Chapter 11
E ight bathrooms later, I was heading back downstairs, again overwhelmed by the opulence of the mansion. Just for spite, I’d tried looking in Whittier’s bedroom, not surprised that the door was locked. On the third floor were bedrooms but they were smaller than the ones on the second floor, making space for a room with a grand piano, a gym full of exercise equipment, and another room with two small tables, chairs, and closets. Curious, I peeked in the closets and found board games, playing cards, dominos, dice, and more. When I wandered through the other door of what I now thought of as the game room, I discovered what I might have called a balcony but it was so much more. There were a table, chairs, and several potted bushes.
I hadn’t noticed it before, but the third floor was also open to the anteroom, and when I peeked over the railing, I got a good sense of just how tall this building was.
I’d also been right about one thing: this place really was like a museum, with all the fine art displayed on walls and statuary arranged aesthetically throughout. But there wasn’t a single picture of a person . In the movies, I’d often seen wealthy people’s homes with portraits of family members hanging over a fireplace mantel—but there wasn’t even that. I found it odd but dismissed it as part of the weirdness of rich people. I would never understand them—although I was getting a few ideas about how they operated.
When I reported back to Edna, it was two o’clock—and I was famished.
“Are you ready to eat or do you want your next task?”
I’d been shaky for the last half hour and knew if I had to do more manual labor, I wouldn’t have the strength. Reluctantly, I told her I would eat. First, however, I had to put away the cart and supplies and wash up.
When I came back to the kitchen, Edna was warming my food on the stove, but this time she didn’t offer me any pineapple. I got bold and peeked in the fridge anyway, but it was gone—and I wasn’t about to ask.
Edna didn’t offer an explanation—and that was a good reminder to me that she was not an ally. And why would she be? She willingly worked here so she obviously didn’t hate it.
The earlier smells of spices mingled with onion and garlic were subtler now but there was a big pot on the stove that I was sure was the dinner Edna had mentioned earlier.
She brought me the rewarmed steak and toast, both looking a little dry, but I wasn’t about to complain. When I sliced a bite of steak and popped it in my mouth, I was shocked at how good it tasted. I was sure that was because I hadn’t eaten much.
Edna brought two glasses of tea to the table, one for both of us, and she sat across from me. I figured she was going to tell me all about my next task—but I was wrong. “Master Sinclair isn’t so bad once you get to know him.”
I refrained from scoffing, instead focusing on chewing a tiny piece of steak—but I highly doubted it. Even if his demeanor was “nice,” he was still part of an evil family, pillaging villages, raping and ruining the earth, and devastating families. Besides, I didn’t want to get to know him—not at all.
Still, saying that wouldn’t win me any favors—so I simply nodded while taking a tiny bite of toast. And then it dawned on me: she was calling him by yet another moniker. How strange.
“I started working for the Whittier family just after he was born—but I was a nanny then. Each of the Whittier boys had their own nanny who helped out until they were older but, as you can see, I stayed.”
Curiosity got the best of me. “Why?”
“Because their mother died when Sinny was just two months old. So at that point I moved in with the family until he was in school.”
“You said there were other children?”
“Yes. Master Sinclair has two older brothers. Actually, they’re quite a bit older. Warren is 37 and Augustus just turned 40.”
“How old is…Mr. Whittier?” Damn it. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?
“30.” No wonder we couldn’t see eye to eye. I wasn’t even twenty yet, not until February. I’d already lost interest in the food. “How did their mother die?”
Edna’s face blanched, obviously not expecting that question. To me, though, it seemed natural. “I…uh.” She blew a breath of air from her lips, and I tried to assess if it was because she wanted to tell me but knew it would be distasteful or because she didn’t want to say anything but now found herself obliged. “Please don’t repeat this, because I don’t know how Mr. Whittier would feel if he knew I was discussing his family history with you.”
Maybe she could become an ally? If she was willing to trust me with this information, she was either a kind, trusting soul or a busybody gossip who just couldn’t help herself. But she didn’t seem to be the latter. “I won’t say a word.”
“Mr. Whittier’s father always insisted Mrs. Whittier committed suicide. He blamed it on postpartum depression.”
“What do you believe?”
“I’m no expert, dear. Postpartum depression could have been the cause because she was definitely suffering. I didn’t have to be a doctor to know that much.” After taking a sip of tea, she glanced toward the kitchen door and lowered her voice. “Also, bear in mind that I was new to the household, but both older boys still had their nannies—and we talked. Apparently, she was very unhappy with the marriage in general and had once confided in Warren’s nanny that she wanted to leave—but knew she couldn’t afford to do so and also suspected she’d never see her sons again.”
“Would their father actually do that?”
Edna swallowed. “I’ve probably already said too much.” Standing, she strode over to the stove, stirring the pot an excuse to keep her back to me. “I just wanted you to know that Master Sinclair is not a bad man—and, once you get to know him, I think you’ll see in him what I do.”
She was delusional. She had what could be considered a mother-son relationship with the man…meaning she felt for him unconditional love. I would never feel that way about him.
