Chapter 5
5
SAMANTHA
I t takes a week for Braiden’s eyes to heal. The day that Dr. Kelleher clears him for driving, he grabs the keys to a new Jeep he’s had delivered to the Rittenhouse. He disappears for hours. I expect him to come back in a better mood, but he’s only more stressed for having skipped a day at work.
The next morning, I wake to cold sheets on his side of the bed. Sighing, I wrap myself in one of the Rittenhouse’s luxurious terrycloth robes. Fairfax has breakfast waiting in the suite across the hall.
A Thornfield breakfast was a thing of glory—fried eggs, sautéed mushrooms and grilled tomatoes, heaps of bacon and sausages, and bowls of hash. Thick hand-sliced toast was served with butter, marmalade, and multiple types of jam. Yogurt was ladled by the gallon, surrounded by berries, honey, and fresh-toasted muesli.
Here at the hotel, Fairfax compensates by ordering half a dozen breakfast platters. It’s not the same, of course. Nothing is.
I help myself to crème br?lée French toast with vanilla whipped cream. When Fairfax comes in with a fresh carafe of coffee, I gesture at my plate. “You could do better than this with a hot plate and a camp stove.”
“It’s kind of you to say so.” He hovers after filling my cup, fretting over the silver-domed plates on the sideboard.
“Pull up a chair,” I finally offer, but I’m astonished when he does. I can’t remember sharing a single meal with Fairfax at Thornfield. He and Grace always ate in the kitchen.
He plucks a croissant from a basket but sets it on his plate uneaten. He picks up a teacup, then returns it to its saucer. He reaches out and shifts the sugar bowl a quarter inch to the right.
“Miss Samantha,” he finally brings himself to say.
“Sam,” I remind him gently. That’s what he’s called me since Braiden brought me home.
“Sam,” he says, clearing his throat and studying the silverware. Finally, he looks me in the eye. “This isn’t working.”
My first instinct is to reassure him. He’s managed miracles, adapting the Rittenhouse for all of us. He commandeers meals from room service like an admiral controlling a fleet on the high seas. He reviews our closets on a daily basis, sending clothes to the hotel laundry and retrieving perfectly pressed garments. He has fresh flowers delivered from a local florist every three days.
But that’s not what he means. So I agree with him. “It’s not.”
“I’m worried about Aiofe.” He keeps his voice low; she’s just behind the bedroom door.
Guilt shoves something cold and sharp between my ribs. “I haven’t paid as much attention to her as I should have.” I’ve been focused on Braiden’s recovery, and on Sonja’s plans for my hearing, and on work, because I can’t let things fall apart at the freeport.
He waves off my confession. “She’s a lamb. Does exactly as she’s told. Doesn’t complain about a thing.”
“So the problem is…”
“She should be complaining. She should be acting out. She lost Miss Birte and Grace.”
Those women—flawed as they were—were the closest thing to family Aiofe ever knew. “If you think a nanny would help…”
“She’s too old for a nanny. Maybe an au pair, to be a companion after she finishes schoolwork for the day.”
“You know Braiden will approve the expense.”
“It’s not money!” Fairfax must hear the sharpness in his voice, because he repeats himself in a much quieter tone. Then he says, “It’s safety. Security. She needs more routine than following me about all day.”
“We never should have told her tutor she was taking a break. Call John Bell and get him back here tomorrow.”
Fairfax frowns. “I already tried. He’s backpacking in the Andes. His first vacation in seven years, and he can’t be reached.”
“All right. Aiofe needs a companion. She needs classes. What else?”
He glances at the bedroom door, as if he fears Aiofe might be spying on us. “She has nightmares,” he says, his voice nearly a whisper. “More nights than not, she wakes herself screaming.”
“Why haven’t you said something before?” I don’t mean it to sound like an accusation, but I know it does. The thought of that poor child, haunted even while she sleeps…
He hunches his shoulders, and I’m reminded that life has been hard for everyone since the fire. “With Mister Braiden struck blind? With you handling those nasty reporters?”
“We all want what’s best for Aiofe.”
“What’s best for Aiofe is living in a normal house. Sleeping in a normal bed. In a room decorated for a normal girl. All of this is too much, too large, too overwhelming. And…” He winds down his tirade.
But I push. “And what?”
“And she should see a doctor. Not Kelleher. There’s nothing wrong with her body. But she’s survived a lot of trauma. She should speak with someone who understands.”
I’ve been saying the same thing to Braiden since I met the child. I thought Birte should get therapy too. If she had, maybe we’d all still be living at Thornfield.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell Fairfax.
“Thank you.” He pauses, as if he’s about to say more, but he settles for topping off my coffee again, pouring from the carafe. “Thank you,” he says once more, and this time he sounds decisive. Leaving his croissant behind, he heads into the bedroom, where I hear him cajoling Aiofe into drawing him a picture.
Aiofe needs structure.
Aiofe needs rules.
Life at Thornfield was filled with them. At the most basic level, breakfast was mandatory. Everyone gathered in the dining room every single morning; there was none of this drifting by for a bite here, a meal there.
I blush, thinking about the rules I lived by: No work after six o’clock. No black and white clothes after business ended for the day. No trousers either, only skirts. No panties.
I fought those rules every step of the way. But there’s a hollow inside of me that longs for the return of that slice of normal, everyday life.
And I know exactly how to make that happen.