Post by Grace de Beaumont on Nov 14, 2009 15:28:21 GMT
"Hullo?"
Grace cautiously entered the dark and dingy shop, wondering if first, the place was even open, and second, if she'd accidentally wandered into a cave. The ceiling hung heavy with bundles of sorry-looking herbs, so old, dusty and cob-web covered, they looked like last year's weeds. Dilapidated wood crates crowded the floor, the bare hint of a path weaving between them back to a filth-covered counter. Grace barked her toes painfully against a large pottery crock sitting just to the side and she had to stifle back a yelp.
"Hullo?" she said again, a tad louder. Groaning of wood furniture sounded somewhere in the depths, and the large bulk of a man came into view. When he saw the common clothes and dirty face of the woman before him, the unshaven face scowled mightily.
"Wha'ya want?" he barked, his voice like steel dragged across gravel. "No begging in here..... off with ya!"
Grace hid a frown, wondering if she'd put on too much dirt that morning. "Tain't come a-beggin', sur," she slurred in a breathless, slightly scared voice, bobbing her head once or twice in submission. "Come about a job, I 'as. I work real cheap, sur.... sweep up, clean, know some abou' herbs and plants, I does." Her eyes traveled around the mess again, adding, "There's much I could be doin' here, sur, iff'n y'd just give me th' chance."
The man's skin suffused dark red with anger. "Are you implying, you impudent creature, that there's something wrong with my shop?!"
Pompous arse, Grace thought. This place is a pigsty, a disgrace. But she widened her eyes in mock horror. "Oh no, sur! Never tha'! Tis a fine place, sur, a fine place! Tis why I wish to work 'ere. Please sur..... I work very hard, I do anythin'!" Summoning a few tears, Graced added in a tremulous voice. "M' master, sur, he shall beat me if I don' get a job over th' winter. Winter's idlin' time for 'im, he had nuthin' for me t' do and he says I needs t' earn my keep. Please sur.... please?"
Eyes narrowing in interest, Grace could almost guess the train of his thought. A girl desperate for employment would take lower wages, and she looked just bedraggled enough to find even the most menial of tasks acceptable. If he were truthful with himself, he knew that his shop was going to hell in and hand-basket, the customers trickling away as the place declined. His harpy of a wife was screeching every day about the loss of funds.
Smearing greasy fingers across his stained tunic, the man guffawed and hrumphed a few times as if in thought. "Well.... I suppose I could find a thing or two for you to do. No one ever said I wasn't a charitable man. But I can't pay you much." The last came out in a growl, but Grace bobbed her head again in enthusiasm.
"Oh yes, sur! Not a problem sur..... you'll see, I'll work hard f' ya, sur!"
And that was how, a short time later, Lady Grace de Beaumont, last and only heir to the de Beaumont name and fortune, came to be a shop girl at Horace Bush's Apothecary Shop.
~fin
Grace cautiously entered the dark and dingy shop, wondering if first, the place was even open, and second, if she'd accidentally wandered into a cave. The ceiling hung heavy with bundles of sorry-looking herbs, so old, dusty and cob-web covered, they looked like last year's weeds. Dilapidated wood crates crowded the floor, the bare hint of a path weaving between them back to a filth-covered counter. Grace barked her toes painfully against a large pottery crock sitting just to the side and she had to stifle back a yelp.
"Hullo?" she said again, a tad louder. Groaning of wood furniture sounded somewhere in the depths, and the large bulk of a man came into view. When he saw the common clothes and dirty face of the woman before him, the unshaven face scowled mightily.
"Wha'ya want?" he barked, his voice like steel dragged across gravel. "No begging in here..... off with ya!"
Grace hid a frown, wondering if she'd put on too much dirt that morning. "Tain't come a-beggin', sur," she slurred in a breathless, slightly scared voice, bobbing her head once or twice in submission. "Come about a job, I 'as. I work real cheap, sur.... sweep up, clean, know some abou' herbs and plants, I does." Her eyes traveled around the mess again, adding, "There's much I could be doin' here, sur, iff'n y'd just give me th' chance."
The man's skin suffused dark red with anger. "Are you implying, you impudent creature, that there's something wrong with my shop?!"
Pompous arse, Grace thought. This place is a pigsty, a disgrace. But she widened her eyes in mock horror. "Oh no, sur! Never tha'! Tis a fine place, sur, a fine place! Tis why I wish to work 'ere. Please sur..... I work very hard, I do anythin'!" Summoning a few tears, Graced added in a tremulous voice. "M' master, sur, he shall beat me if I don' get a job over th' winter. Winter's idlin' time for 'im, he had nuthin' for me t' do and he says I needs t' earn my keep. Please sur.... please?"
Eyes narrowing in interest, Grace could almost guess the train of his thought. A girl desperate for employment would take lower wages, and she looked just bedraggled enough to find even the most menial of tasks acceptable. If he were truthful with himself, he knew that his shop was going to hell in and hand-basket, the customers trickling away as the place declined. His harpy of a wife was screeching every day about the loss of funds.
Smearing greasy fingers across his stained tunic, the man guffawed and hrumphed a few times as if in thought. "Well.... I suppose I could find a thing or two for you to do. No one ever said I wasn't a charitable man. But I can't pay you much." The last came out in a growl, but Grace bobbed her head again in enthusiasm.
"Oh yes, sur! Not a problem sur..... you'll see, I'll work hard f' ya, sur!"
And that was how, a short time later, Lady Grace de Beaumont, last and only heir to the de Beaumont name and fortune, came to be a shop girl at Horace Bush's Apothecary Shop.
~fin
