It felt like spring was a long way off; the Fredrickson’s tudor mansion sat wrapped in cold, the snow of winter clinging as tightly to its edifice as a lady’s wrap. Bartholomew, whose whole adult life had been spent attending to some member of the Fredrickson family, was tired; he felt helpless under the weight of service. He’d just spent the first two weeks of the month directing the opening of the second floor bedrooms in preparation for Mistress Tatiana Fredrickson’s guests and when they’d arrived on Saturday each had taken to their cousin’s life of luxury like a moth to a flame. There were seven of them: four women and three men. For some reason Tatiana felt the hulk of guilt upon her heart regarding her less wealthy relations and she insisted on having them live in for two months each year. Bartholomew found Tatiana to be the least like her ancestors who’d lived in the house before her generation; they were all in the class of the super-wealthy, like the Rockefeller’s or Vanderbilt’s, yet Tatiana refused to live a life separate from the non-wealthy. She donated funds to the free clinic and gave large sums to local charities. Twice a year, she sponsored a cook-a-thon event for the homeless; the indigent of the village got to serve as both judges and diners at the event. She even volunteered with a women’s group that did work specifically related to the needs of recovering mothers and children; her subcommittee was responsible for doing the biennial poll and survey every other summer. These relatives however where here for whatever they could get, having no concern for Tatiana’s causes; Bartholomew skimmed the top of his carrot soup, listening to the cousins as they plied Tatiana with empty platitudes.
Written for Flash Fiction Chronicles. Today’s words are listed under March 1, but I think that might have been a wee typo 🙂