A Million Different Ways (A Horn Novel Book 1)

by Dangelico, P.

  He measured me with a faraway look in his eyes. “You’ve been warned.” Jerking the door open, he entered the kitchen and disappeared down the hall with uneven footsteps while I stood there dumbfounded, watching his imposing form fade away.

  Warned? Warned of what? I had no idea what it was about me that provoked such animosity. And the worst part was that I was naturally inclined to please and appease people. It never sat well with me to be disliked. And I had never been disliked this openly in all my life.

  * * *

  I dreamed of him that night.

  Startled and embarrassed, I woke up in a pool of sweat. Fragments of erotic images came flooding back to me so clearly that it seemed impossible they were only a figment of my imagination. In what dark part of my psyche had this sexual hunger been hiding? I barely had a pulse the last couple of years, and for it to be him to provoke it… said nothing good about me.

  My muscles felt listless, rubbery, as if I had been fighting something in my sleep. I got out of bed to change my nightgown creeping and groaning like a woman twice my age. Shoved in the back corner of a drawer, I found an old t-shirt I didn’t remember I still had. Aleksander’s t-shirt. The thought of Aleksander still left a bitter taste in my mouth, even though it was growing fainter with each passing year. That was progress, I guess.

  I pushed the window open and a cool breeze drove the staleness out of the room. The air smelled of pinesap, clean and crisp. A full moon colored the silhouette of trees indigo. Riding on the coattails of the scent of evergreens, a mist of sadness blew in. I leaned on the windowsill with my head in my hands, and tried to will a feeling away that seemed determined to hang around. I needed a good cry––to get it out of my system––but I hadn’t shed a single tear in six years and they refused to fall once again.

  A tall figure emerged from the dark grove of trees. It was easy to identify him from the hitch in his step, his strides stiff and deliberate, as if he forced himself to take a longer step than was comfortable. In spite of his injury, he cut through the flower garden and reached the back door in half the time I would have. A leisurely stroll at midnight…I wondered what demons haunted his dreams. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I was a little curious about him…okay maybe more than a little.

  The estate ran with ruthless efficiency. At first I thought it was out of fear of provoking his nasty temper, though quickly realized that wasn’t the case at all. On the contrary, the staff was unusually loyal to him. They never complained or criticism him in any way. I could see why. He was incredibly generous with them. We all ate the same quality of food he did and it was provided liberally. The pay was many times more than anybody else offered for the same position. And when someone became ill, he assumed the cost. One of the elderly housekeepers had enlightened me of that fact, along with the intimate details of her bunion operations, repeatedly––at least three times.

  That’s why it was close to impossible to ask anyone about him without earning a raised eyebrow or a disapproving look. Anything I learned about him was from overhearing broken sentences whispered in dark corners.

  “Here, place these in the mud room for Mr. Horn,” Claire said with a faint Irish accent. She handed me a pile of fluffy towels. “Likes to swim. Good exercise for his leg. Could’ve gone to the Olympics, you know. Don’t tell nobody that, not allowed to gossip, you know.”

  Yes, I know! In no less than fanatical pride, she volunteered that he was some kind of financial wizard, having made his own fortune before inheriting his father’s. Not much was said about that man, except that he was nothing like his son. I got the distinct impression she meant worse––frightening to consider.

  A financial genius and an Olympic athlete…hmm what next? Walking on water? Raising the dead? How about some common courtesy? Apparently that simple skill was too difficult for him to master. I almost said it out loud.

  Even less was said about his wife. Mostly it was about how beautiful she was. “Nice girl, beautiful” or “Beautiful girl, an angel.” Those words, not necessarily in that order. I wondered what it was that made her so special. There had to be more to her to inspire such deep, lasting devotion from a man as hardened as Sebastian Horn. The absence of pictures still puzzled me though. Was he trying to erase her memory? There wasn’t a single one to be found anywhere in the house. The only explanation I could think of was that the memory was still too painful for him. Then again, what did I know of devotion? I thought Aleksander had been devoted. That was a laugh.

  His behavior towards me was still completely baffling. It wasn’t just arbitrary rudeness; it was an explicit dislike of me. But why? What irredeemable transgression had I committed to inspire such disdain? I combed through every moment I had spent in his presence as if the fate of nations depended on unraveling this Gordian knot and couldn’t come up with a single, solid reason.

  My head was pounding by the time I lay back down on the cool linen sheets. Staring at the ceiling, I searched for answers that weren’t there. My eyelids heavy, somehow, slowly, I drifted back to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  The next day, Mrs. Arnaud discreetly asked if I would go tidy his bedroom. There was a strange, apprehensive look on her face when she spoke, as if she was about to explain further, then thought twice about it. When I reached his bedroom, I found the door shut. My nerves fluttered as I gripped the door handle, about to walk straight into the lair of the beast, but Mrs. Arnaud had entrusted me with the task and I would have done anything to please her. Pushing aside my reluctance, I opened the door and came to a sudden halt in lip-parting bewilderment.

