Trust Runs In The Family

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Prompt from DailyPrompt.com

“Do you know why my family’s mad?”
Not a question Harold expected while interviewing to rent a room from someone. “Ah… why?”
Christine didn’t answer. Just continued fussing about with the teacups. It was as if he’d imagined the strange comment. Or she had. Then she suddenly said “It was generations ago. My great-great-great-great-grandfather. Bartie. Six generations. He ran an inn. Not this one.”
As if he might think she was referring to this farmhouse chopped into rentable rooms. It certainly wouldn’t have passed as an inn in those days. Even now it was merely a B&B which took medium-term lets. But he nodded.
“One day he…” She trailed off, head quirked, seemingly listening intently to the sugar pot.
Harold wondered if he should have just asked for a glass of water.
“There was a customer. That day. The weather was foul. Bartie let her stay the night. She didn’t have money, and the inn was full, but he found a corner for her and made up an extra bed. The next day when she left she wanted to give him a present. He accepted - it would be rude not to. Right?”
Another lull. As if entranced by the brass tableware set. They were pretty, their ornate whorls easy to lose yourself in. A labyrinth for the eyes.
“She broke his mind. Made it so he could see things. Hear things. That other people couldn’t. Things that are real, and not real, and can’t fit in human eyes and ears and minds. And his children, it went to his children too, and their children, and… now it’s just me.”
One lonely, mad old woman in an isolated B&B.
“So, so, I don’t mind. What you are. But I have a favour I must ask.”
“Hmmm?” Harold kept his face neutral. No hint of unease or curiosity about what she’d seen - or thought she’d seen.
Christine leant forward, her gaze direct. Imploring. Manic. “Please, tell me… was it a curse? Did he do something wrong? Or, or, did she mean it as a gift? Please.”
Silence. Then Harold slowly leant forward, letting his glamour drop, and stared intently into her tear-filled eyes. Weighing. Measuring. Pondering.
Finally he murmured “I can’t speak for her. But… it isn’t a curse. I think… I think she gave him a hard gift, to see what he’d do with it.”
Christine sighed, years of anxiety escaping into disappointment and relief. And she nodded. “I suppose we failed.”
“No. Your family is very well spoken of.”
“Are we?” Christine fiddled with the teapot. Gazing across the worn antiques crowding the building, all that were left of her family’s affluent past.
“In my circles you are.” Harold gave a gentle smile. “You kept letting us in. Even once you knew, you let in any of us who asked for shelter.”
“Too trusting.” Christine whispered, old shame hanging off the words.
“No.” Harold squeezed her hand. “Brave trust. And we don’t forget. That’s why I’m here.”

Prompt was “the paradox of trust, being capable of great beauty and great harm”.