I suspect the boy will run off to enlist soon, abandoning his bride. This will not be tolerated.
HC has sold ten acres of land to the city. We are about to be converged upon by the unwashed masses. The mill will survive another year. As will we. Nephew works tirelessly to keep it running. I suspect it’s more to escape his husbandly duties than for the good of the family.
Ella has budded. We have a fitting for her first corset in the morning.
The child, Ruth, does not wear shoes. Her face is constantly filthy. I despair of the child ever being of any worth.
~
On the sixth day of Christmas…
Rory slept in his own apartment last night. Austin hadn’t seen him since he left for work yesterday. Hadn’t even heard from him. But he’d been so busy trying to get in touch with the home office that he hadn’t called Rory at all, even to thank him for the corned beef and cabbage he sent over for dinner with one of the interns.
His arm didn’t hurt as much today. He left off the sling that held his arm pressed to his chest. Rory would surely have something to say about that, but Austin couldn’t function with only one arm. Not that he had the use of the broken arm, but he could use his fingers to help with simple things like taking off a damned glove.
It was snowing again. He’d never seen this much snow this far south. It had snowed off and on over the four years, he’d lived in Atlanta. The ice storm that all but crippled the city had hit while he was at Emory. That was probably the worst winter weather he’d experienced since leaving Tennessee to go to school in Savannah.
His arm might not hurt much today, but he was still very sore, and getting around was still a slow process. He stumbled in the courtyard doorway, swearing at the slick cobblestones outside. “Someone needs to salt the—”
“Already on it, boss,” Jemma shouted from somewhere in the house. “I’ve never shoveled snow. This ought to be fun.”
“Not so much,” Austin called back from his office. He noticed the space heater was already on, and coffee was still dripping into the pot. “Whoever made coffee… I love you.”
“That’s sexual harassment,” Britney called back. She laughed when she shouted. “And you’re welcome. Mrs. Henley is making breakfast.”
Austin took off his coat and tried not to groan out loud.
“Not scones,” Donna yelled from where ever she was. “The tea room isn’t open to the public today. She’s making a full southern breakfast for staff. She wants to know if you prefer bacon or sausage. Oh, and how do you like your eggs… fried or scrambled, or soft boiled?”
Austin noted that the portraits they’d unpacked the day before were all missing from the workroom. “Where are the—”
“They’re hanging in the designated spaces… remember? We got them up last night before we went to dinner.” Jemma bustled in, pulling off a pair of gloves. “Rory sent over one of his crew to salt the walkways. I think this will turn to ice. And—”
Austin held up his hands, cutting her off. “Information overload. Just hold up for a moment while I catch up… both, scrambled, will there be real biscuits?”
“I think so. She didn’t say. Probably. And gravy. Gravy would be great. I’m starving.” Donna stood in the doorway wearing a pair of his purple gloves. “I think we’re still on schedule. Jemma, did you tell him?”
“I was just about to, but I keep getting cut off.” Jemma grabbed the box of gloves when she stopped at the table. She looked like she had news he didn’t want to hear.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, flipping his glasses up to press his eyes closed. It was way too early in the morning to already be this stressed. “Just tell me it can be fixed?”
“Fixed?” Jemma sounded confused. “What… oh, no, nothing is broken. Everything is fine. Though, now that you mention it, I think someone did the dirty in one of the bedrooms. I had the bedding washed… the cameras all bugged out that night, so no idea. But… no… uh, there’s a person here. He says he’s the property owner. I thought this was all owned by some conglomerate.”
“Why didn’t someone tell me? I’ve been playing phone tag with the main office for two days.” Austin sprinted toward the doorway. Stress turned to panic.
“Chill, Doctor Austin, it’s not even nine yet. He said there was no reason to call you in early. He’s walking around the house. I’m not sure he’s ever been here before.” Jemma followed him into the hallway.
