The Mister

by James, E L

  Does she find me repellent?

  Maybe that’s it. She just doesn’t like me.

  Hell, I don’t know what she thinks of me. I’m very much at a disadvantage. For all I know, she could be rummaging through my belongings right now, learning more about me. Figuring me out. I grimace. Maybe that’s why she dislikes me.

  “She seems terrified of you,” Caroline observes.

  “Who?” I ask, though I know full well who she’s talking about.

  “Alessia.”

  “I’m her boss.”

  “You’re awfully touchy about her. I think she’s terrified because she’s crazy about you.”

  “What? Now you’re hallucinating. She can barely stand to be in the same room as me.”

  “QED.” Caroline shrugs.

  I frown at her.

  She sighs. “She can’t be in the same room as you because she likes you and doesn’t want to give herself away.”

  “Caro, she’s my daily. That’s all.” I’m emphatic, and it’s an effort to throw Caroline off the scent, though this gives me hope. She smirks as the cab pulls up outside Bluebird. I hand the cabdriver a twenty, ignoring Caroline’s look.

  “Keep the change,” I tell him as we climb out of the cab.

  “That’s an excessive tip,” Caroline grumbles. I say nothing, too lost in thoughts of Alessia Demachi, and hold the door of the café open for her.

  “So your mother thinks I should pick myself up by my bootstraps and get back to work?” Caroline says as we’re led to our table.

  “She thinks you’re very talented and that working on the Mayfair development will be a welcome diversion.”

  Caroline presses her lips together. “I think I need time,” she whispers, and her eyes dim with sadness.

  “I understand.”

  “We only buried him two weeks ago.” She pulls Kit’s sweater up to her nose and inhales.

  “I know, I know,” I say, and wonder if his scent is still on the sweater.

  I miss him, too. And actually, it’s thirteen days since his burial. Twenty-two days since he died.

  I swallow the harsh, hard knot that forms in my throat.

  * * *

  I missed my workout this morning, so I vault up the stairs to my flat. Breakfast has taken longer than I intended, and I’m expecting Oliver at any minute. Part of me also hopes that Alessia will still be there. As I approach my front door, I hear music coming from the flat.

  Music? What’s going on?

  I slide my key into the lock and cautiously open the door. It’s Bach, one of his preludes in G Major. Perhaps Alessia is playing music through my computer. But how can she? She doesn’t know the password. Does she? Maybe she’s playing her phone through the sound system, though from the look of her tatty anorak she doesn’t strike me as someone who has a smartphone. I’ve never seen her with one. The music rings through my flat, lighting up its darkest corners.

  Who knew that my daily likes classical?

  This is a tiny piece of the Alessia Demachi puzzle. Quietly I close the door, but as I stand in the hallway, it becomes apparent that the music is not coming from the sound system. It’s from my piano. Bach. Fluid and light, played with a deftness and understanding I’ve only heard from concert-standard performers.

  Alessia?

  I’ve never managed to make my piano sing like this. Taking off my shoes, I creep down the hallway and peer around the door into the drawing room.

  She is seated at the piano in her housecoat and scarf, swaying a little, completely lost in the music, her eyes closed in concentration as her hands move with graceful dexterity across the keys. The music flows through her, echoing off the walls and ceiling in a flawless performance worthy of any concert pianist. I watch her in awe as she plays, her head bowed.

  She is brilliant.

  In every way.

  And I’m completely spellbound.

  She finishes the prelude, and I step back into the hall, flattening myself against the wall in case she looks up, not daring to breathe. However, without missing a beat she goes straight into the fugue. I lean against the wall and close my eyes, marveling at her artistry and the feeling that she puts into each phrase. I’m carried away by the music, and as I listen, I realize that she wasn’t reading the music. She’s playing from memory.

  Good God. She’s a fucking virtuoso.

  And I remember her intense focus when she examined my score while she was dusting the piano. Clearly she was reading the music.

  Shit. She plays at this standard and she was reading my composition?

  The fugue ends, and seamlessly she launches into another piece. Again Bach, Prelude in C-sharp Major, I think.

  What the fuck is she doing cleaning when she plays like this?

  The front doorbell sounds, and suddenly the music ceases.

  Shit.

  I hear the loud scrape of the piano stool on the floor and, not wanting to be caught eavesdropping, I barrel down the hallway in my socks and open the door.

  “Good afternoon, sir.” It’s Oliver.

  “Come in,” I say, a little breathless.

  “I let myself in downstairs. I hope you don’t mind. Are you okay?” Oliver asks as he enters. He stops and stares at Alessia, who is now standing in the hall silhouetted against the light from the drawing-room doorway. As I open my mouth to say something to her, she scoots into the kitchen.

  “Yes. I’m fine. Go on through. I just need a word with my daily.”

  Oliver frowns in confusion but makes his way to the drawing room.

  I take a deep breath and run both my hands through my hair, trying to contain my…wonder.

  What the hell?

  I stride into the kitchen, where I find a panicked Alessia struggling into her anorak.

