Good Manors

by Victoria Blisse

  “So.” I took a deep breath in, tried to keep it calm. I held onto the countertop for dear life, lightheaded and hands shaking as I asked for confirmation of my worst fear. “Xander Patrick is Eustace Mallard’s son?”

  “Yes, yes he is. Poor mite was only young when his dad died, about twelve or thirteen, I think.”

  “How terrible.” I gasped. I had to keep the conversation going—I couldn’t let anyone know how petrified I was.

  “Aye, awful it was. He coped admirably for his age and he’s never once complained about the responsibilities he took on. I mean, him and his mum ran this place so well between them. He’s barely held it together these past six months since Margaret passed on. I told him, he needs to have a proper time of mourning but he won’t step back. He’s got to always be in control, that one.”

  “His mum died?” I knew it, he’d told me, but the shock still had me in its grips.

  “Yeah, cancer. Bloody awful it was. Mind you, once she found out she went quick. Least it wasn’t a long, lingering experience, thank the Lord for small mercies.”

  I nodded, still rocked from the revelation. Why hadn’t I found any indication that Xander was a Mallard?

  “She’d have never let you on here, though, miss, she hated journalists of all kinds.”

  “Did she?”

  “Yeah, blamed ’em for the death of her husband. You probably know the photo that got old Lord Mallard into trouble.”

  The image was seared into my brain. The sly smile of the prostitute, the bored, glazed look on Lord Mallard’s face. My stomach churned so much I clutched at it, afraid I’d be sick.

  “Margaret said it made him snap. Like, it didn’t matter anymore if people knew.” Mary finally looked over at me. “Oh, my dear, are you all right?”

  “Yeah, I think I just need a bit of air.”

  “Go on, go on with you. I hope you’re not coming down with something.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “I’ll be fine. Just get these odd dizzy spells. Something to do with my inner ear being off balance,” I waffled, made it up. I didn’t want people fussing around me.

  “Okay, well, don’t go far, will you?”

  “I won’t,” I called over my shoulder and barreled out of the shop, knocking Gerald sideward.

  “Watch where you’re going!” he yelled and snarled at me. His placid face twisted into something ugly.

  “Sorry.” I gasped then carried on. I ran round to the back of the shop and collapsed to the floor beside a pile of discarded fruit boxes.

  What the fuck am I going to do? I thought over and over again. I wanted to pack my bags and leave. Just grab my stuff and go, but what would that achieve? I’d be sacked. Maxine wouldn’t stand for such a failure and I couldn’t just make up the article on what information I’d already gleaned.

  Or could I? Concoct an emergency and leave early. Just write them a glowing report made up from what I had experienced and all would be fine. I questioned that, though. It took time to get into the psyche of a place and I hadn’t got there yet with Mallard’s.

  Some of my most glowing articles, full of praise and positivity, had resulted in barely any difference in revenue for the hall mentioned because they were just words. It was homes where I truly felt emotionally engaged that garnered the most success. And I couldn’t do this half-heartedly. I’d already caused the downfall of the place. I didn’t want to halt its recovery in its tracks too.

  Then there was Xander. I liked Xander.

  Dashing tears from my eyes, I took a long breath. No one had realized my connection to the infamous photo. It wasn’t directly obvious. I’d gotten paid for the photograph and the credit had gone to the newspapers, not me. It would take some digging to find out that I was the person who’d taken that photo. I’d have to carry on regardless. I owed it to the place, to Xander, to carry on, write an amazing article and hopefully increase visitors. Mallard Hall deserved that from me. Xander deserved that from me. And nothing else. I couldn’t let my stupid emotions get in the way.

  Footsteps pulled me from my thoughts. Gerald approached with a box in his arms.

  “Oh, Ms. Grace, I didn’t know you were here, you startled me.”

  He hadn’t jumped or gasped or shown any kind of surprise. Strange man.

