The boy's grey eyes cut into each of the girl's, watching their every move. There stood ten in a line, and he moved up and down the single file line, searching to see if his mother was right. She wasn't, of course. And he proved her wrong every time. It was her who sent him to survey a line of women every month, hoping her son would fall in love and finally get married, to secure their position within society, and potentially receive an heir for their fortune. But yet, nothing could convince her son.

Peter Owen sat at his mother's table in the garden, patiently waiting for her arrival. He twiddled his fingers in the meantime, eyeing the sweets placed on the table. Macarons, cookies, caramels. The maids did such a good job butting everything together, treating the Owen's as if they were royalty. But to be honest, they were second best... to only royalty that is. They were England's richest, having direct connections to true royalty, politicians, and famous people. Della Owen even knew a fairly famous opera singer.

The clouds started to accept their grey tinge as rain threatened to spill from the edges, a bucket full of water. Peter frowned. His mother was never this late. The soft rumble of thunder rolled across the sky, and the first few raindrops fell onto Peter's messy, chestnut hair.

          God where is that woman... he thought, getting up from his seat, sneakily grabbing one of the delicacies laid out on the table, for if they were going to get wet, they must be put to some use. It only made sense. 

          "Mr. Owen!" a mousy voice called out from behind him. He whipped around to see a girl, slightly shorter than he was, standing about ten feet away from him. 

          "Y-yes?" he queried looking down at the girl. She was maybe seventeen or eighteen, with strawberry blonde hair framing her diamond face. Pencil thin lips graced the bottom of her face, while large, blue eyes framed the upper half. She had quite a skinny frame, and her eyes, which were quite large, made her look like an infant, young and innocent.

          "Uhm. Your mother." she mumbled. "She's going to be a few minutes late." Peter laughed.

          "She's already late by ten minutes," he scoffed, looking the girl up and down. She seemed to be getting uncomfortable, so he averted his eyes away from her, focusing on the rosebush beside him, instead. He cleared his throat. They stood in silence for a minute or two, averting each other's eyes. Minutes passed before Peter's mother arrived, swiftly rushing in. 

          "That's all we'll need you for." she said coldly to the girl, attempting to mask her panting. The girl twiddled her thumbs.

          "Alright, Mrs. Della. Enjoy your evening." she mumbled, scurrying away.

          "Wait-" Peter called out to the young maid desperately. She hesitated where she was standing, mid-stride, before turning on her heel. She looked around frantically, biting her bottom lip, as if she was about to receive bad news.

          "Yes, sir?" she whispered, finally settling on her shoes to stare at.

          "What's your name?"

          "Sallow, sir."

          "First name. Not last."

          "I didn't think that would be of importance, sir."

          "Well, I'm asking you for it." She looked uncomfortably at the ground.

          "Amelia." she replied, brushing hair out her face, a giving a small, quirky smile. "Amelia Sallow, sir." Peter nodded. "Is there any reason you need to know?" Peter shook his head.

          "No, I just wanted to know the name of the girl in front of me, instead of referring to you as 'the girl' in my head." Amelia blushed, and started to turn away once more. "And-- you don't need to refer to me as 'sir'. Call me Peter."  

          "Sir-- I can't-- I work for you--" Peter glared at her playfully.

          "And you think I care?" Amelia giggled, wrapping her smooth hair around her face, shielding her eyes. From behind him, Peter's mother interrupted them with a cough, glaring deeply at Peter. 

          "Miss-- Sallow. You've wasted enough of our time," she scowled. "You may now leave. I must speak to my son." Peter glared back at her. He knew there was no use fighting with her. 

         "Thank you for your time, Amelia." Amelia's smile faded, realizing he wasn't going to come to her defense, and dipped into a graceful curtsey, dress splaying along the grassy field.

        "You as well, Peter." Her smile returned when she said the name. Walking back to the estate, one could notice a quick hop in her step, joy flowing through her veins. 

          "Why did you ask for her name." questioned Peter's mother, staring him down. He shrugged. "She's a maid Peter. I won't have my only son and heir to the Owen fortune run off with some- some- idiotic servant girl! I've introduced you to many fair and wealthy young ladies, yet the first one you decide to fall for is a maid. A maid, Peter! Do you realize how stupid that sounds?!" The young boy locked eyes with his mother.

          "Mother— it may sound absurd to you, but it's actually polite to know the name of whom's in front of you, and not just refer to them as girl." Della scowled. Rain started pouring down now, running down Peter's back, making him shiver.  

          "And I don't want to marry her. I was just being a decent human being. Unlike you at most times, Mother." Peter glared at her, and made his way back to the estate, leaving the woman in the rain, her hair spiraling down her shoulders in an ugly, stringy mess.