Chapter 15
W hen I woke up the next morning, I found I wasn’t as angry or hopeless as I’d been the past couple of days—and in the first text message of the day to my dad, I let him know that. I didn’t tell him the details because I didn’t want to give him cause to worry, but I figured if I let him know I felt a little better about my role here, he’d be able to focus more on his health and well-being.
And, after last night, I thought there might be a chance for a few courtesies in the future—like visiting my father on occasion.
I had hope.
So when I went downstairs a few minutes before seven, I was wearing more conservative clothing than the day before: a simple pink cotton dress and white flats with my hair pulled up in a ponytail. And I was looking at the mansion in a whole new light. Was it way too much house for one man and his driver? Yes. Did I still feel like a misfit there? Of course. But I was beginning to see its beauty. Someone had carefully chosen every single aspect of this gigantic building, and I was beginning to see the appeal of its aesthetics.
Carrying the silver platter that had held my midnight snack the night before, I entered the kitchen. Edna beamed at me from the stove while Sinclair sat at the table, reading what looked to be some kind of report. “Have a seat, dear. Breakfast will be served in just a moment.” I set the platter on the end of the table, remembering the times Sinclair had told me “Edna will take care of it.”
“Can I get a cup of coffee first?” Although I felt better rested than the day before, I still had a little more catching up to do.
“I’ll bring you some.”
There was already a full glass of water in the spot where I’d sat before. Between Sinclair and me was a pitcher of orange juice and two empty glasses. I didn’t dare start with a jolt of sugar first thing in the morning, so I waited to see what Edna would be bringing to the table.
When Sinclair looked up from the page he was reading, I said, “Thank you, by the way.”
A frown formed on his face before he shook his head, returning to the report.
Ah…so he was going to pretend he hadn’t even brought me that food. I could play that game too, but I knew it had to be him and I really was grateful, even if he didn’t want to accept my declaration of thanks.
And, for some reason, it made him all the more desirable in my eyes. It didn’t help that the scratches on his face added to his appeal.
Edna approached the table with a cup of coffee for me. To the side of the juice was a small pitcher of cream and a bowl of sugar and sweetener packets. I doctored my coffee while Edna brought two plates of food. Although my tummy had felt satisfied when I’d gone to sleep the night before, I was hungry now, and the smells hitting my nose amped up my anticipation.
After she set the plate down, I examined what was there: a small bowl of oatmeal, a toasted whole wheat English muffin, and something else I wasn’t quite sure of. “What’s this?” I asked, pointing to what I thought was fish.
“Poached salmon. That’s your protein this morning.”
I wasn’t the world’s biggest fish eater, but I’d give it a try. And, although the oatmeal looked good, topped with beautiful berries mingled with the subtle scent of cinnamon, I wasn’t a fan. Before my mother had left, she’d make oatmeal once a week, and it was always warm, runny, and bland. I used to call it breakfast soup .
This morning, though, I was hungry and didn’t want to seem ungrateful.
Sinclair was buttering his English muffin, and I decided to do the same, picking up the table knife to the right of my plate. Edna asked, “Can I get either of you anything else?” We both declined and, as Edna left the room, she said, “Be back in a bit.”
Now it was just Sinclair and me and things felt awkward all of a sudden. Even though he seemed quiet and maybe a little surly, I knew that might be due to being in pain after saving me last night. Add to it staying up late and drinking, and he might be wishing he could be back in bed.
But I was grateful, because he hadn’t yelled at me once since then.
I decided to make a little conversation. “The mansion really is beautiful.”
He scowled then. “I hate this place.”
The way he said it told me the subject was not up for conversation, so I took a bite of my English muffin and decided not to talk after all. But I wondered why he would continue living here if he didn’t like it. In the case of my father and me, we couldn’t move due to lack of money and poor credit, thanks to my dad’s medical bills—but Sinclair didn’t have any such restraints. If I had the money he obviously did, I would live wherever my heart desired.
Maybe it wasn’t that simple. Moving wherever I wanted would have meant leaving Winchester—but if I’d had a job that supported my lifestyle there—like Sinclair—it might not be as easy as I was thinking.
Edna came back in the kitchen, humming to herself a tune that wasn’t familiar to me. Deciding to be adventurous, I took a bite of the salmon. Immediately, I was surprised at how good it tasted, even though I thought it was weird to eat fish for breakfast. Then I took a small spoonful of the oatmeal and loved it too. It was completely unlike the gruel my mother used to make.
And I came to a conclusion: Edna was an excellent cook.
Midway through the meal, Sinclair said, “When we’re done with breakfast, I’ll show you what your job will be today.”
I refrained from asking if it was going to be as demeaning as my work yesterday, because I found it interesting that he would be showing me my tasks today rather than Edna.
Which told me it would likely be something quite different. At least, I hoped so.
Even though he’d indicated as much the day before, I wanted reassurance. “Did my work yesterday meet with your satisfaction?”
“It was acceptable.”
That translated to good enough . I was simply glad I wouldn’t have to do it over again—unless that would become some kind of weekly chore.
We finished eating in silence—and, for the first time since arriving here, my belly was almost stuffed. Viewing my empty dishes, Sinclair asked, “Ready?” Before we walked out of the kitchen, he set his report and cell phone on the end of the table. Soon, we were in the main hallway and walked straight across it. When he opened a door, he revealed another staircase, this one going down.
