lonely, with just the two of us. Tonight we were having a special meal at his request. It was a type of beef and potato stew often eaten in the era in which we both pretended to live.

"My goodness, you've outdone yourself, Megan. You've really outdone yourself tonight. It's like going back in time. You've perfectly recreated this dish."

I felt my cheeks going pink at his compliment. "Thank you, sir. I just followed the instructions given to me."

"Not everyone follows instructions as well as you. Trust me, Megan. I teach eighteen to twenty-two-year-olds. I can barely get essays double-spaced."

The stew seemed to really put him in a good mood. It may have been another test that I passed, following such strange directions to the letter. The spices had to be tied up in cheese cloth, for example. Twice I had to look up archaic words in the large Oxford dictionary that boasted its own podium in the professor's study. (My cell phone had once again died of neglect.)

"Have you knit anything new lately?" he asked. This was a common topic, as he was keen to check up on my passions, as he called them.

"I've been working on a lovely pair of socks," I said. He nodded and asked to see them sometime. "Is it alright to ask what projects you've been working on lately, sir?"

"Yes, of course. Of course. I don't wish to bore you with it, though."

"I won't be bored."

"No? Oh! Have you a budding interest in history?"

"Yes, sir. More and more lately." I offered him a little grin, but kept it respectfully shy.

"Is that so? Well, lately, with all my extra free time in summer, I've been reading some historical fiction. Just for fun, really. Would you enjoy joining me in that?"

"Reading with you? I'd love that! I'm sure you've got wonderful taste in books."

"And you as well, I'm sure. Let's try a book a week. One week you pick, one week I pick."

"Can we start tonight, sir?"

I couldn't wait to see what he'd pick out. A person's choice in books were often the quickest way to knowing their heart and soul.

"We'll start tonight!" he decided, and pat the back of my hand softly before focusing all his attention back on the beef stew.

It became a new way to spend time together, and though it seemed that reading was a very solitary activity, it truly brought us closer. It was just us two in our own little bookclub. I soon became not only his housemaid, but his companion, of a sort. We could talk for hours sometimes, especially when the book had some mysteries alongside the historical elements.

Some books were straight from history itself. By the middle of July, the professor had chosen Jane Eyre for the weekly read. It was the life story of a servant girl, though her master, Rochester, was quite a bit more cantankerous than Professor Brooks. The novel departed from all the rest in that this was a love story by the end. Our discussion over it began with the both of us being a little reticent and demure. There were some nervous laughs and blushes.

"I didn't expect to like it as much as I did," I said. Was it because it was so easy to relate to Jane now? Though I doubted Jane enjoyed her servitude quite as much as I did.

"This is the third time I've read it," he said.

"So one of your favourites, I take it?"

"Yes," he said. "It's... a great tale of courage."

"And love," I added.

"Love can be courageous," he said softly. Then he cleared his throat and said it was rather hot. "I only wish the ceiling fans worked as well as you, Megan. Would you like to take a walk as we continue our discussion?"

That became the first of many walks that summer. We didn't even always talk about books. Sometimes he spoke of himself, and his past. He had a harder life than I imagined, seeing his wealth and admirable career. Professor Brooks lost both his parents young, and was sent to live with various relatives for a year or two at a time. He found his solace and peace in learning. I wondered if he liked history so much because it never changed.

I let him know of my own childhood. It wasn't idyllic other than by comparison to the professor's. I struggled in school with a couple of bullies, and my parents were too busy working to notice anything other than my mistakes. They had no time for either reward or discipline, yet it didn't equal out in the end. I was barely into my adult years when I learned I craved both from a boyfriend or husband. Perhaps this desire was unhealthy, but it was beyond the point of repair now. It was in me and I needed it - and what difference would it make if two adults consented?

Professor Brooks was the closest I've ever come to my fantasies coming true. He not only accepted my submission, but praised it with kind words and sometimes a gentle pat to the head or hand. It was more than that, though, as he also spoke to me like a friend - especially during our nighttime strolls through the upscale neighbourhood.

By early August, we'd had seven official meetings of the bookclub and four times as many walks. It became our habit to wander the sidewalks after dark with the crickets singing and the gentle cool breezes invigorating us both.

Usually no one took notice of my unusual uniform at this hour, but that would soon change. A man who swayed more than he walked had quite a lot to say about me and my outfit. I couldn't tell if he was complimenting me, rude and slurred as it was, or insulting me.

I could only react by stiffening up in fright, but the professor had it handled. I never heard him raise his voice until now. He shouted at the drunkard and told him in no uncertain terms it was reprehensible to speak to any lady in such a way. Then came a mess of a thrown punch that the professor easily ducked. The drunk took a face-first tumble onto the nearest lawn, all due to his own aggressive momentum.

It was like being bathed in warmth, what Professor Brooks did. He protected me, physically and emotionally alike. I still shook, as my nerves had some catching up to do. Professor Brooks had his hand on my back, and remarked on my state. That was when I put my hand out, hoping he'd take it in his. He did so immediately, and didn't let go until we were safely back inside. It felt like harm couldn't possibly reach me.

That night he came around to my bedroom, but not in the way one might think. It was a quarter to eleven and he peeked inside after knocking. "I know it's a bit silly," he said. "But I wanted to make sure you were alright after tonight."

"I'm alright now," I promised. "Thanks to you."

He grinned in relief. "Good. Good."

I don't know what came over me then. Maybe his courage earlier tonight ignited my own. "Professor Brooks?" I asked. "Was there ever a Mrs. Brooks?"

He studied the floor a moment before meeting my eyes again. "No, there wasn't. I focused on my career and passions so intently that I forgot about love until it was much too late."

"It's not too late," I said.

It seemed like something any friend might say to another to raise some spirits, but all that was left unsaid since May stuck to those four little words like glue. The professor cleared his throat. "Uh, don't forget to make a new bookclub selection. It's your turn."

"I'll pick out a good one. Goodnight, sir."

"Goodnight... goodnight, Megan."

I knew in my heart I had to make my book selection a doozy. It had to be so absolutely obvious where I hoped this relationship would go next. I looked down at the paperback peeking just barely out from its hiding place between the mattress and the box spring. This would do nicely.