  The reek of stale alcohol permeating the room knocked the wind out of me. I ran to the tall french doors, which led to the balcony, and pushed them open, letting fresh air circulate. It was a disaster zone; everything was either out of place or tilted to the side. Empty bottles of hard liquor and beer lay scattered on the floor by a stuffed chair. I would never have expected this of him. He was always so immaculate. For a moment, I speculated whether he was an alcoholic and discarded the notion. He didn’t exhibit any of the typical symptoms of the disease. It wasn’t uncommon for grief to provoke some kind of numbing addiction, but I seldom saw him drink, and when he did it was always in moderation. Something must have triggered this binge. Although what, I couldn’t imagine.

  It took hours to sort through the destruction, longer than usual because I examined everything as I cleaned. All the furnishings were of the highest quality. Unlike the rest of the house, the design was clean, contemporary––almost monastic in its simplicity. A muted color scheme, a range of barely noticeable shades that played off each other complimented the design.

  A Gerhard Richter painting hung on the wall above a tall dresser. One of his earlier works––it was done in photorealism. The subject was a mother cradling her baby, the infant trapped to her breast. Their faces were smeared horizontally, preserving their anonymity.

  The effect was startling. It could easily have been a dream or an old memory buried within my own mind. What a shame, I thought. Paintings like this belonged in a museum for everyone to appreciate, not in the corner of a rich man’s bedroom among the remains of all night bender.

  I couldn’t tear my gaze away from the image, the consequence of which was an unexpected swell of emotion rising up. My mother had died of a blood clot shortly after giving birth to me and I often wondered how different my life would’ve been had she lived, how different I would be. Not that I had anything to complain about; my father had been a wonderful parent. And a patient man, thankfully, because all the questions I peppered him with over the years would have driven an ordinary person insane. He would spend hours at night telling me stories about how much I reminded him of her. The only things I had left were those stories, an old worn-out Polaroid of her at the beach, and a threadbare Hermès scarf… it wasn’t nearly enough.

  As I turned away, I walked right into a subtle scent drifting up from the bed linens. Without permission, my body responded instantly.
An unwelcome flush crept up my neck my attention riveted on the impression his head had left on the goose down pillow.

  Impulsively, I traced the dent with my index finger, the fabric cool under my fingertip. After a quick scan of the open doorway, I pressed the pillow to my face and inhaled deeply. Sandalwood, neroli…and some other indefinable elixir that gave me goose bumps. The man looks at you like he’s surprised to find a pubic hair in his soup, argued that little voice of reason that often whispers in my ear. A sobering thought. I dropped the pillow and finished making the bed, committed myself to cleaning until all evidence of his night of dissipation was erased.

  * * *

  By early afternoon, I was done. As I was gathering the cleaning supplies, organizing them in the bucket to be put away for the day, I heard something move behind me.

  “What are you doing in my room?” His raspy voice was low and quiet.

  I snapped up straight, turned around slowly, and found him in the open doorway. Braced against the frame, he gripped it tight enough to turn his fingertips pale. His white dress shirt was taut against the swells of his chest, his tie loose, exposing the base of his throat. I watched his Adam’s apple rise as he swallowed. His expression looked wary, all the muscles on his powerful body tense.

  What was he doing here? He usually stayed in the city during the week. I could feel the pulse on the side of my throat humming. It took me a while to respond. Whenever he was near, my mind took a vacation, traveling over every small detail of him while I patiently waited for it to return to work.

  “My job, Mr. Horn. I was cleaning––now I’m done.” Oddly, his face relaxed at the bite in my voice. Strange man.

  “You didn’t break or steal anything, did you?” he asked with cool candor.

  My eyes must have been as large as dinner plates as I went through a list of scathing replies in my head. “No…and no,” I said, after extensive editing.

  I moved to leave, gripping the bucket in front of me as a shield from more insults, but he remained in the doorway and continued to stare with that unnerving expression he always wore around me. It could only be described as fascinated disgust. I was about to blast him with a few choice recommendations on what he could do with that supercilious look on his face when he finally stepped aside, sparing me the pleasure. I walked out without another glance in his direction––but I could feel his eyes glued on me all the way down the hall.

  * * *

  “Charlotte…I have to tell you something.”

  When I entered her bedroom, I found her sprawled on her stomach, her chin in her hands, her long legs kicked up behind her. Having worked at the estate for nearly two years had helped Charlotte save a considerable ‘little nest egg’ that afforded her a television. She insisted I come watch one of her favorite shows after dinner and having learned how persuasive Charlotte could be when she got something in her pretty head, I agreed and saved myself the trouble of an argument. The situation was worrying me. I needed to talk to someone about it and Charlotte had proven herself a friend.

  “What is it?” Her angelic face tilted quizzically as she patted the spot next to her. I sat down and started quietly, hesitantly…things escalated quickly after that. I worked myself up into an indignant rage. Pacing turned into stomping. My murmur turned into a roar, and then I began to hurl unbecoming epithets like rocks at a sinner.

  “And then his Highness asked if I was still crawling around his house like a thief!!! He’s a bully and foul-mouthed…you-know-what without an ounce of class! He actually asked me if I stole something! And by the way, his room smelled worse than the crappy pub under my old apartment in the red light district!”