Meaning this mansion was still bigger than I’d thought.
However, this part of Sinclair’s stately home seemed neglected, ignored. The stairs going down were also marble, but when we got near the bottom, there was a simple concrete one that was a little crumbly. I soon learned that all the stairs were constructed of concrete with marble slabs, so I wondered why one step was missing one. It was also darker and dingier.
Abandoned.
Maybe I would be cleaning down here. I only hoped there was but one level, because that would still leave a lot of square footage.
When we got to the bottom, he flipped on another light switch, illuminating what, at first, looked like the inside of a garage stuffed with things a person couldn’t fit in the house and also couldn’t bear to part with.
How middle class.
Only what was here were not old bowling balls, boxes of a child’s old homework, and Christmas decorations that had fallen out of fashion. At first glance, I could see that this was perhaps the wealthy family’s equivalent. Stacked against a large box were several large framed oil paintings, to begin with, along with various pieces of statuary and old furniture.
“I call this the dungeon ,” Sinclair said, “but don’t let your mind go wild. There are no jail cells down here. It’s just dark and cold and there are no windows. The air feels stale. And no one ever comes down here.”
Although the room we were in was huge, the size of a high school gymnasium, that was maybe the size of the center of the mansion—but from the main hallway forward, and it didn’t account for the east and west wings. “How many rooms down here?”
“This is it—except for a couple of closets and a bathroom.”
I felt some relief knowing that, for the most part, what I saw was the extent of it. “Why don’t you use it?”
He chuckled as he walked in between the stacks of stuff. “The description of being a dungeon wasn’t enough for you to figure it out?”
I couldn’t help but smile. “What did it used to be?”
“A ballroom. But it hasn’t been used for that purpose in at least thirty years—probably more. And, if I were to use it that way again, I’d have to find a place to put all this junk and have repairs done.”
“Like the step?”
“Yes. And the heating and cooling down here are ancient—and I don’t even know if the plumbing works anymore. There are probably more problems I’m not even aware of.”
So why did he want me working down here? The name of the space probably did say it all. He wanted me slaving away in a dungeon as more punishment. But he had no way of knowing I would like working down here far better than cleaning toilets. “So do you want me to clean down here? Organize?”
“No. Well…maybe organizing, but that’s not your focus. Your job will be to inventory everything down here. It’s a task I’ve wanted done for a while but, as I’m sure you can imagine, it hasn’t been a priority.”
That sounded like something I might…enjoy. Sifting through unwanted treasures, getting a glimpse at art and history—but I hoped my face didn’t express too much eagerness. I didn’t want him to know that I was growing more comfortable here—and I also feared he might take this task away if he thought I liked it. “So how do I go about doing this?”
“I’m going to leave much of that up to you—but I’ll give you some guidelines. You’ll record each item—it can be on paper or digitally. I don’t much care how you do it. Record what the item is with a brief description and then store it so that it’s easily found. I’ll leave that up to you as well but, for example, you might decide to store all the paintings in one of the closets. You’d indicate that in your documentation.”
“Okay.” I walked over to the paintings and started leafing through them, excited to get started. Then I turned around to face Sinclair again. “How do I get what I need to start tracking everything?”
I realized after the words were out of my mouth that I’d made my anticipation obvious—but he seemed…pleased. “Let Edna know whatever you want and she’ll take care of it.” Straightening his shoulders, he said, “Any other questions?”
Too many—and, as much as I hated to ask, I had to know. “This is really all you want me to do?”
At that, he flashed a subtle smile. “Yes—unless you enjoyed the work yesterday.”
“No—I mean, I’d be happy to just focus on this.”
“I imagine this will take quite some time. There’s a lot of stuff down here and I’d just like a good idea of what it is. Of course, if you need or want to clean down here as you work, that’s also fine. There’s a lot of dust and a few cobwebs here and there. Again, though, I’ll leave the minutia up to you.” Without having to go through it himself—but I wasn’t about to blurt that out. “Would you like more coffee before you get started?”
“Yes, I think so.”
He held out his arm, indicating he wanted me to go first up the stairs. He said, “We’ll just leave the lights on down here. You can turn them off when you finish for the day.”
“When should that be?”
“Five o’clock would be a good stopping point.” As we entered the main hallway, he said, “If you need a break—if this work gets to be a little tedious and you want something different to do for an hour or so, just let Edna know.”
He already knew I was excited about this venture, so I didn’t see any harm in admitting it. “No. I think I’ll enjoy this project.”
“Good.” When we got back to the kitchen, Edna was still there, cleaning up. “Would you bring Ms. Miller another cup of coffee, please?”
While she brought another cup for me along with a travel mug for Sinclair, he said, “Edna, I’ve instructed Ms. Miller to let you know whatever it is she’ll need to do the tasks downstairs. Please see to it that she has everything she needs.”
“Of course, Mr. Whittier.”
After she handed me the coffee, I picked up the cream pitcher and poured a little in the mug. Sinclair asked, “Are you ready to sign the contract?”
Ugh. I’d almost forgotten about that. But I wasn’t about to lie. Looking at him, I said, “No.”
I was almost shocked that he was trying to stop himself from smiling.