He could smell bacon and his stomach churned. He didn’t know if it was stress or hunger. “No, he probably hasn’t. The house was a disaster for most of the last half-century. Most of the furnishings survived, but the structure was unsound. On the verge of being condemned, as I was told. I wasn’t expecting anyone until the dedication ceremony next week.”
“Well, he’s here now, and Mrs. Henley is pulling out all the stops. We’re eating in the family dining room, on replica china, not the antique stuff. I swear I didn’t know the woman knew how to smile. She’s singing, Doc Austin.”
“Just Austin, please, the Doc thing makes me feel like a supervillain in a Spider-Man comic.”
“Just Austin then… and…” Jemma leaned in close to whisper. “He’s freakin’ adorable. And I didn’t see a ring on his finger. Just sayin’.”
“Oh my god. First, it’s Rory, and now it’s some complete stranger. Who, by the way, could be completely straight and more interested in any of you. And besides… he signs my paycheck.”
“Ooh, point taken. I was thinking something like Fifty Shades… but… the Trump sons have put me completely off the billionaire fantasy. I mean, have you seen the chins on those dudes?”
“I don’t think he’s a billionaire. Just… I have no idea. Everything has gone through the funding group until recently. I’ve never met him. Or any member of the family.” They’d walked through the maze of lower floor hallways to the front of the house while they whispered. Jemma’s arm had somehow hooked in his as if she was guiding him to the sweeping staircase in the front of the house.
“Well, now you get to meet him,” Jemma whispered again, as they came to a stop at the bottom of the stairs.
Austin saw movement on the second-floor landing where there should be none. This part of the house was off-limits until the dedication ceremony. The tea room had a separate entrance, and the workers used the back doors. He suddenly found that ironic.
His gaze locked on the backside of a well-dressed man. Tailored pants hugged his round ass… Austin swallowed hard and forced his eyes to travel upward just as the man reached out to touch the painting in one of the larger gilt frames. The one of the last Cortlandt’s to occupy the house. The one they’d unpacked just yesterday.
“You shouldn’t touch that,” Austin said before he could stop himself. Technically, the man owned the painting and could do whatever he wanted. “It’s been painstakingly restored.”
“I’m so sorry,” the newcomer replied, his voice so very deep. And strangely familiar. “I’m… I’ve never seen it… in a long time. I have no idea what I’m saying.” He turned around on the landing and—
Austin’s knees gave out, the pounding pain behind his eyes suddenly too much for him to bear— and the marble floor was so clean he could see himself in it. He’d have to remember to compliment whoever did the cleaning—
The panicked voices swirling around him, combined into one loud fuzzy sound. And then nothing but blessed silence.
On the sixth day of Christmas…
Delusional man a’layin on the floor having a mental breakdown. FIVE GILT FRAMES! Sing, Miss Piggy, Sing. FIVE GILT FRAMES!
Chapter Fifteen
The man looked beat to hell and back, to begin with. He shouldn’t have even been in at work in his condition so it was hardly his fault, but Heath bolted down the stairs two at a time as soon as he collapsed.
“Austin, come on… Doctor Baylor, wake up.” The intern with the thick black ponytail and eyes the color of a field of heather gently patted the too pretty for his own
good… curator? This was the curator, he’d hired to run the house?
Heath knelt beside the man and lifted his head into his lap, hoping that would help. “What’s wrong with Doctor Baylor?”
“He has a concussion from the accident last week. He should be resting. But he insists on being here. We’ve limited him to supervising the past couple of days, but… he’s stubborn.” The intern, with the pretty eyes, explained. She seemed to be the only one in the house not panicking.
Someone came running from the back of the house with a first aid kit and the dark-ponytailed intern took it from her. “Thank you, Mrs. Henley. Maybe call across the street to the pub.”
“Already done. Should we call for an ambulance? The poor man hasn’t been looking all that well. Like a strong wind could blow him over.” The older woman didn’t spare Heath a glance. At least she stopped kissing his ass.
