Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Fortunately, with Winnie silently and begrudgingly chanting her family’s mantra, she made it to the house without any further incidents.
Just as Matthew had promised, the estate appeared around the final bend at the end of a long, straight drive.
There it was. Foxwood Hall—a magnificent, grand house glowing warmly in the darkness. Windows illuminated the inside, while the turrets on the outside created depth and magnificence to the grand structure.
Rounded and separate hedges lined the drive leading up to the house in perfect precision, lit by uniformly staggered lights. The hedges stood straight and tall, as if they were green foot soldiers greeting guests—all the while putting off the air of, “don’t mess with this fortress or else…”
Winnie got the picture. She’d gotten it when she’d Googled the place a few weeks before. This was a grand estate, and there was no mistaking the history that was involved in the making of it.
In the truest sense of the word, Foxwood Hall was spectacular. And she was going to be the one to help it stay afloat.
Excitement stirred within her chest, growing brighter as she drew closer to the house. She hardly ever enjoyed her job, but there were certain aspects that made it tolerable, specifically when she had the opportunity to use her creativity and intellect to help a business—or in this case, an estate—to shine brightly once again.
Of course, not everyone saw her as a helper. Still, she liked to think of herself as a rescuer from laziness instead of a dictator.
Finally reaching the house, she pulled her eyes away from the looming hall and focused her attention on where to park. A few cars were situated to the west of the house in undesignated spots. Perhaps that was just for family members, though.
However, after looking over her shoulder and finding nowhere else to go, she headed for the vehicles anyway.
This would be another thing she’d suggest to Mr. Wintour. Maybe she’d bring it up to Matthew when she saw him next. Did he not think this was a problem with the estate—guests not knowing where to go? Of course he didn’t. He was obviously only thinking of his own well-being. Typical employee.
Focus, Winnie.
She shook the knight from her mind. She had a job to see to, and dwelling on the last few minutes of their encounter would do nothing but distract her.
Just like his curled hair and angled jaw had done.
She blinked away his image from her mind and pulled up to the other cars, taking a quick gander at the four of them. Range Rover. Rolls Royce. Audi.
The Wintour family obviously liked their cars.
Winnie wasn’t super “in” to vehicles, but her dad was. Growing up, he always made it a game to find the fanciest cars on the road whenever they drove anywhere together as a family. The kid who found the most expensive car—correctly naming the make, model, and color—would win.
She never did. She had always been too focused on the horses they drove past in the fields or the sketches she drew of them on her notebook in the back seat.
“You have to put in more effort if you want to win, Winnie,” Dad would always say.
She hadn’t cared about winning, though. She’d cared about horses.
But that had only caused her grief.
Slowly pulling forward, Winnie focused her eyes on the final car in the row, the lights of her Aston Martin shining across the faded red paint of…What was that, a knockoff Mini Cooper?
She pulled a face. What on earth was that doing here with chipped red paint, what looked to be the original tires, and a side mirror that was hanging onto the rest of the car for dear life?
Maybe this area wasn’t just for the Wintours, then. The staff were probably allowed to park there, as well. Actually, now that she thought about it, that was probably Matthew’s car. The knight would drive something like that.
She chortled aloud at her joke.
Finally pulling forward, she gave herself a wide berth from the car, parking a good distance away to prevent any accidental nick from the clunker—or its driver.
Once situated, she put the car in park and turned it off, reaching for her small suitcase and bag and exiting the vehicle before trudging across the pea gravel toward the door. Rain pelted her brow in her haste, but finally, she reached the porch just in time for the door to swing open.
Light poured across the front entrance and lit the raindrops in the air, causing them to shine like falling crystals in the darkness.
A middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. “Miss Knox,” he greeted, opening the door wider. His accent was fine, each word polished like silver. “My apologies for not greeting you outside earlier. I am Mr. Fernsby, the Wintours’ butler.” He stepped out into the rain, reaching at once for her suitcase and bag and relieving her of both. “Allow me to assist you.”
Winnie nodded, her arms feeling instant relief. She wiped the rain from her brow and smoothed down her hair as she stepped over the threshold, feeling a bit like she’d fallen into a Downton Abbey episode.
“I’m sorry to be so late,” she said, drying her feet on the rug in the entryway.
“No apology needed, ma’am.”
The butler then launched into an explanation of where she would be staying—“The private section of Foxwood dedicated solely to workers of the estate”—and that the housekeeper would see to her belongings that evening.
Winnie did her best to listen, but she found herself too distracted by the gorgeous entryway to hear much of anything.
The entire space was clean, stately, and stunning, from the ornate blue and green rugs stretched across the floor to the dark wooden banisters of the staircase that curved along the wall to the upper rooms.
The walls boasted a soft, light blue shade, portraits of dogs, horses, and cats neatly hanging on each, while a gold chandelier dazzled from the center of the room.
