The sun came out from the shadows of the oaks of Manor North. A faint breeze, carrying with it a hint of saltiness from the harbor nearby before being neutralized by the lines of yellow tulips that ran along the pathway from the entrances to the main gate. Below, white columns of smoke arose from the cafes and the fisherman boats, only to disappear into the clear blue sky. The sound of locks being open and doorknobs being twisted, leather boots fall and canes pressed firmly on the cobblestone on the other side of the walls, following by the greetings from the gentlemen's and their hat tips as they making their ways to the only cafe in town. The heave and ho from the fishermen and their broad smiles with filled pockets joined by the women and children as a line is started to form before the processed factory. For the rent is high and lives are miserable, all hands will be needed. 

Letting himself to rest under the shade of a pine tree, Victor allowed himself to catch a breath before getting back inside the manor. It is true that the sight outside these walls is spectacular when seeing up here. The dock, the houses, even the factories seem like matches boxes when gazing from such distance. How troublesome those people must be, he included, in their struggle to live. It used to bewilder him when he first came here, how small and insignificant human can be on a grand scale of things. Seeing the sight unfolded itself before him. Seeing how… beneath the creepy layer of Manor North laid a mismatch beauty and complexity. Seeing his nation’s glory and might. But, just like Uncle John put it, “you’ll grow old with it.” 

Although thirteen years of work had made him jaded to such beauty, it had not taken his sense of pleasure and appreciation for his own work. Feeling the warmth of the sun; enjoying a cup of tea while smelling the white lilies; seeing the garden’s pathway turn to white during summer; reading a good book inside the greenhouse, welcomed by the orchids imported from Singapore and the hydrangea that will always bloom despite the seasons. The Spanish bluebells would dot the background of the manor during the early spring rains. And when all trees died and wither away as fall came, the Bougainville he had prepared all years long would bloom like resilient flames against the icy death. But the most spectacular of them all happened in winter. When the wind howled and the sea blackened, tread the manor’s ground and you’ll see your feet are in a sea of snow that is the height of your toes. Cyclamen. Pansies. Hellebores. Snowdrops. All sort of flower bloomed in the season you thought plants die.

Remarkable, isn't it?

But currently, he is hungry. He had woken up for 3 hours. He had worked for two hours. Timothy should have been helping him since six. Yet, here he is, all alone and doing half the boy’s pay. 

Pulling out a pocket watch from his pocket, Victor checked to see if Miss Leva had awoken yet. Usually, the lady would wake up earlier, sitting somewhere in the kitchen with today’s newspaper on her hands. A cup of tea, or coffee for some grumpy day she had, would sit beside her while the kitchen would waft with whatever she prepared. Victor adored her cooking. Somehow, scramble eggs, a meal that he had grown sick off during his serving time, just taste like something wonderful in her hands. 

But still, reminiscing is for the latter.  There are still works to be done, things to be taught (if Timothy ever decided to show up early), and more flowers to prepare. If he is not mistaken, the Lord’s sister would like the lavender to be more … light. Less gloomy, he presumed. Maybe a shift in the flower’s color tone? A little sunlight should the trick. But still, all of that is after today’s breakfast. 
  [hr]
Just as he was readied to open the door that leads to the kitchen, the sound of something shrill and obviously furious reached Victor’s ears.  Having served in this manor for more than a decade, Victor calmly stepped aside from the door and placing his right hand over his heart. His head lowered, no need to face the lion when it is challenged. The gauntlets, which is probably now stench with the smell of fresh grass and moisture dirt, are left outside. Boots were put back inside the shed. Overall, there were not that much to be left criticized by whoever is running rampage on the other side of the door. And indeed he was left alone as Lady Northam making her exit from the kitchen. Her head was probably so high that she sees the ceiling above her than taken notice the gardener beside her. Even worse, the lady failed to notice the bread crumbs on her gloves. Pity her. 
 
Without much thought to the brief encounter with the Lady of the House, Victor entered the kitchen with the hope of his belly being satisfied. But no food. Not even a waft of smell. There was no tea, no coffee, no milk either. All that there is is a pot in the sink, Mary, a piece of unfinished bread, and bread crumbs all over the floor. 

“So, no breakfast?” Victor asked, hoping that Mary would said that Miss Lara is just late or something. He is hungry. And he would rather to not eat what he can cook by himself. 

Interacting with [@AtomicNut]