“I think he has fainted. He hasn’t eaten anything. I see pain in his eyes, which means he’s not taking the meds. We’ll get him back on his feet and Rory can cajole him into going home for the day.” The take-charge intern seemed to have everything under control. So why exactly was Heath still holding his curator’s head in his lap?
“Like he will trust anyone with his artifacts. That will be Mr. Callaghan.” Mrs. Henley went to the front door to open it as soon as the pounding started.
The aforementioned Mr. Callaghan burst in looking like he’d just rolled out of bed after a long night of carousing. He hadn’t stopped to put on shoes, despite the weather.
“What happened?” The Callaghan man demanded; his attention focused on the curator.
Lovers.
They were lovers.
Heath tried to ignore the sudden stabbing feeling in his chest. Why in the hell did it matter to him, Heath had no interest in—
“Holy fuck!” The barefoot hoyden looked as if he was about to join his friend on the floor. “Who the hell are you?”
“Mr. Callaghan, there are ladies present,” Mrs. Henley scolded the newcomer. The other women snickered quietly, and the pretty Doctor Baylor slapped at the vial of smelling salts that the dark-ponytailed one waved under his nose.
“Austin?” The pretty bartender stopped staring and was on his knees on the other side of the equally pretty curator, he lifted his hand and patted the curator’s face, his heart in his eyes. “Wakey, Wakey.”
“I’m awake, asshole. Not that you care. Leave me alone.” Throwing off his friend’s hand, the curator struggled to sit up and failed. He flopped back down into Heath’s lap, his eyes still closed, his face very pale. Visible bruises were marred his skin in various places. Fading bruises, but bruises, none the less. “I swear I had the strangest dream. I keep seeing his face. Like… I dream about the car accident. Not sleeping.”
“Car accident?” Heath hadn’t heard about an accident, at least not one involving a car. He was aware that Doctor Baylor had been injured, but… startled brown eyes opened quickly, staring up at him, the same flash of recognition from before there, followed quickly by… what? Fear? Disbelief? Anger? Heath didn’t understand.
“Heath, oh my god, you’re alive?” The curator sounded groggy and disoriented as he reached up with a trembling hand as if to touch Heath’s face.
“Why would I be anything to the contrary?” Heath answered, and the curator dragged his hand back to press it against his chest, hugging the broken arm as if to protect it.
“My apology, I seem to have mistaken you for someone else.” Doctor Baylor glanced at his friend, who was also staring at Heath as if he… saw a ghost. “Hey, Roar, you need a shirt, it’s freezing outside.”
“Really? I didn’t notice.” The friend, Mr. Callaghan… Roar… what kind of name was Roar? Roar Callaghan leaned over his friend, pressing his lips to his forehead. “You’re burning up, Austin. The doctors told you to rest. And this weather is not good to be running around in. Let’s get you up. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
Austin allowed the man called Roar to help him into a standing position. If slumping against his friend could be called standing. Doctor Austin Baylor was on his feet, crisis averted. His good arm thrown over his friend’s bare shoulders.
The stabbing pain in Heath’s chest becoming almost unbearable. “Doctor Baylor you should listen to your friend, he seems to know what he’s about.”
“Who are you?” Doctor Baylor swayed a little, looking just like he had the moment before he collapsed. “I mean, not to be rude. You just… look… like someone, I… used to know. I mean, exactly like him.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, what happened to your friend?” Heath felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle, like… déjà vu. He’d had the worst case of déjà vu since he’d walked into the house. Like he’d been here. Recently.
“He died,” Austin said, pain in his eyes that had nothing to do with his condition.
“I’m so sorry,” Heath said, the hair on the back of his neck standing straight on end in a most uncomfortable way. He held out the hand he desperately wanted to swipe along his neck. “Heath Cortlandt, this was my family’s home. My apologies for dropping in on you without warning. I’ve had this strange desire to come since Christmas Eve. So strange. I hadn’t planned to come at all. But… do I smell something burning?”
