I walked over to the window and glanced outside. That was a gross understatement. My eyes beheld an explosion of color as if Monet himself held the paintbrush, beauty in its most profound definition. Neat segments of rose cultivars grew in between a boxwood hedge shaped in an intricate pattern; flowerbeds of tulips and irises were artistically arranged by hue; Japanese cherry trees in full bloom framed the south border. And hidden among the lush vegetation, moss covered statues of cherubs and naked nymphs peeked out. I was no gardening expert but this one seemed elegant enough to rival Versailles––or what I’d seen of Versailles in books and on the Internet.
“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Mrs. Arnaud said, closing the door behind her afterwards. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Rubbing my tiny cross, I made a mental note to call Emilia and thank her again.
“Sebastian!” A velvety female voice floated in from the garden.
I glanced from behind the linen curtain and noticed a tall woman, her greyhound thin body encased in tight britches and riding boots, walking purposefully towards a very tall man. Leaning on a cane, he stood under a magnificent pergola covered by white trumpet shaped flowers that formed an otherworldly halo around him. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but the inherent grace in his posture, the refined casual clothes he wore, spoke volumes about him. Wealthy and entitled––he was sure about his place in this world.
Heir to the throne.
The woman was clearly on a mission. She swung her hips provocatively and tossed her long blond hair over her shoulder like she was selling sex and shampoo. When she reached him, she placed her hands possessively on his face, angled her head, and kissed him. The kiss evoked no response from him. He stood completely still while she devoured his mouth. Weird, I thought. The lack of affection was noticeable from a distance. Though, they did make a pretty pair.
The curtain ballooned up on a gust of wind and, at that exact moment, he lifted his face and looked straight at me. Startled, I stepped aside, my heart beating erratically as prickling heat crawled up my neck. The last thing I needed was to make a bad impression on my first day and my new employer had just caught me spying. I was about to flagellate myself when I was interrupted by a soft knock at the door.
“Come in,” I called out.
The door swung open and a tall, curvy woman stepped inside. I judged her to be younger than me, probably in her mid-twenties. She had huge brown eyes and a full head of bright blond, curly hair pulled tightly in a bun. She raised her long slim fingers to her hairline, where some wayward curls had escaped, and unsuccessfully tried to tame them back into place.
“Hello, I’m Charlotte Beckwith. I thought I’d introduce myself.” She spoke with a very clipped British accent that I recognized from the kitchen.
“Vera, it’s nice to meet you. I’m sorry for the disturbance I caused downstairs.”
“No worries, we need a little drama around here. I’m warning you, it’s dreadfully dull most of the time.” There was a devilish look in her eyes that made me instantly like her. “As a matter of fact, you’d be doing everyone a favor if you could take up fainting on a regular basis, just to break up the monotony of the day.” Dimples punctuated her cheeks when she smiled. “There are thirty housekeepers, and I’m one of only two under the half-century mark…until you came along,” she continued, talking quickly.
“Thirty housekeepers?” I whispered. An army.
“That doesn’t even include the groundskeepers. And tragically, not one attractive eligible man in the five kilometer radius.” A crease formed between her golden brows. “Aside from the beast of course––but he doesn’t count.”
My eyes widened. “The beast?”
“Oh, you haven’t met him yet, right. Mr. Horn…Sebastian. Not that anybody would ever be that familiar with him.”
Charlotte clearly had a predilection for drama. She came further into the room, plopped down on my crisply made bed––without invitation––and quickly moved into rapid fire questioning.
Did I like live music?
What were my favorite books?
Did I speak French?
“Do you have a boyfriend? Maybe we could go out some time? There’s not much to do, but there’s a terrific café in town that has live music on Friday nights. Oh, they have this wonderful…” she drawled, holding on to the word as if it belonged to her, “singer from Cape Verde with a gut wrenching voice.” She didn’t pause for a reply so I pulled out the only chair in the room, sat down, and listened patiently as she chattered on. I noticed that she didn’t offer any personal information, which was fine since I wasn’t ready to share any of mine.