But I found I had another question. “Why are you still here if Mr. Whittier doesn’t need a nanny any longer?”
Edna joined me back at the table. “When it came time to leave, the elder Mr. Whittier asked me to stay on as a housekeeper. I told him no because I was having problems in my marriage and, of course, my training was as a nanny. I felt I’d stayed on for far too long as it was.”
“But?”
“But I realized my first husband and I weren’t going to stay together. We wanted children but I couldn’t have them—and acting as a mother to Sinny had satisfied many of those urges for me, but not my husband at the time. Mr. Whittier likely saw the cracks in my resolve, because he offered to let me live here while increasing my pay to stay.”
“Wait. Here? ”
“Yes. The entire Whittier family lived here at one point.”
“Why did they leave?”
“Well, the older boys, of course, after attending college and moving back received their own homes as partial payment for working for their father. When Sinclair was attending college, Mr. Whittier had a new home built in Cherry Hills Village. It’s smaller than this but far more opulent.”
My mind couldn’t fathom it.
“Mr. Whittier didn’t like living here after Mrs. Whittier died, although he never said it. So it’s possible that I’m wrong but I always had that impression based on things he said—and didn’t say. I worked in his new home for several months before Sinny graduated from Columbia, but when Sinny came home, he at first didn’t want to work for his father. That was rather unpleasant business.”
She was quite the storyteller—and I was rapt. No longer was I concerned with any display of curiosity. I was hooked. “So why did he?”
“I really shouldn’t say.” I wanted to prod her but knew that would get me nowhere. Instead, I took the last bite of toast, hoping my progress would distract her.
And it worked.
She continued. “His father threatened to cut off all support, saying that the Whittier family needed to put up a united front. He’d been struggling with bad publicity ever since he’d closed a mine somewhere south.”
I felt a tingle in my spine as I realized that was what my dad had been involved in—about ten years ago.
“He had what Sinclair often described as a project of obsession and needed Sinclair to step into his proper role so he could focus on it. In exchange, his son would inherit the original mansion, and he took it off the market. Sinny said he would only accept the terms if I came with him to run his household. Both I and his father accepted those terms.
“Oh, but I’ve said too much. Please don’t repeat any of what I’ve told you.”
“I won’t.”
“Look at you. All that cleaning must have made you work up quite an appetite.”
Glancing down at my plate, I could have cursed.
There wasn’t a single crumb left.
My afternoon task was even more demeaning than my earlier one, but I was happy to at least be outside. There was a patio on the east side that matched the one on the west, with one exception: over here there was a brick oven and grill, along with a large oval table with a glass top and white umbrella and six matching chairs.
The oven and grill were pristine…but the brickwork wasn’t, and my task was to scrub it. I didn’t know that I could get the char marks off the red brick, but I would try—and I was suddenly glad I’d eaten all the food on my plate.
It was hot outside, but at least the sun wasn’t beating directly down on me. I used the time to look around at my surroundings. This was a quiet neighborhood full of large homes and occasionally someone would pass on the sidewalk with a dog or be jogging under the shaded trees.
After half an hour of scrubbing, an older man came around the corner of the house, pruning shears in hand. When he spotted me, he said, “Well, hello there.”
“Hi.”
“Are you new around here?”
“Uh, yes. I just started today.”
He chuckled. “They didn’t waste any time giving you the dirty work, did they?”
I liked the kind, friendly vibes I was getting off this man and I flashed the day’s first genuine smile. “No, they didn’t.”
“Name’s Henry.” He held out a weathered hand.
Removing the canvas glove on my right hand, I shook his hand back, smiling again into his light blue eyes. “Annalise—but you can call me Lise for short.”
“I have a daughter named Lisa, so that should be easy for me to remember. Did Mr. Whittier get rid of the old cleaning ladies?”
“Um…I don’t know.”
“Hmm. Well, I do the yard work around here. I’m here two or three days a week in warm weather and then as needed in the winter.”
“What do you do in the winter?”
“Scrape snow off the sidewalks mostly. But I prepare the beds in the fall and spring and, as you can see, I have plenty to keep me busy this time of year.”
I wiped the perspiration off my forehead. “I have to say the yard is beautiful. Your work speaks for itself.”
“That’s awful nice of you to say. I’m proud of it.”
“It shows.” I picked up my bottle of water and took a few sips, grateful for the excuse to relax a bit.
“I don’t know how much longer I’ll be doing it, though.”
“Oh? Are you thinking about retiring?”
“No. I love the work. But I suspect Mr. Whittier’ll be selling this place before too long.”
“Really?” Edna hadn’t indicated that—but I supposed that might have been something she’d have an easier time keeping to herself. I was so curious as to why. Did he need the money?
Maybe he realized it was ridiculous to live in a place this big as a single man—even if it was his birth home.
“I don’t think he much likes it here.”
I was shocked, especially after having to spend most of the day meticulously cleaning already spotless bathrooms in the mansion. I disliked Winchester so much because it had been a cesspool of hatred directed at my father and me—and if I’d had the money Sinclair Whittier had, I wouldn’t have hesitated to leave. If that was all true…
I wondered why he stayed.