“Oh, dear.” Mrs. Henley, who’d stood by watching them resurrect the curator, whirled around and ran toward the wing where the tea room should be.
“I have never seen her move that fast,” one of the interns said in amazement. “Oh, wait, that can’t be good. I guess breakfast is not happening now. Dammit. I was dreaming about some sawmill gravy. Hey, Rory, any chance you’ll start opening up for breakfast over there? This area needs a good home cooking breakfast place. I am tired of bear claws from Cup O’ Joe. I like meat.”
“Maybe next year. I’m understaffed as it is. Unless you know a couple of people who want to get up at five in the morning and come over and set up? For tips.”
There was no answer from any of the three women still in the room. The one with the long black ponytail and gorgeous eyes slid in beside the curator and tucked her arm under his broken one, helping take his weight off the bartender.
“Let’s get Doc Austin back to the workroom and get some food in him. Maybe some pain pills. Then we’ll get him back to his apartment. I’m not sure how much we will get done today. The scheduled delivery has been delayed because of the weather. And tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, so…”
The curator looked up at Heath with pain-filled eyes. “You look just like him, you know.” His gaze went up the stairs to the top of the stairs where Heath had been before all the commotion. “Your great-grandfather. His name was Heathcliff. He died on Christmas Eve. In a car accident. The first one in the county. One hundred years ago. Did you know?”
It was Heath’s turn to feel faint. He swiped at the patch of skin on the back of his neck, but couldn’t steady his nerves.
“No, I didn’t. I know very little about the Cortlandt family before my father’s time. This was just a piece of property we paid the taxes on for longer than anyone can remember.” The tingling at the base of his neck subsided as he massaged the area. The deep brown abyss of the curator’s gaze unsettled him in a different way. As if he… they… were acquainted… more than acquainted even. “I look forward to learning about my heritage.”
The curator nodded, and the bartender gave him a curious, yet dismissive, glance and he and the intern helped the curator stumble his way to the working rooms at the back of the house. Leaving Heath alone in the front hall, undecided as to what to do next. Follow the group back to see to the welfare of the curator or explore the second floor as he’d been in the process of when he was interrupted.
“Coming, Mr. Cortlandt?” The petite blonde intern stuck her head around the corner. “Mrs. Henley said to fetch you for breakfast. There is sawmill gravy and biscuits. But the bacon burned.”
“I’ll be right along,” he replied and glanced up the stairs. Waitin
g for the curious pull that had led him upstairs in the first place. When it came it wasn’t the portraits at the top of the stairs that called to him. This time he found himself in the middle of a cluttered workroom with loud people clearing off the extra-long farmhouse table and setting it with china as if this was a formal dinner. With Doctor Baylor at the head of the table in a rolling desk chair with his tousle-headed boyfriend beside him.
A longing, Heath couldn’t explain, brought tears to his eyes… and forced his feet toward the empty seat on the other side of the curator. Who smiled at the jokes of his co-workers… friends? They were friends. Not employees or staff.
Friends.
Heath felt the tentative graze of warm fingers on the back of his hand. The jolt of déjà vu so strong now, he opened his hand and linked his fingers with the curator’s, under the table. Because this was… home. He’d come home.
To perfect strangers.
Breakfast arrived and Austin let his hand go. And Heath pretended it never happened. That he’d imagined the whole thing.
They laughed and talked and told stories in to the morning, coffee pouring like wine. Heath never wanted it to end. This feeling of belonging. Of family.
He felt right in his own skin for the first time in days. Right up until the bartender, wearing a Cortlandt Manor Museum T-shirt and a pair of borrowed garden clogs, escorted the curator from the room.
With the curator gone, it was almost as if the warmth had left the room. And Heath retreated into the cold shell that had protected him for as long as he could remember.
Chapter Sixteen
“I’ve lost my mind,” Austin mumbled for the fiftieth time since Rory had all but dragged him out of the big house, across the rapidly icing over courtyard and into his frigid apartment in the old stables.
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