A Noble Marriage - Chapter 68

Chapter 68 – Little Guy (2)

“Has anyone visited us?” The young man was holding a handkerchief and wiping his black hair, his thin lips pressed tightly after asking the sentence above, his eyes roamed the shop as if he was wary of others seeing more of him.

“After you left, the Duchess sent her maid over to ask. I told her that I could take it for her tomorrow, as you had instructed. After that, there were no more guests, except for this little guy.” Prokhov’s report was delivered in a serious tone, but when he introduced Anna, now named as Pavel, there was a hint of a laugh in his voice.

“Little guy, this place is not for you.” Mr. Goldman said softly, putting the handkerchief back in his pocket.

“I’m seventeen years old, sir, I’m not a little guy.” Anna said, trying to assert himself as a young man to be respected. She added in an eager tone, “Dear Mr. Goldman, I want to learn from you, and I want to be a tailor.”

Mr. Goldman had always been blunt and snob. At this moment, after listening to Anna’s words, he did not even turn his head to spare her a glance. However, at the sincerity at Anna’s carefully altered voice, he looked at her with squinted eyes.

“I don’t accept apprentices.” He said lightly, like an elegant Persian cat, looking arrogant, but not at all offensive.

Prokhov looked at the owner of his shop with surprise. When he wanted to be an apprentice, this gentleman was painfully sarcastic to him. Mr. Goldman was being nice to the little guy, he thought.

Anna thought for a while, and asked, “Then I’ll do some miscellaneous work for you, for free.”

The rain still slammed hard on the ground. The green-eyed Mr. Goldman pointed his finger to the backyard, “Then move all the boxes over there.”

Anna looked at what the other party was pointing, she felt a little numb. Prokhov wanted to say something, but Mr. Goldman raised his eyes and glared at him. In the end, he could only shut up.

*

“Okay,” Anna said. She’d wanted to roll her sleeves up and try and cheer herself, but she didn’t. She simply ran to the pile of crates and took half an hour to move everything inside.

“Alright, sir,” she said once her task had been completed, “It’s done,” she paused to wipe a bit of sweat off her face.

Mr. Goldman hummed in response, bent down, rummaged through a carton, and took something out. “Now move them back,” he said carelessly.

Anna stopped herself before she could blurt out, ‘What!’ She couldn’t deny she was shocked, so shocked she could feel it in her heart. She looked at Mr. Goldman and he stared back at her. She didn’t see anything playful in his expression.

Helplessly, she turned to Mr Prokhov, who hurriedly lowered his head when she looked at him, pretending to read a book but not really seeing a single word.

Prokhov didn’t understand. He knew his boss was a complete hypocrite. Mr. Goldman never wasted time on people he didn’t like or who had no money.

Despite her anger, Anna moved everything again. It took another 40 minutes of panting and heaving but eventually she said, “Sir, it’s moved,” it took all her control to keep the rage out her voice.

Mr. Goldman looked her in the eye and said, “Come here at six tomorrow morning. Another batch of cloth will need to be sorted.”

“Okay,” Anna said, holding back a sob.

“Then go,” Mr. Goldman said, gesturing her away. “I don’t need you today.”

Anna opened her mouth and stood for a moment, not knowing what to say. Mr. Goldman looked back at her impatiently, clearly wondering why she was still here.

She took a deep breath and whispered, “You can call me Pavel, sir. See you tomorrow,” she noted that Mr. Goldman seemed surprised, and he nodded. Then she turned to the barrel, picked up her umbrella and left.

*

After she’d left, conversation started in the small tailor shop. It was Prokhov who spoke first.

“Why do you want to embarrass the child?” Prokhov said, feeling sorry for Anna.

“Child?” Mr. Goldman said coldly. “Even though you are old, not everyone should be treated as a child, Prokhov,” he stared at the other man, the dark of his pupil so intent it often made others shudder. “I told you he was not young,” he said in a soft, lowered voice. The way he spoke the last sentence sounded like a hiss, as if the tip of his tongue had touched his teeth.

Prokhov shuddered and touched his arm saying, “You won’t accept him anyway, so just ignore him,” then his voice dropped to a mumble and he said, “I’m not that old, I’m only twenty-three.”

“Then don’t give others such strange looks.” Mr. Goldman said in a grave tone one would think he was not jesting.

“I’m not a pervert,” Prokhov said awkwardly.

“I refuse to believe it until you get out here,” Mr. Goldman said. He picked up the books and walked briskly to the backyard, his entire persona was cold and irritable.