Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
I take it off. It feels a bit seedy to wear it, even for me, but I take a mental inventory of the other items for later.
I don’t want to go in too hard too soon, but it might be that at some point I’ll need to borrow something to remind Jack of my innate similarities to Alice.
It’s gratifying to know she hasn’t been completely wiped off the face of the Earth.
That there is still material to draw from, if you know where to look.
I turn my attention to the cupboards next. Alice’s cupboard is on the far side of the room, where Jack’s eyes had flicked when I asked to borrow something to wear. I try not to read too much into his reaction. People do get very sentimental over the items left behind by those they loved.
The cupboard brims with clothes packed so tight they bulge outward as soon as I open it.
A rainbow of color and material that causes my breath to catch.
Generally, I take pride in my appearance.
I realized—after Marcie’s death—how important it was to come across in the right way.
Particularly when I was no longer overshadowed by her extraordinary beauty.
But this—this cornucopia of garments—is a whole new kettle of fish.
A whole new level of wealth. I don’t recognize half the labels.
I want it all instantly. I run my hand across the silks and denims and velvets and, as I do, a subtle scent is released into the air. The one I smelled before, downstairs. A floral, earthy scent. Tuberose.
“What are you doing?”
It’s not often that someone manages to sneak up on me, but I’m so distracted by the cupboard I didn’t hear her approach. I jump, violently, clutching at the clothes and dislodging many of them from their hangers. They fall in a crumpled heap by my feet, releasing more of that distinctive perfume.
The speaker is an older woman with graying hair and a frosty smile. I turn on the charm offensive, aware that I’ve been caught with my hand in the proverbial cookie jar.
“Hello!” A bright, light voice that I hope puts her in mind of sunshine and bunny rabbits and rainbows and distracts from my evident snooping. “I didn’t see you there.” I press a hand to my chest, emphasizing my weak constitution. “I was just looking for somewhere to put my things.”
Her mouth sets into a hard line. “Jack told me that you were sleeping next door.”
I fix a puzzled look on my face. “Did he? I was in here last night.”
“I see.” Judgment is etched into every line on her face.
“Sorry, can I help you?”
“I’m Martha. The housekeeper.” Still unsmiling.
Of course Jack has a housekeeper. An archaic role that should have died out with the late Victorians, though the upper classes are famously hopeless at looking after themselves.
I can, I realize, use this to my advantage.
Because, if the literature is correct, housekeepers possess a wealth of knowledge about the families they work for.
Knowledge that could be useful. I stride toward her, hand outstretched.
“I’m Iris. Lovely to meet you. Jack’s told me so much about you. ”
If she thinks this an odd statement, she gives no indication other than a slight lift of her brow. “If you need somewhere to put your things, I’ll move those.” She gestures toward the wardrobe.
“Oh, please don’t worry,” I say quickly.
I don’t want her to move these clothes. Not when I can learn so much from them: the sort of person Alice was, where she went, what she did.
Not when I might be able to wear them. “I can have a look in the room next door. I’m sure there’s space there. I just thought I’d…check.”
A poor excuse—even to my own ears—but thankfully she gives a sharp nod and decides not to press the issue. I don’t relax my stance. It’s all too easy to slip up if you prematurely assume the threat has dissipated.
“So how long have you worked here?” I ask airily.
“Coming up on thirty-five years.”
“Gosh, that’s a long time. Must know everything about the Reynoldses.”
I turn, smiling sweetly, to see her eyes narrow. “You do come to know a lot about the family, yes.”
I think of what Jack said about this house holding bad memories for him. “I’m sure. What were his parents like?”
“They were always very kind to me.” Her tone is just clipped enough to signal the end of this particular line of questioning, and I decide not to push her. A tricky customer: I sense she’ll be hard to dupe. I give her an indulgent smile.
“How wonderful to have been in the same job for so long.” As suspected, her face does not soften, so I make my exit. “Anyway, I’ve got some bits to sort in my room. But it was so lovely to meet you, Martha. Let’s have a cup of tea together soon.”
I leave her standing in the middle of Jack’s bedroom and retreat to the one allotted to me. After five minutes or so—five minutes where I stand with my ear pressed to the door, convinced she is checking Alice’s cupboard for any missing items—I hear her pass by my room and go back downstairs.
Martha’s presence in the house is a hindrance for the rest of the day.
I want to continue searching Jack’s bedroom, but I can’t shake the feeling that she doesn’t trust me, so I refrain.
Instead, I spend an hour or two in the other bedroom and then—when that becomes too tedious to endure—venture downstairs in search of something to eat.
Martha is at work in the sitting room, so I tiptoe quietly past the door and down the long corridor that leads to the kitchen.
