One:
Maybe it was the heat of the day, already warm in the undulated, triangular formations of sunlight across the hallway floor from the windows, or perhaps the feeling of contentment, or a mixture of both, that had Emilie hurrying down the staircase and out into the daylight of early noon. Pausing on the portico and resting her hands on the stone railing and taking in a large intake of breath was invigorating, she thought. Not only that, but intoxicating. The scent of freshly mown grass was like a scent straight from the heavens. The sky was a perfect, elliptical forget-me-not blue, with only a few traces of puffy-white clouds roiling sluggishly across the horizon. The large expanse of lawn before her was as lush and green as an old master’s oil painting, and the tall willows and cedars cast stark shadows at uneven intervals across the scene that meandered all the way to the edges of the house.
There was a reason why her father had bought this house when he had married her mother twenty-five years ago. This view was surely one of them, but, like most young couples embarking into life’s many notches of the unknown, the security of the house was another. The rectangular, two-storey Victorian-style home was strikingly solid and structured. Emilie’s mother had loved the interior, the spacious floorboards, the pretty floral wallpaper and the large glass windowpanes, but her father had loved the thick brimstone exteriors, the locks on the front and back doors and, probably most significantly, the privacy from neighbouring residences. With perhaps a play on each their own personalities, her father’s shyness and withdrawal from common society and pungent withheld reflection were simply parameters in a quest for a place of solitude and repress to raise a good family. In a family of five, Emilie was the middle child.
A sigh exuded from Emilie’s lips, another intake of the heavenly scent. From this place on the tiled portico with the large French doors opened behind her, hearing was inevitable yet it was her own hidden inquisitiveness that forced her to listen, or force of habit whether she believed she wanted to or not. She could hear everything from inside her home, let it be from well attuned ears from often standing here in gentle reflection or from the cavernous build of the house that caused sound to be magnified around the spacious halls like an auditorium, as foremost put, hearing was inevitable though nought intended. Listening closely, Emilie could hear Mary, the cook with a soft face and childish yet-scary-in-a-reprimand lisp, in the kitchen by the sink scouring something with unusual vexation and the slip-slop of the soapy water as items – maybe cutlery? – were tossed in. Confused, Emilie moved her mind upwards and somewhere, in the repeatable ticking of the grandfather clock on the landing and the creaking of the house as wood expanded in the summer heat, was her mother. She knew she was in her room, it was only moments ago that Emilie had seen her close her bedroom door with a book in her hand and that usually meant she would be out of sight for a few hours. The sound of the lawnmower brought her thoughts away from the upper-storey landing and back to the tiled portico. Emilie reflexively turned towards the approaching sound. It was from the left and saw their gardener and good family friend, George Mason pushing the machinery across the lawn.
It was then that Emilie saw her, and it was almost an impulse to travel across the path towards the lone figure. A mothering instinct, perhaps or nurturing spirit. She descended the three crumbling steps and followed the curving pebble-stone path towards the form lying splayed like on the lawn. Had she fainted? It was too far to tell from here but she was certain that the person had just moved. Martha lifted her head at the sound of her approach.
Okay, so I love the word "undulated"... it makes me happy.
I disagree with tRick- Storey is a totally acceptable way of spelling it, it's like colour or favourite- it's just British.
Are we supposed to know Martha? That part sort of confused me... (?)