  “So sorry. So sorry. I am so sorry,” she mumbles, unable to look at me. Her face is pale and strained, as if she’s fighting back tears.

  Shit.

  “Hey, it’s okay. Here, let me help you with that.” My tone is gentle as I take hold of her coat. It’s every bit as cheap, thin, and nasty as it looks. The name MICHAL JANECZEK is sewn into the collar. Michal Janeczek? Her boyfriend? My scalp prickles as all the little hairs on the back of my neck rise. Maybe this is why she doesn’t want to talk to me. She has a boyfriend.

  Fuck. The disappointment is real.

  I slip her jacket over her arms and shoulders.

  Or maybe she simply doesn’t like me.

  Pulling the anorak more tightly around her body, she steps out of my reach while she fumbles with her housecoat and stuffs it into a plastic shopping bag.

  “I am sorry, Mister,” she says once more. “I will not do it again. I will not.” And her voice cracks.

  “Alessia, for heaven’s sake. It was a pleasure to hear you play. You can play anytime.”

  Even if you do have a boyfriend.

  She stares at the floor, and I can’t resist. Stepping forward, I reach out and gently tilt her chin so that I can see her face.

  “I mean it,” I say. “Anytime. You play so well.” And before I can stop myself, I let my thumb trace her full bottom lip.

  Oh, God. So soft.

  Touching her is a mistake.

  My body responds immediately. Fuck.

  She draws in a sharp breath, and her eyes grow impossibly large.

  I drop my hand. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, appalled that I’m pawing the girl. Though Caroline’s words come back to me.

  She likes you and doesn’t want to give herself away.

  “I must go,” Alessia says, and not bothering to remove the scarf from her head, she scoots around me and bolts for the front door. As I hear it close, I notice that she’s left her boots. I reach for them and rush to the front door and open it. But she’s disappeared. Looki
ng at her boots in my hand I turn them over and I’m distressed to see that they’re so old that the soles are worn thin.

  Hence the wet footprints.

  She must be penniless if this is what she’s wearing. Scowling, I take them back to the kitchen and glance through the glass door that leads out onto the fire escape. The weather is fine today, so even in her trainers her feet won’t get wet.

  What on earth possessed me to touch her? That was a mistake. I rub my thumb and forefinger together, recalling the softness of her lip. Groaning, I shake my head. I’m shocked and embarrassed that I’ve overstepped the mark with her. Taking a deep breath, I go to join Oliver in the drawing room.

  “Who was that?” Oliver asks.

  “My daily.”

  “I don’t have her on the roster of employees.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes. How do you pay her? With cash?”

  What the fuck is he implying?

  “Yes. Cash,” I snap.

  Oliver shakes his head. “You’re the Earl of Trevethick now. She’ll need to go on the payroll.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs will take a dim view of you paying cash to anyone. Trust me, they’re all over our accounts.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All employees have to go through the books. Did you organize her?”

  “No. Mrs. Blake did.”

  “I’m sure it won’t be a problem. I just need her details. She’s from the UK, yes?”

  “Well, no. She says she’s Albanian.”

  “Oh. Then she may need a work permit to be here—unless she’s studying, of course.”

  Oh, shit.

  “I’ll get the details for you. Shall we discuss the rest of the staff?” I ask.

  “By all means. Shall we start with those who work at Trevelyan House?”

  * * *

  Alessia runs to the bus stop, unsure why she’s running or from whom. How could she have been stupid enough to get caught? He said he didn’t mind her playing the piano, but she doesn’t know whether to believe him. He may be calling Magda’s friend right now to have her fired! Her heart pounding, feeling confused, she sits on the bench to wait for the bus that will take her to Queenstown Road station. She isn’t sure if her increased heart rate is from her mad dash along Chelsea Embankment or from what happened in the Mister’s apartment.

  She caresses her lower lip with her fingertips. Closing her eyes, she recalls the delicious jolt that went through her when he touched her. Her heart somersaults once more, making her gasp.

  He touched her.

  Like he does in her dreams.

  Like he does in her imagination.

  So gentle.

  And tender.

  Isn’t that what she wants?

  Perhaps he likes her….

  She gasps once more.

  No. She cannot think like this.

  It’s impossible.

  How could he like her? She’s just his cleaner.

  But he helped her into her coat. No one has ever done that before. She stares down at her feet.

  Zot!

  She realizes that she’s left her boots in the apartment. Should she go back and retrieve them? She has no shoes except the pair she’s wearing and her boots, one of the few possessions she retains from home.

  She can’t go back. He’s meeting with someone. If she angered him by playing the piano, he is sure to be angrier still if she interrupts him. She sees the bus in the distance and resolves to collect her boots on Friday—if she still has a job.

  Her teeth toy with her upper lip. She needs this job. If she gets fired, Magda might turn her out on the street.

  No, that will not happen.

  Magda wouldn’t be that cruel, and Alessia still has Mrs. Kingsbury’s and Mrs. Goode’s houses to clean, though neither of them has a piano. However, it’s not just the piano that Alessia needs—she needs the money. Magda and her son, Michal, are emigrating to Canada soon. They will join Magda’s fiancé, Logan, who lives and works in Toronto. Alessia will have to find somewhere to live. Magda charges her a pittance of a hundred pounds a week for the tiny bedroom, and from her research on Michal’s computer she knows this is a bargain. Finding other lodgings in London for so little is going to be a challenge.