  “I’m just going. Had a bit of a funny turn and needed some fresh air. I’m okay now, though. Sorry if I scared you before.” I pulled myself up and brushed down my jeans.

  “No, no, it’s okay, you startled me a little is all. Glad you’re all right.” He didn’t want to engage in conversation and he shifted his body weight from one foot to the other as I watched. “Mary was worried, you better let her know you’re okay.”

  “I will. Bye, Gerald,” I replied.

  He didn’t even respond, I wondered what he was up to and what was in the box. Probably some old relic of time gone by that he wanted to stroke in privacy. Strange man, something about him disturbed me.

  Mary kept me busy for the rest of the day—she really was a force of nature. After her shift in the shop each night she would go straight off to prepare the dinner for all the workers.

  “We had a cook once upon a time but it was too much of an expense to keep on, so I volunteered to do it. I’m at a loose end from five anyway.”

  “Do you get paid for it?”

  She looked at me awry, like I’d asked her to shoot a kitten. “No, no, not at all. I do it to keep the old place going.”

  “That’s good of you.” I smiled.

  She shrugged and brushed it off like it was nothing.

  “Do you need a hand at all?”

  “Oh, no, it’s fine. I like to keep the kitchen to myself, you know. See you later.”

  The staff at Mallard’s really loved the place. It wasn’t just a job for them, it was a calling. I made some notes up in my room then decided I couldn’t hold my curiosity in anymore. I had to go and see the baby lamb. Xander might be there but I wasn’t going to be able to avoid him. The next day I was due to interview him anyway. I’d have to face him sooner or later.

  Harriet and her lamb were a vision of joy. The little lamb was trotting about quite confidently on her little hooves and stupidly long legs. Mum was fussing after her, bleating and nudging her offspring. It calmed my spirit. Who wouldn’t feel better looking at such a contented scene?

  I wasn’t called to be a vet but whenever I looked back on that time I remembered it fondly and wondered how different my life would have looked if I’d continued my training. Not just as a vet but with Tom.

  When I had gone home with him on the day I finished my placement, it had gone pretty much the way I’d expected at first. We had kissed and cuddled, gasped and groaned and pulled at each other’s clothing until we’d both been close to bare.

  “Can I spank you?” he had asked. “I’ve been thinking about it since the first day I met you.”

  I had agreed without much thought. I hadn’t been experienced in sex and certainly not confident in myself. I had thought if I said no he’d have rejected me completely and I hadn’t wanted that.

  What I hadn’t expected was to enjoy it. To find myself writhing across his lap, craving the next swat, the next stinging impact of hand on buttock. At first I had wanted it to stop, had been close to screaming out and ending it all, but then the pain had spiked to pleasure. I couldn’t say when my ouches turned into oohs of delight but I am sure Tom had worked it out because that’s when he had started talking again.

  “You like it, don’t you?” he’d asked.

  “Yes,” I had eagerly acquiesced.

  “Yes what?” he’d snapped. The next slap had been harder than those previously.

  “Yes, I do.” I had been confused, turned on and so silly and naïve.

  “Sir. You should address me as Sir.”

  Another harsh swipe of his hand had provoked a scream but when the pain had eased and the pleasure had kicked in I’d remembered what I should say.

  “Yes, Sir. I like it, S
ir.”

  “Good girl,” he’d purred.

  I thought I heard the words out loud and it startled me back from my memories to reality.

  “Oh, India, didn’t see you there.”

  “Hey, Xander, just came to check in on them.” I managed to speak and not trip over my tongue, which really was a miracle.

  “Me too.” He smiled. “They’re doing well.”

  An awkward silence pulled out between us. I couldn’t see any similarity between Xander and his dad. Xander’s eyes were stunning blue—his father’s had been dark, almost black, and tiny and cold. Even though Xander’s were sharp blue they carried far more warmth than I’d glimpsed in the gaze of the old Lord Mallard.

  “You all right, India?”

  “What?” I’d been staring at him. Oh God. “Oh, yes, sure. I’m sorry, I was staring.”