Unlike the fake plants scattered around Winnie’s small apartment in New York, the floras decorating each corner of Foxwood’s entryway were large, green, and very real.
She should probably look into getting a butler for herself. Maybe then her plants would have a higher chance of survival.
“This way, ma’am, if you please.”
Winnie followed Mr. Fernsby then, who led her up the stairs. With his back turned toward her, she took the opportunity to freshen up, smoothing down her hair and wiping away any rogue mascara that had pooled beneath her eyes, all the while observing the rooms they passed by.
Each corridor was warmly lit, each room decorated to the nines. More gilded portraits of horses, hunters, and Greek goddesses lined every passage, and time and time again, she was struck with the opulence.
Had Winnie not spoken with Mr. Wintour twice before agreeing to work for him, she would have thought he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Clearly, the estate was not struggling.
In her research before coming to the house, however, she’d read that many British estates were now suffering due to staff payment increases and taxes skyrocketing. She knew most upper-class families did little else but inherit their estates, but she still couldn’t help but feel sad that so many grand homes were being lost to families who had owned them for literal centuries.
Mr. Wintour himself had spoken with her at length of the problems they faced—most of them similar issues. Lack of cash flow, taxes siphoning their funds, no ideas on how to generate an income to fit their family. He wished for Winnie to help prevent any chance of their estate dilapidating. Such a task was going to be monumental, but she couldn’t wait to get started.
After walking through the maze-of-a-house, Winnie stood outside of a large, closed door, waiting as Mr. Fernsby knocked twice on the dark wood.
“Miss Knox, sir,” the butler said at once.
“Ah, excellent! Come in, come in,” replied the male voice within.
Mr. Fernsby opened the door, entered the room, then stood as a sentinel, allowing her entrance.
It was all very formal. A bit much for her taste. But as she entered the room next, she could understand why there was such pomp and circumstance.
If she thought the rest of the house was unbelievable, this room took the cake. A big ole chocolate cake.
The study was gorgeous. Dark bluish-gray walls. White, elaborate carvings trimming the top and bottom of the room. Warm brown shelves stuffed to the max with red, tan, and blue leatherbound books.
The rugs were a salmon and cerulean color, and a small, half-circle alcove was built into the side of the room, surrounded by more books and housing a cozy lamp, two chairs, and a table with a half-completed game of chess atop .
Drawing the most attention in the room, however, was the grand fireplace, white and crafted in the highest of qualities. A warm fire crackled inside the hearth, and dark leather chairs curved round the heat.
Most rooms of such opulence, holding so many colors and frames and trimmings, would have caused Winnie to feel claustrophobic. But this space made her feel as if she were receiving a warm embrace from an old, friendly grandfather.
As she turned around, such a feeling wasn’t hard to understand as she faced the curve-legged desk with Mr. Wintour sitting behind it, a cheerful and welcoming smile on his lips.
He hadn’t even said a word to her yet, and she already knew, this man was warmth in a box.
“Miss Knox, welcome,” he said, standing from his desk and motioning for her to come farther into the room. “Come in.”
“Winnie, please,” she corrected, reaching forward with an outstretched hand. “You have an absolutely gorgeous home.”
“Oh, thank you,” Mr. Wintour said, taking her hand in turn. His handshake was warm and firm. “And it’s Arthur.”
Winnie nodded, though she had no intention of using his first name. She never did when it came to people who hired her, as per Dad’s advice.
“Well, Winnie,” Mr. Wintour continued, “you must be absolutely exhausted. What do you say to having a hot drink by the fire?”
Winnie’s nerves had been just what they always were when starting a job—uncertain. But with the man’s unassuming smile and kind gestures, it was the strangest thing. She was instantly put at ease.
She knew next to nothing about him, other than the fact that he and Dad had met at Oxford and had remained friends ever since. So how could Winnie feel as if she’d just stepped into an old friend’s home?
“I would love that,” she returned.
Mr. Wintour looked to the door where Mr. Fernsby had remained since Winnie had been invited in. The butler nodded at once, then left the room in silence as the master of the estate faced Winnie again.
“Please,” he said, his bright blue eyes crinkling at the sides, “take a seat.”
He moved around his desk, and Winnie was distracted for a brief moment by the cane he leaned heavily upon. The man couldn’t be over fifty-five. Did he suffer some injury to require the use of the walking stick?
She didn’t allow her eyes or her curiosity to linger for long, crossing the room to the hearth before taking a seat directly in front of the fire.
Mr. Wintour took a seat kitty corner to her own, wincing slightly as he sat down, though the pained look was swiftly replaced with a smile as he lay the cane to the side of him. Salt-and-pepper colored his hair at the sides in a dignified manner, matching well with the comfortable-looking blue sweater and black slacks he wore.
“So,” he began, the smile still on his lips, “you’re here.”