I’m surprised, yet again, when I see it.
It’s archaic in all the wrong ways. Where the rest of the house leans into its history—brooding oil paintings and antique furniture—this room is in serious need of modernization.
The ancient range in the corner pumps heat into the room, so it’s just slightly too hot.
The battered fridge in the corner could be a first edition, and not the valuable kind.
It’s small, poky, airless. A culinary prison cell.
Jack told me to help myself to anything I wanted, so I survey the contents of the fridge.
It’s all high-end stuff: glass bottles of milk from an upmarket dairy, cardboard punnets of strawberries.
I’m simple in my food tastes, preferring plastic white bread to the seeded sourdough loaf that’s been set on the side, but it’s my only option, so I pop a piece in the toaster and open a few drawers as I wait.
It’s all pin neat. No mishmash of cooking utensils here.
In the third drawer down, I find a stack of recipe cards.
Handwritten, in a slightly jagged hand. I pull them out.
They don’t look particularly old. One, a recipe for cupcakes, still bears a smear of some floury mulch on the corner.
Was this Alice’s handwriting? These cards would fit with the holier-than-thou image I’m sure she went to painstaking ends to uphold.
The toaster pops. The only option for spread is fat-free plant-based “butter.” I wrinkle my nose.
Martha comes to find me just as I’ve finished eating. “I’m off now. Here’s my number.” She holds out a piece of paper. “If you ever need me.”
I don’t know why she thinks I’ll need it, or her for that matter, but I take it from her.
There’s a long pause while she stares at me, like she wants to say something else.
I suppress a sigh. I hate hoverers. Just come out and say what you’re thinking, rather than leaving the other person to deduce your meaning. “Was there something else?”
“Can I have yours?”
I frown at her. “What for?”
“Just in case I need to get in touch with you.”
I stare at her suspiciously. I don’t hand my number out to just anyone.
There are a lot of odd people out there, and you can never be too careful.
But she’s still hovering, and the sooner I can get her out the door, the sooner I can return to my search.
I sigh, then tap her number into my phone. I hear her bag vibrate.
She gives another curt nod, then turns on her heel.
“Bye, then,” I mutter under my breath.
—
“I met Martha today,” I tell Jack when he returns from work later that evening.
Does his back stiffen as I say it? I’m not sure. When he turns to me, though, his face is impassive.
“Sorry. I should’ve mentioned she was coming. Hope she wasn’t too frosty with you.”
“She was a bit. She seemed a little taken aback that I was here.”
“She’s been with the family for years. A bit of a battle-ax, to be honest. Don’t think she’s ever really liked me, even when I was a child.
” He pauses, then—with the air of someone getting something difficult off his chest—says, “I struggled to connect with people back then. I was a pretty lonely kid at times.”
I can’t imagine Jack—with all his charm and charisma—being lonely.
That makes two of us. I love that he told me this.
He’s letting me in slowly, revealing a softer, more vulnerable side to himself.
Allowing me to piece together the puzzle of his past. He takes a seat on the sofa, and I note how tired he looks.
Different from the other night, when it was clearly the alcohol.
Now he looks as though he’s slept badly, and I wonder if maybe he knew what he was doing when he put that arm round me last night.
If perhaps he intended it to be as intimate as it felt.
I sit next to him—too close to be platonic.
“I’m not sure she liked me much,” I say, and I smile in a self-deprecating sort of way. Cast my eyes to the floor.
“That makes two of us, then.” And he grins at me through his tiredness. Like I am something good in his life, among all the bad.
I sit like that—arm brushing his—for a few more seconds, and then, when he makes no move toward me, I change tack. “Jack,” I start slowly. “Could I get a key?”
It’s something that’s been bothering me all day.
Being here by his invitation only. I want the ability to let myself in and out, just as Alice would have done.
I want access to all of it: his life, this house, its history.
If I’d left today, I’d have had no way of regaining entry.
I want this house to feel like my own, just as it felt like hers.
At my question, there’s another almost imperceptible shift in Jack’s expression, but I’m not sure what it means.
He’s difficult to read sometimes. He clears his throat gruffly.
“Of course. There’s one tucked away in the kitchen.
I’ll dig it out for you later.” Another tired smile, but this one is not quite as open—as honest, even—as the last. There’s something almost forced about it.
The pause between us somehow heavier. I wonder if perhaps he doesn’t fully trust me yet.
“I was thinking,” I say, to break the silence, the sudden darkening of the atmosphere. “I’d like to cook you dinner. Maybe tomorrow? To say thank you.”
And there it is. The return of that radiant grin. All because of me. I brought that out of him.