Constance: The Maid
A large manor sits on the south side of town. Its mostly-empty halls behind mostly-unlocked doors are haunted—so you’ve been told—by mostly-benign specters. There is the capitalist, Duke, whose single-track life of exploitation and profiteering has left him with few friends. There is the late wife, Deidre, whose subtle, knowing gazes look down on you from all manner of simulacra—from oils and sculptures and tapestries. Portraits of Deidre line the walls and busts of Deidre’s sleek jaw, sultry stare, arching brows sit atop plinths in complete exclusion of all other imagery. You look in vain for a still-life, hanging pheasants, maybe a naval scene or two, but it’s Deidre, Deidre, Deidre.
Lastly there is the maid: Constance, who appears from the shadows like a ghost.
“Evening,” she says to me.
From around the room Deidre’s eyes and Deidre’s smile shine in every phase of the moon. There seems to be no corner from which you can shirk her moonlight.
“I’m afraid the master is out,” she apologizes, “if you have business you will need to return another time.”
It’s no matter, you say, you are simply trying to get a feel for the town and of the townspeople, who have been most accommodating, you mention off-hand.
“Well, if you are here for a visit, why, I am pleased to make your acquaintance, sir. My name is Constance, keeper of this house.”
It’s a fine and large house, you observe, and well kept by a heroic standard, an Odyssean effort, of that you are certain. Your compliment doesn’t seem to register in the corner of her eyes, or perhaps it was clumsily delivered.
“Indeed a large, fine house, sir,” she says, “I believe it has been in my master’s family for four generations. Any matter, as far back as the clerk could track.”
Your eyes flicker towards the nearest portrait.
“Yes, that’s Deidre. The master’s wife. Unfortunately she is no longer with us. She was a—” Constance pauses and draws out the term ‘kind’ with pinching hands, “a kind soul,” she finishes.
Kind? You say to Constance, and you do not presume to speak on authority in portraiture, only from the feelings that a well-rendered painting may draw out—and it is of course assumed that your feelings are personal, or particular to your experience—but of those feelings, kindness doesn’t seem to be among them.
“Perhaps I have stumbled around my meaning, beg your pardon. She was, in a word, ubiquitous. And any matter, in no other sense, we are less for her loss.”