  Charlotte doubled over, howling with laughter. I didn’t find it so amusing. In fact the whole situation was giving me an upset stomach. And I wasn’t certain if it was his contempt for me, or my mortifying attraction to him that was causing it. I was too ashamed to share that little detail with her.

  “I told you he has a nasty temper. Although I’ve never seen him behave quite that badly before. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

  Wouldn’t worry about it? I was way past worry. “Charlotte, the man is making a sport out of humiliating me. He looks like he’s about to throw up every time his eyes land on me. He hates me…I’m sure of it. It’s safe to say, I should be worried.”

  “Okay, he’s a moody bastard, but he’s never sacked anyone since I’ve worked for him. And once I dropped a bottle of Pellegrino on his brand new computer.” She made a gesture with her hands mimicking an explosion. “Destroyed it, so I know your job is safe.”

  “What did he do?!”

  “Nothing, really. He stared at it, then told me to clean it up.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes.” It was becoming quite clear that his animosity extended only to me. How depressing.

  After subjecting myself to twenty minutes of mind numbing stupidity, watching people on a deserted island try to outwit each other, I decided that counting sheep would be better entertainment. I was about to leave when she looked up from the screen.

  “Oh, I meant to tell you that Isabelle is back tomorrow from vacation. Do yourself a favor and stay away from her.” Pivoting her attention back to the show, she giggled at some absurdity that had just happened.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “She’s a raging bitch and considers any attractive female in the country a personal threat.”

  “But what does that have to do with me?”

  “Hello?? You’re beautiful and Sebastian Horn is a gorgeous, rich bachelor.” She waved me off, turning her attention back to the television as if it were silly to discuss the obvious.

  “Charlotte, I don’t know who this Isabelle person is or what she is about, but she’s welcome to play Jane Eyre all she likes. I can’t afford to lose this position, and I’m already on shaky ground.”

  A large dose of fear made it come out more harshly than I intended. Charlotte’s expression softened. She got off the bed and hugged me. It felt sooo good, the warmth, the contact. I hadn’t had a taste of it in years. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just think you should be careful. She always seems to get away with stirring shit up. Mrs. Arnaud and Mr. Bentifourt are oblivious to her ways.”

  “I understand. Night, Charlotte.”

  * * *

  I spent the better part of the next day writing letters to the department heads of every hospital in Geneva. With a stiff back and cramped fingers, I crawled into bed earlier than usual and found myself staring at the clock I had purchased in town, growing angrier at every move of the large hand. By midnight I had to concede that reciting the periodic table in my head wasn’t working. I didn’t have any reading material in my room other than my medical textbooks and those held no appeal whatsoever. The mere thought of all those wonderful books in the library made me groan. It was like waving a red flag at a bull. I really did try talking myself out of sneaking around in the dark––as I was rudely instructed not to do. I just couldn’t make myself see reason.

  The library was by far my favorite room in the manor. The high vaulted ceiling and aged patina on the walls made it both awe inspiring and cozy. A long eighteenth century table with high backed chairs ran parallel to a carved stone fireplace. Adorning the table, an important looking Chinese vase held an arrangement of fresh cut flowers from the garden. Rows and rows of carved bookcases stood on both sides of the room, extending out towards the windows, under which sat plush couches in cobalt blue velvet perfect for spending a lazy afternoon reading.

  My eyes adjusted easily to the dim sconce lights. I tipped-toed downstairs in my linen nightgown and bare feet and made sure to open the library door as quietly as possible, conscious that every sound was amplified by the stone walls.

  The faint scent of paper and lemon oil that greeted me made me giddy. Moonlight spilling in through the large windows lit my path, making it easy to navigate between the rows and rows of bookcases. My fingers skated over the beautifully bound
leather spines. Some new, some ancient. The titles in various languages: English, French, even a little German and Latin. I wondered how long it took to accumulate all those books. Generations, I figured, some looked to be first editions. One title caught my interest. I pulled out an English copy of Love in the Time of Cholera and sat down, curling up on the floor cross-legged.

  I was just getting settled when I heard muffled voices outside the door. Every muscle in my body turned to stone when a woman’s voice became quite clear. God, no… please don’t do this to me. My chest tightened unmercifully, wringing every drop of air out of my lungs. I rubbed the tiny cross hanging around my neck and prayed for divine intervention. Please keep walking, please keep walking, please keep walking.

  The doorknob squeaked and the voices entered the room. Apparently God wasn’t taking requests at the moment. A lamp was turned on and the light cast a soft glow about the room. I plastered myself against the bookcase and tried to melt into the background by osmosis. My heart beat so violently that I was afraid they could hear it.

  “There is nothing to talk about, Paisley.”

  I knew that voice. He sounded bored and impatient. I’m going to be fired for this. He is going to throw me out on my rear end in the middle of the night!

  “Yes, there is, Scout,” a woman replied with an American accent.

  “Don’t ever call me that again.” His anger boiled up quickly, unmistakable under the veneer of his low voice.

  “Or what? What will you do to me? Put your hands on me? Teach me a lesson? Shit, I hope so.” Her brittle laugh echoed off the walls.