“Charlotte––” I had to interrupt her or she would have continued indefinitely. “Why do you call Mr. Horn the beast?”
“Because it’s more polite than calling him an arsehole,” she picked invisible lint off my blanket, “even though he is. Didn’t you hear him when we were in the kitchen? Right, you were having a kip on the floor.” I couldn’t help but giggle. “He’s awful. He never speaks, hardly ever, and when he does he’s usually shouting. I don’t care what happened to him, he’s not a nice man.”
“Is he dangerous?” My skin began to itch. I had become hypersensitive to even a hint of danger.
“No. Not dangerous…cold, not in a malicious sense, rather like…” Her voice dropped to a whisper, “there’s something missing…dead.” As I contemplated her words, she continued, “Mrs. Arnaud says he wasn’t always this way. He used to be funny and sweet. I find that a bit delusional…although she swears that before his wife––” She stopped abruptly, a sheepish look appearing on her face. “Shit, I’m not supposed to gossip. Bentifourt will skin me alive.” Her long legs swung back and forth beneath her, her effervescent energy spilling over her attempt to restrain it.
“Don’t tell me. I don’t want you to do anything that will get you in trouble.” In no time I had become protective of this girl that was so eager to befriend me. I watched her lose the battle for self-control; her transparent face telegraphed every thought she entertained. She needed no encouragement from me to break the rules.
“Okay, I’ll just hit the highlights. Three years ago he was married, and they were in a horrible car accident on the way to St. Moritz. It was a miracle they saved his leg.”
The cane…right.
“And his wife?”
Charlotte paused before adding, “Died––and he was driving.”
A somber silence settled between us. I had nothing other than sympathy for this man. It didn’t take a medical degree to realize he was suffering from the loss of his wife. He must have loved her very much. “He’s the only person that lives here?”
Charlotte nodded. “Alone.” She hopped off the bed and walked to the door. “I have to get back. Mrs. Arnaud thought I was going for a smoke. When you’re settled, I’ll give you a tour of the estate. You start tomorrow.”
The events of the day were starting to catch up with me. It felt like lead weights were strapped to my ankles. “Charlotte.”
She turned to face me. “Yes?”
“Do I need a tour?” I asked, yawning.
A wide, bright smile stretched across her face. “There are eighty two rooms in this manor. I still get lost.” She laughed at the look of shock on my face. “Rest. I’ll swing by when I’m done with work.”
The door closed. I shuffled to the small bed and lay down. Too tired to take off my dusty clothes. Too tired to shut the window. I laced my fingers together on my stomach, watched the linen drape flutter as a chilly wind blew in, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Three
I woke up abruptly, in the middle of the night. Confused and disoriented, it took me a while to adjust my eyes to the surroundings. Someone had turned the desk lamp was on and a note sat next to it.
Vera-
Didn’t have the heart to wake you when I came by at 6. You slept so soundly I actually had to check your breathing to make sure you weren’t dead. Will st
op by at 5 am to do the tour. Mrs. Arnaud left supper for you in the kitchen whenever you wake.
Charlotte
I got up and pushed the curtain aside. The moon, hanging high, poked out from behind puffs of smoky clouds. It seemed to be around midnight, which meant I had slept for a straight ten hours. Remarkable. I couldn’t recall ever sleeping so soundly. My stomach rumbled, taking the opportunity to remind me that it had been sadly neglected.
With my hair a mess, hanging loose down my back since I couldn’t locate my only elastic band, and my clothes all crumpled by sleep, I padded barefoot down the stairs. Small sconces of dim light interrupted the darkness in the hallway. Sight became irrelevant when I could simply follow my nose to the kitchen; the perfume of food drifting up from the ground floor led the way.
