On Love

She married him when she was 27, having given up on any hope of finding a love of her own. He was kind and gentle and, above all else, the richest man ever to show an interest in her. She figured that if she couldn't have love, money was the next best thing. He wasn't even that old, only 30 years her senior. All this was before she met me.

How I wish he had brought her home first. How I wish I had been allowed to see her before their return from their honeymoon. If only he hadn't been so insistent, perhaps we would have found one another. But even then, would she have left all he could give her in order to be with me? Considering how I have to still the look in her eyes that says she contemplates doing that very thing even now, I think the answer must be yes.

How no one could have loved her before, I will never understand. She is the most beautiful, pure-hearted woman I have ever met. Of course, I am around fellow wait staff and the rich and snobby all day, but still. Her smile melts my heart, and thinking that she cannot be mine boils my blood.

I knew the moment I saw her that I would love her, even before I knew her name. At first I had hoped beyond hope that she was some secret, long-lost daughter; though I knew the master to be marrying a woman half his age, I could not but hope that this was not she. As I grew to knew her and saw the looks of hopeful despair she gave me, I hated her for a moment. I hated her for marrying him before we had a chance to meet. I hated her for meeting me at all. I too had all but given up on love, but at least I had not done something so foolish as marrying one I knew I could never love, only for his money.

But my anger lasted only briefly. Her husband was away often on business, and with me as the head tender of the house, we had many opportunities to speak. She was an artist of sorts, and I noticed how much more intense her paintings became as we spent time together. Before, she had been mediocre at best. As we talked and laughed and cried together, I saw the emotions come out in her work. We never confessed to our feelings for one another, at least not for the longest time. In word, we were only friends, for the longest time.

The day I saw the painting was when that changed. Not just another painting, THE painting. It was the most beautiful but tragic thing I had ever seen. She must not have realized I was standing there watching her strokes because when I said, "That's beautiful," she turned in surprise. Her brush stroke swept across the canvas, destroying a piece of the beauty I had been admiring. She burst into tears, but I could tell she was not angry at me. "It can never be beautiful," she sobbed. I could think of nothing to do but step forward and place my hand on her shoulder and whisper, "It has always been beautiful, and always will be." She knew I was no longer talking about her painting.

After that day, things got very awkward. It was more than just words we exchanged in that moment, but kisses as well. She had spun around and kissed me passionately, forgetting both her painting and her husband. After what seemed both forever and not nearly long enough, I pushed her away. Before I could think of what to say, she said it for me. "We can't do this."

And so it stood. "We can't do this." She was married. Legally bound to a man who ought to be her father. Who ought to be walking her down the aisle and giving her away to me. In another lifetime, in a more just world... What broke my heart was that I made her even sadder than she had ever been before. If she had been able to live her whole life truly believing it was the best life she could have, at least she could have been happy, but now she knew there was something better.

What could I do? I contemplated leaving, but she would still know I existed. I contemplated killing myself, but I feared she would only follow me into the darkness. I contemplated killing her husband, but I was too noble to steal her from him, yet alone to steal his life. The best idea I could come up with was to find some way to make him leave her, but why would he ever do that? She was perfect. And besides, I could never do that on my own; I would need her help, and separating her from her husband was the one thing I could never bring myself to discuss with her, either before or after our moment.

In time, we forced ourselves to forget our encounter, or at least to push it to the back of our minds. In time, we grew cordial again, went back to being friends. Her husband never even noticed, probably never even realized we were as friendly as we were. It would have been so easy to have a true affair, to embrace again, and do more. He would never know the difference, I suspected. The only fear was that another of the staff would tell him, but clearly no one had told him what had happened thus far, and I had my own private quarters, being head of the household keeping. We would be completely alone and no one would know.

It would be so easy, and yet it would be wrong. We both knew it. Both of us were duty bound. Both were honorable and true. The very values that held us together and drew us to one another were the only thing keeping us apart. Neither of us would ever truly love ourselves or the other if we gave up on those principals, but as long as we held to them, we could never truly love each other either.

So my best bet seemed to be to make her stop loving me. I still spoke to her, was friendly and kind, so that she would not realized anything was wrong, but I said little things that I knew she would not like, tiny things that I knew her well enough to see would get on her nerves. I also left many things unsaid. No matter how beautiful her paintings were, I never commented on them again.

I don't know if it worked, but she seems to have lost at least some interest. She no longer asks me the hard, deep questions, no longer wants to know more about my past or my family. She doesn't smile as brightly at me, though the smile is not completely lost. I see now that maybe I could find another, one who is not attached to someone, especially the man I serve.

I sometimes wish I served a less faithful and noble man. If he would just cheat on her it would be so easy. I have thought before of hiring a new maid, beautiful and young, just to tempt him. But we already have other attractive women in the house, though none as beautiful as she. Of course, if he weren't so faithful and good, she never would have consented to marry him and we still would never have met. Why couldn't she plan ahead, marry a scoundrel just in case she were still to meet the man of her dreams? Simple. As I said before, our values drew us together and our values keep us apart. She would not marry and I would not serve any less than the dutiful husband and man that prevents us from being together.

I've said all there is to say. My thoughts only run in circles now. She knows I love her, no matter how convincing my act may be, and I know she still loves me, no matter how convincing hers. The only thing to do is to suffer unless, perhaps by some miracle, fate may bring us together still. I lost faith before, as did she, but I refuse to give up entirely again. Will love find a way? I cannot say. All I can say on love is that if you haven't found it yet, don't settle for less. You never know what may happen, and if you settle, fate can be a cruel mistress.