  Her heart warms when she thinks about Michal. He is generous with his time and his computer. Alessia’s knowledge of the cyber world is limited, as her father was strict with the use of the old computer at home. But Michal is not. He is all over social media. Facebook, Instagram, Tumblr, Snapchat—Michal loves them all. She smiles thinking of the selfie he took yesterday of the two of them. He likes to take the selfies.

  The bus arrives, and still feeling giddy from the Mister’s touch, she climbs aboard.

  * * *

  “Well, that’s a run-through of all the staff. I need your daily’s details so I can add her to the payroll,” Oliver says. We’re seated at the small dining table in my drawing room, and I had hoped we’d concluded our meeting.

  “Now I have a proposition for you,” he continues.

  “What?”

  “I think it’s best if you take a thorough tour and inspect both the estates that are in your direct control. Tyok we can do when the tenant vacates.”

  “Oliver, I’ve lived on these estates at various points in my life. Why do I need to inspect them?”

  “Because you’re the boss now, Maxim. It will show the staff you care and that you’re committed to them and to the estates’ longevity.”

  What? My mother would have my head on a plate if I felt anything less. For her it’s always been about the earldom, the bloodline, and the family—which is ironic, considering she abandoned them. But not before she’d imparted to Kit her passion for our family’s history and legacy. She’d schooled him well. He knew his duties. And like the good man he was, he rose to the challenge.

  As did Maryanne. She knew our history, too.

  Me. Not so much.

  Maryanne had learned by osmosis; she was a curious child.

  I was always too distracted and lost in my own world.

  “Of course I’m committed to the staff and the estates,” I growl.

  “They don’t know that, sir,” Oliver says calmly. “And…well, your behavior there the last time…” His voice trails off. I know he’s referring to the night before Kit’s funeral, when I’d drunk my way through a portion of Kit’s cellar at Tresyllian Hall. I was angry. I knew what his death signified for me. And I didn’t want the responsibility.

  And I was in shock.

  I missed him.

  I still miss him.

  “I was in fucking mourning,” I mutter, feeling defensive. “I still am. I didn’t ask for all this.”

  I’m not ready for this huge obligation.

  Why didn’t my parents foresee this?

  My mother never made me feel as though I was going to be good at anything. She concentrated on my brother. She had tolerated her two younger children. Loved us, even, in her own way.

  But she adored Kit.

  Everyone adored Kit. My blond, blue-eyed, smart, confident, overindulged elder brother.

  The heir.

  Oliver holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture. “I know. I know. But you have some bridges to mend.”

  “Well, maybe we should schedule a trip in the next few weeks.”

  “I think sooner rather than later.”

  I don’t want to leave London. I’ve made a little headway with Alessia, and the thought of not seeing her for a few days is…displeasing.

  “When, then?” I snap.

  “No time like the present.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  Oliver shakes his head.

&nb
sp; Fuck.

  “Let me think about it,” I mutter, and I know I’m pouting like a spoiled child.

  I am the definition of a spoiled child.

  Gone are the days when I could do what the hell I wanted.

  And I shouldn’t take my anger out on Oliver.

  “Very good, sir. I’ve cleared my diary for the next few days to come with you.”

  Oh, great.

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  “Tomorrow, then?”

  “Sure. Why not. We’ll make it a royal progress.” I grit my teeth.

  “Maxim, I know there’s a great deal to take on board, but having all your staff well motivated will make a significant difference. They only know a certain side of you.” He pauses, and I understand that he’s referring to my less-than-spotless reputation. “Just talking to the estate managers on their home turf will mean so much to them. Your meeting with them last week was too brief.”

  “Okay, okay, you’ve made your point. I’ve agreed, haven’t I?” I know I’m being petulant, but deep down I don’t want to leave.

  Well, I don’t want to leave Alessia.

  My daily.

  Chapter Seven

  It’s a cold and gloomy Tuesday afternoon. Exhausted, I lean against the chimney stack of the old tin mine and stare out toward the sea. The sky is dark and ominous, and a bitter Cornish wind slices through me. A storm is brewing, and the sea rages and crashes against the cliffs beneath, the sound booming and echoing through the ruined building. The first freezing spots of sleet from the coming storm spatter on my face.

  As children, Kit, Maryanne, and I used to play in and around the ruin of this tin mine that stands on the edge of the Trevethick estate. Kit and Maryanne had always played the heroes, and I was always the villain. How apt. It was typecasting, even then. I smile at the memory.

  A considerable fortune had been made from these mines, and the profits swelled the Trevelyan coffers over the centuries. But they were closed in the late 1800s as they became less profitable, and the workers emigrated to places like Australia and South Africa, where the mining industry was flourishing. I spread my hand over the worn stone of the chimney stack, cold and rough to the touch but still standing after all these centuries.