On a long counter, there was an assortment of cheese framed by muscat grapes; a golden roasted baby chicken––the scent of which made my stomach cry in anticipation; fingerling roasted potatoes sprinkled with fresh rosemary; baby purple cauliflower diced into small triangles; and French string beans tossed with crunchy almonds. And lastly, the beautiful pastries that had brought me back to life from a fainting spell earlier accompanied a petit chocolate éclair and a delicate little fruit tart. Robbed of grace and manners by deprivation, I shoveled everything into my mouth until I was so stuffed I could hardly breathe.
The silence, disturbed only by the subtle ticking of an antique wall clock, wrapped around me like a security blanket. I sat back to study my surroundings as an ease I hadn’t felt in ages came over me. The large kitchen was dark and cozy. The ceiling was vaulted. Gleaming copper pots and pans hung from a suspended wrought iron rack, and a large oak trestle table sat in the middle; its wood grooved from age and use. The smell of mouthwatering food mingled with the aroma of spices that were hung to dry near a window casement. It smelled of safety to me…like home.
I was dying to explore. And after a lengthy debate with myself about the inappropriateness of it, curiosity still easily won over prudence. Unaware of where I was headed, I began walking down a seemingly endless corridor. The house was as quiet as a tomb, despite how sound reverberated against the massive stone walls and the cathedral ceiling. Along the way I came upon an enormous painting depicting a battle scene. The lights were too dim for me to be certain, but it looked like the work of an old master, in the technique of chiaroscuro. I had seen an exhibition of paintings similar to this one at the Uffizi. Apparently this man had one hanging in some forgotten part of his house.
The corridor fed into a foyer that was large enough to house a small airplane. There was so much to take in I didn’t know where to look first. An Austrian crystal chandelier dangled over me. I tipped my head back and circled around and around in awe at the sheer scale of it while an idiotic smile played on my lips. The dim light twinkling off the icy shards reflected onto the mosaic floor beneath me. I couldn’t make out the elaborate image so I knelt down on hands and knees for a closer inspection.
A hunting scene. A terrified hare was trapped against a tree, pinned by a pack of hounds; its vulnerable neck caught between the teeth of one the dogs. I reached out to stroke the silky pieces of polished marble when the air suddenly altered, vibrating with a charge that skimmed the surface of my body. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stood at attention, and I instinctively knew that I was no longer alone in the room.
A pair of long, bare feet stepped into my line of sight. Male feet.
Startled, I fell back on my rear end and looked up. A large, dark form took the shape of a half-naked man. I heard a sharp intake of breath that I wasn’t certain belonged to me, or him. As we stared at each other, time seemed to expand.
He was handsome. Freakishly handsome. The kind that makes even the most conceited woman fidget. My mind began methodically cataloguing his breathtaking face. Large almond shaped eyes with thick lashes. Check. High, sculpted cheekbones. Check. And a nose that made his face go from cold perfection, to erotically masculine. It was gently sloped, aquiline, a perfect counterpoint to his sensual mouth.
…and tall, he was very tall, around 1 meter 92, 6’3” if you prefer, with wide shoulders and a narrow waist. His chest was muscular and smooth, except for the dust of hair that traveled down from his navel and disappeared under the athletic pants that hung on his hips for dear life.
When my gaze descended past his waistline, it seemed he’d had about enough of my inspection. He pushed the wet hair off his face and arched a brow at me. His expression was opaque, cold, and fixed on me with an alarming intensity.
“Are you lost?” His deep voice was raspy, tumbled, with an easy American accent. A vague recollection of that accent crept in. I shook my head. “Then what the fuck are you doing wandering around my house in the middle of the night?”
A quick flame of humiliation colored my face, followed closely by a film of cold sweat covering every inch of my skin. I was never so grateful for the cover of darkness.
“The servants’ quarters are in the west wing.” He motioned with his long index finger, hostility oozing out of the space between his words. “I suggest you stay there if you want to keep your job…you do work here, don’t you?”
Rendered mute by embarrassment, all I could do was nod.