  “Well, yeah, just a bit. Have I got something on my face?”

  I shook my head, took a deep breath then explained myself. “No, it’s just Mary told me you’re Eustace Mallard’s son. I didn’t realize you were a Mallard, I was trying to see the resemblance.”

  There was something I couldn’t tell Xander, something I’d never be able to tell him and I hoped he’d never find out. So I owed him the truth where I could provide it.

  “Oh, well.” Xander shrugged like he was trying to unseat awkwardness from his shoulders. “I don’t really look like him much, no. I mean, I look more like Mum.” He pulled a worn and thin, brown leather wallet from his pocket and flipped it open.

  “Here’s me and Mum. I was very little when this was taken, well, I mean, clearly.”

  The tiny photo was cracked and worn around the edges, but muted colors didn’t hide the fact that mother and son shared the same bright blue eyes and jet black hair.

  “She was very beautiful,” I said, “and you look very much like her.”

  It wasn’t just the coloring they shared. Their face shapes, their expressions were incredibly similar, even back then. Xander was just a toddler but he was instantly recognizable. Slim face, high cheekbones, wide eyes and a smile that glowed. Looking from the photo to Xander showed the same face with the burden of age, but the same intelligent curiosity shone through.

  “She was stunning, could have been a model. Fiercely intelligent, stubborn too. Mum always knew just what to say.”

  He sighed so deeply. I wanted to hold him, the pain apparent in that anguished sound and his tortured face.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Xander.” I squeezed his arm, just above the elbow. “My mum died a few years ago, I think I said. I still miss her every day but it gets easier to bear. The grief never leaves but the memories of the good things seem to come more easily to mind eventually.”

  He nodded, bit his bottom lip and breathed deeply. The poor guy was trying hard not to cry.

  I slipped my arm around him to offer comfort.

  “You do look very much like her,” I said, not sure what to do. “The similarity is striking.”

  “People always commented on it. Still do. I don’t look like my father at all. No wonder you didn’t know that technically I’m Lord Mallard.”

  “Does this mean I have to curtsy when I see you?” I asked, hand still around him, feeling his warmth against me.

  “No”—he grinned—“no, but you can call me ‘Sir’ if you want to.”

  Heat sizzled through me, centering deep in my pussy. Dear God, why did he have to say that of all things? “Okay, Sir.” I tried to say it casually, like a joke, but the word caught in my throat, adding an urgency that I hadn’t meant there to be.

  “That’s more like it.” He chuckled. It was a throaty sound. I didn’t know whether that was because he was as turned on as me or if it was a leftover from his grief. Either option made me uncomfortable.

  Xander pulled away from me a little, and I dropped my arm to my side. It tingled, like I could still feel his heat there, his imprint.

  “So yes, I’m Lord Mallard’s son. I don’t publicize it, I’m not really very proud of it, but it’s true.”

  “I don’t really know much about him, you know, just a bit, what I saw in the press.” My casual demeanor didn’t fool me, but I hoped he wouldn’t pick up on my awkwardness.

  “No, well, the press didn’t tell the whole story, but it got the headlines right. I don’t think about it, about him. How he ruined this place single-handedly. I choose to focus on how I can continue to build it back up, to continue my mother’s legacy.”

  “A positive focus is always the best.” I meant it. I’d spent so long dwelling on the negative things in my life I knew that didn’t work. It just made existence bleak and painful.

  “Yeah, yeah, I believe so.” Xander closed his wallet and nodded purposefully.

  “India, would you like to join me for dinner?”

  “Oh, well—” There was a very good reason I should have said no. I’d been very, very sure that I shouldn’t spend more time with Xander Patrick than was strictly necessary, but at that moment in time I couldn’t think of any excuse. “Yes, that’d be lovely, thank you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Xander Patrick

  “Great.” I smiled. “Great, good, well, come on then.”

