Right here there was a couch. It was big and red and Renaissance-style, and Mr. Wilson had never used it.
His wife had. This was her room, after all, her parlor devoted to her and her friends. Paintings hung high on the walls. A cherub gazed out from the molding of the high ceiling. He could see Patty, their youngest slave, dusting the centerpiece on the mantel. It was the height of style, this; not one of Mistress Wilson's friends had a women's parlor this nice. But after all, none of them could afford it, and Mr. Wilson certainly could.
He stepped outside quickly before Patty could see him; regardless of her status (or his), he wasn't allowed to be in there. It would be embarrassing, and even he had enough of a moral compass to know that he shouldn't punish her for what she didn't do.
Mr. Wilson ducked through the kitchen briefly to enter the gardens. The gardens were a wonder of the neighborhood. Visitors loved them. His daughter often spent days there, curled up under the weeping willow by the pond with a book and an apple. She had always read too much for her own good.
A rabbit sat, quivering a few feet in front of him, ears perked up, before hearing a bird call and darting off frantically. They were common here and considered a nuisance, but he secretly liked them. They added a new air of life to the gardens that it otherwise lacked, with all its stone fountains and marble statues.
His daughter appeared behind a rose arbor. "Papa!" she called, opening her arms for an embrace and uncurling her fist to reveal a lightning bug. "Look!"
He smiled. "Lovely. Make sure not to let it get in the house, love."
The girl blew softly, and the lightning bug flew off into the dusk.
Where my house currently is there used to be a mansion owned by a Mr. Wilson and his wife - everything els is an exageration.