Anne sipped from her cup and embraced its warmth at the start of a new day in the James' residence. Since it was Boxing Day all the servants were enjoying a late start to their day with coffee and warm pastries from the local bakery. Anne was about to go in for a second treat when Gerrard walked in with the morning post and laid a letter on her plate. The hubbub around her seemed to lessen, suddenly, when she opened the letter and realized who it was from; the elegant penmanship alone was clue enough. Anne felt frozen to her chair as she read and reread the letter from Hazel Devreaux, her lover from days gone by.
My dearest Anne,
I do hope this note finds you well. It has been so long since last we spoke, that I regret my reason now for which I write. I feared you would see it in the newspaper first and never forgive me for not telling you myself. I am to be married this summer. He is of good stock and he is kind enough. I wish, more than anything, I could have told you face to face. One painful goodbye was enough for you, I am sure.
Please know that a part of my heart will always belong to you and my memories remain fond. I could not do as you wished, though, and remain unmarried. I couldn't survive without a husband's security...but you know this already.
The letter went on a little more after that, but Anne's vision began to blur. Quickly, she removed herself from the kitchen and walked, briskly, to her room. Once on the other side of the door, she slid down its profile and attempted to stifle the sob that fought to come out. Even though she was alone in there, her hands went up to cover the tears that had begun to fall. Anne had known when she left the Devreaux residence a year ago that her Hazel would one day wed. Still the harsh reality of it all was almost too much to bear. The thought that another, a man even, would get to touch Hazel's silky skin, rosy, plump breasts, and thick sable fur almost made her gag. Anne was desperate to remember their last time together, but alas much wine had been drunk since then to wash away those same memories. Even though her heart belonged to another now, there still remained a small part of her heart that ached for Hazel. "Why does she get to be happy," Anne thought bitterly to herself.
Wanting to be rid of these wretched feelings, Anne stuffed the letter under her pillow, splashed her face with cold water, and went straight to work. Knowing her lady, Em, would never tattle on her, Anne decided to avoid her this morning. Plus Anne enjoyed keeping Emilia guessing since it allowed her more control in their relationship. Instead she went into the dining hall to polish the silver since it was one of the more time-consuming chores. No matter how much she focused on a tough spot, though, her mind would inevitably to return to Hazel and her dreadful fiance. Deep down, Anne knew why they couldn't be together yet the fire burned in her still. All sense of rational had been lost for the day and it wasn't even noon. Occasionally a heavy sigh would come out of her as though she were forgetting to breath.
Around teatime she retreated outside for a cigarette where no one else would be. Leaning her head against a tree, Anne closed her eyes and allowed herself to, briefly, succumb to nostalgia's allure.
With each drag, Hazel's figure became more solidified in Anne's memory. The Devreaux garden had had a wooden swing that was their meeting place of choice. Hazel would always be there first, auburn tresses flowing behind her with each swing, though the sound of her girlish laughter would usually greet Anne first. Sometimes Hazel would jump off the swing, onto Anne, which sent them rolling toward the hedges. It was always easier to hide their trysts in the garden, though a bit thorny and cold at times. How she longed for one more chance to kiss Hazel everywhere and lap every bit of moisture off of her curvaceous frame. Anne recalled a time when she been so successful in eating her mistress, that Hazel sent a warm gush into the servant's mouth. "Sweet cream could never compete," Anne thought to herself.
