Haydn

"Harold Peterson, you say?" I called from across the room calmly. "Never heard of him."
"Don't play dumb with me!" He screamed furiously, striking the old door, "What have you done to my wife?"
"Your wife? And who might that be?"
"Stop that! You know exactly who I'm talking about! I saw her walking into your miserable little shack!"
It's him..., Haydn mouthed to me, trembling.
I see, I replied silently. What do you want me to do?
I have to go, he might call the constable if you resist, she replied darkly.
I opened the door to a largely built man. He definitely had the appearance of a wealthy gentleman; tidily dressed, this man was neatly shaven, and had good posture. He was extremely tall, and was rather sophisticated-looking as well as intimidating.
"Haydn!" he barked at her. I winced at his ferocity.
Haydn crept to him, face down. She was sobbing. Her husband noticed this and grabbed me by the collar. I was shocked. Never had I seen a gentleman like him get so rough.
"What did you do to her? Why did you make her cry?!" He yelled, his face fuming a deep red.
"Mr. Peterson, did you honestly think someone like me would do something like make the poor girl weep?" I explained to him calmly. He was being rash, and I tried to keep my temper from flaring. Despite this, his grip on me tightened even more.
Finally, he let go. Without a word, he left my quarters with Haydn.
I watched the couple leave in a horse-drawn carriage. I looked at her cup of unfinished tea. The scone crumbs scattered around the rim of the porcelain cup and her soggy, grey dress were all that was left to remind me of her.
I sighed depressingly.
I looked outside the window again.
I caught a glimpse of the carriage as it was driven away.
I looked away as I closed the blinds.
Then I did something ludicrous.
I chased after them.