  Why did I ask her to dinner? God, I’d already made a complete fool of myself. All she’d done was look at me a bit funny then somehow I’d ended up virtually in tears telling her about Mum. She won’t put that in her article, will she?

  “Erm, India, I’m sure this is a silly question but you won’t put any of this—this personal stuff in your write-up, will you?”

  She shook her head. “No, no, of course not.”

  “Good. I mean, I thought you’d say that, it was a bit of a daft question.”

  “The only silly question is the one you don’t ask.”

  “Fair enough. Come on then, let’s head back to the hall. The girls seem happy enough.”

  “They are a vision of contentment.” India sighed. “Makes even my jaded journo heart melt to see them.”

  I’m sure that she was only joking but that reminder that she was a journalist was timely. I’d just spilt my guts to someone with connections to the media. She could ruin me if she felt so inclined. I believed her when she said it would stay out of Good Manors, but would she sell the story to the tabloids?

  “Do you write for anyone else?” I asked, walking alongside her back toward the hall.

  “No, I don’t. I used to be a freelancer, wrote and took photos for loads of different papers and magazines but, well, it didn’t agree with me, let’s put it like that. I work exclusively for Good Manors now.”

  Did she realize why I’d asked that question? All I seemed to do was insult her.

  “That pays all right then?” I cringed inwardly the moment I said it. One day I’d remember to think before opening my gob.

  “Not bad. I mean, I won’t be buying my own stately manor any time soon, but I get by.”

  “Sorry, India, that was a really rude thing to ask.”

  “Not really.” She smiled. “I know why you’re nervous around me. I’ve gotten used to it over time. You’re worried whatever you tell me will end up in tomorrow’s newspapers.”

  “No!” I denied. “Not at all.”

  “You don’t have to pretend, Xander, I understand. It comes with my profession.”

  “Okay, well, I don’t mean to be like that.” I shrugged. “I really don’t.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” She shrugged, setting her long, brunette hair bouncing. “I’m used to it, but I am telling you the total truth. I only write for Good Manors and I will only put information relevant to the manor into my article.”

  “I believe you.” And I did, even if the warning bells Mum had planted in my psyche were ringing at full pelt. “I do believe but you can understand, my family have suffered a bit at the hands of the press.”

  Her cheeks flushed and something flashed through her eyes. Anger maybe.

  “Sure, sure.” India no
dded.

  “God, I’ve put my foot in it again.” I sighed.

  “No, it’s fine. I understand. Your family was treated badly. I left that side of the media a long time ago. My conscience couldn’t take it. People need some privacy. We all have secret parts of our lives we want to keep to ourselves.”

  “I mean, my father was up to no good and he probably would have run the hall into the ground anyway but Mum said he went crazy once those photos came out. He went into overdrive. People knew he was bad, so he played up to it. Mum really wasn’t very keen on the press. That’s why we’ve not even had a local newspaper photographer at any of our launches. My mum just didn’t trust them. She couldn’t see the good in it.”

  We’d reached the drive in front of the manor, and she stopped in her tracks.

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if whoever took that photo regretted it deeply.” Her words seemed heavy and poignant. I’d really upset her.

  “Of course, none of this is a judgment on you and just because Mum was so anti-press doesn’t mean that I am. You’re here, aren’t you?”

  India nodded.

  “So I’m going to shut up before I upset you even further. Now, follow me, dinner should pretty much be done.”

  “Sorry, Xander. I get a bit touchy about the subject. I know journalism has its bad side. I avoid that, though, like the plague.”

  “I know.” I let her walk in before me then once we were inside I signaled for her to go past the staircase. “I really do. You’re one of the good guys. Hell, you’re an angel as far as I’m concerned. Without you I might not have a lovely lamb in my life today.”

  “Oh, that was nothing.” She chuckled and my heart swelled with relief. There was still a chance I hadn’t completely turned her against me with my stupid talk.

  “In here.” I indicated a doorway. “This is the staffroom for the house tour folks.”