With a hitch in his step, he turned away from me and proceeded up the marble staircase. I stood up slowly and somehow managed to exert super-human control over the instinct to run for my life.
My eyes briefly swept down to the mosaic floor and locked onto the image of the frightened hare. At that moment I knew exactly how that poor hare felt. I never looked back but I didn’t need to. I could feel his intense glare burning me, singeing the delicate hairs at my nape.
As soon as I was out of his sight, I bolted to my room and jumped into bed. Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and tried to catch my breath while my hand trapped my heavily pounding heart inside my chest. Charlotte had a point. He was foul-mouthed and angry. Radioactive angry. I needed to stay as far away from him as possible. I could do that, make myself small, fade into the background. Because I was absolutely certain of one thing––that man had nothing but contempt for me.
* * *
The estate ran like a well-synchronized Swiss watch. Most of the servants lived in town and all of them arrived promptly for the spectacular breakfast served at daybreak. Maybe Mrs. Arnaud had discovered the secret to punctuality. Displayed on the long counter in the kitchen was a veritable buffet of delights. An assortment of fresh baked goods; steel cut oatmeal sprinkled with fresh cinnamon and golden raisins; eggs cooked in three different styles; and café au lait powdered with a touch of Swiss chocolate. I sipped my café slowly, savored every rich swallow of thick foamy milk spiked with chocolate––my delight in it almost pornographic. The ever-present heavy suit of anxiety I dragged around had vanished overnight. I was flying so high I had to check to make sure I hadn’t sprouted tiny wings on my feet.
After breakfast Mrs. Arnaud led me to a series of rooms that needed to be cleaned. I was assigned the ones on the top floor of the west wing. The rooms were beautifully decorated with luxurious fabrics in pale colors and priceless antiques. She explained that the manor had been completely renovated four years ago. And although the style was still French traditional, the décor was subtle and restrained, in a way that only truly expensive things can be.
Mrs. Arnaud spoke with solemn pride as she recounted the history of the estate. The Horn family had called this fairytale place home since the early 1900 when Egon Horn purchased it from a destitute French industrialist. He was a descendent of something or other royalty, viscount or emperor of whatever––of Baden, I think. I didn’t pay much attention to the title. I grew up in a country ruled by communist ideology for nearly half a century. Ambition was now acceptable, blue bloods never would be.
The affection she had for the current monster-in-residence was reflected in her eyes as she explained that Sebastian Clayton Horn inherited the property from his late
father, Heinrich Horn, four years ago, along with the bank that had been in the family for nearly a century. Who cares, I thought. The man has a filthy mouth and worse manners. But I nodded respectfully and pretended to be impressed at the appropriate moments.
“He’s American?”
“Oui, half American.”
“Is there…a wife, madame?”
The purse of her plump lips suggested the topic was an unpleasant one. “There was,” a pregnant pause, “she passed away three years ago.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“She was barely thirty. A wonderful girl, very beautiful…there was a car accident.” Her voice trailed off, her fingers fluttered, unsure where to land. She seemed to want to say more but didn’t so I remained quiet as well. In silence, she led me to a large closet that contained the cleaning supplies and left me to do my job.
* * *
I’m an obsessive cleaner. Nothing relaxes me as quickly as giving a bathroom a good scrubbing or organizing a closet. Exercise always seemed pointless to me when I could be cleaning instead, accomplishing a necessary task and discharging the inexhaustible nervous energy I often carry around. This job suited me perfectly. I threw myself into cleaning with vigor, desperately wanting to prove my worth to Mrs. Arnaud.
When Charlotte came to fetch me for lunch, I declined and asked her to leave a plate for me in the kitchen.
“I was worried about this. You’re one of those overachiever types. Did you hyperventilate in grade school when you got anything less than an A on a test?”
“No,” I said with a half-smile. “I never got anything less than an A.”
“Figures, I’m warning you, don’t make the rest of us look bad,” she replied with a mischievous smirk, her curly ponytail bouncing as she walked out of the room.
A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1) Page 3