He had to be one of the happiest men she’d ever laid eyes on. Dad had said he was very respectable, but he hadn’t mentioned anything about Mr. Wintour being so smiley.
“I can’t believe I finally made it,” she said. “I’m so sorry for the delay. I usually pride myself on my punctuality, but this trip has humbled me.”
He brushed it aside with a flippant hand in the air. “Ah, it’s no trouble at all. Though I was afraid I’d have to send out a search party had you taken much longer.”
They shared a small laugh, and she was caught by how handsome he was. She supposed that was the British in him.
He paused for a minute, his eyes taking in the sight of her. She didn’t feel scrutinized. Only…studied. “You look more like your mother than your father, you’ll be glad to hear,” he finally said.
She smiled. “I am glad to hear that. But I didn’t know you’d met her.”
“Only briefly. I made the trip to your father’s wedding celebrations.”
Her brow rose. Dad hadn’t mentioned that either. “Really?”
“Yes, it was the last time we saw each other, I’m afraid,” Mr. Wintour said, his smile slightly fading. “Time gets away from us, doesn’t it? But I suppose with friends, it usually feels as if no time has passed at all.”
Winnie could only pretend to agree. She had never been one to have many friends. The ones she had were typically work-based and disappeared whenever she moved.
“So how are your family?” Mr. Wintour asked next, his accent smooth and timeless. “Your parents and siblings?”
“They’re all doing really great,” she said with a nod. “We’re scattered around the States and Europe, so we don’t see each other in person very often, but we try to make time to get together online and in chats.”
“And your parents are still working?”
“Oh, yes.” She leaned back in the chair, the tightness in her shoulders easing as the warm fire and kind company soothed her soul. “I don’t think they’ll ever retire. My dad loves to work at their firm way too much.”
“He hasn’t changed, then,” Mr. Wintour said with a knowing smile. His eyes took on a nostalgic look as he glanced toward the fire. “But he is happy? With his life, I mean?”
Winnie tipped her head to the side. It was a strange question. Or rather, asked in a strange way. As if her response would somehow tell him more than the simple words she would give.
Her instinct was to deliver a hearty yes. But then, was Dad happy with his life? He had never really expressed much joy in anything other than the Knox Family Law Firm.
Mr. Wintour’s focus intensified.
She blinked, pulling out of her thoughts. “I think he is,” she responded carefully.
That was as truthful as she could be, even if she wasn’t comfortable with the answer .
Before Mr. Wintour could respond, Mr. Fernsby drew their attention to the doorway, entering with a tray of plates, cups, and a few cookies.
“Mr. Fernsby,” Mr. Wintour said, eying the cookies as the butler placed the tray on the coffee table between them, “you do spoil me. Just promise me you’ll not share with Jane that you’ve given me biscuits tonight.”
“Of course, sir,” Mr. Fernsby said with a smile. “Just as I won’t tell you what treats Mrs. Wintour has been given this evening.”
Mr. Wintour laughed, and Mr. Fernsby’s eyes shone.
Winnie watched them curiously, surprised at their friendly relationship. They were still clearly employer and employee, but their comfort with each other merely revealed more of Mr. Wintour’s goodness.
And that led to only more questions for Winnie, most specifically, how on earth had Dad ever made friends with the man? Dad only ever drew closer to people who were of benefit to him, those who could further his career or improve his societal standing—and his friends were all admittedly the same. Mr. Wintour would have certainly boosted Dad’s social life back at Oxford, being the heir to Foxwood, but Mr. Wintour was so nice . And Dad’s friends were never nice.
Had Mr. Wintour once been a shark like Dad and had since changed? Or had Dad found some benefit in befriending someone like Mr. Wintour?
After Mr. Fernsby had left the room, she and Mr. Wintour enjoyed the drinks and cookies as they conversed more about Winnie’s family.
When his drink was finished, Mr. Wintour placed it on the table between them and leaned back with a satisfied sigh, though she didn’t miss another flinch as he did so. “Well, I don’t wish to keep you up much later,” he said. “What do you say to the two of us finally getting on with a little business, eh?”
He ended his words with a harmless wink, just like Grandpa used to. Not Dad, of course. The closest thing to a wink she’d ever seen from him was a wince when she’d done something stupid, like failing out of med school or looking into being an art museum curator during her college exploration days. Neither action was impressive enough for a member of the Knox family.
“I’d love to,” she readily agreed. “You mentioned when we spoke on the phone about a comprehensive list of things you wished for me to see to?”
Mr. Wintour shifted to the side again, this time blinking hard as he clearly struck a nerve of pain. Whatever was ailing him, Winnie’s heart reached out to him. She ought to speed this up, allow him to get to bed sooner.
“Yes, I do have a list.” He opened his mouth, then closed it again as his eyes twinkled, despite the pain he was clearly feeling. “However, I have something else in mind for you now.”
Winnie blinked. “Oh?” This had to be the first time her job description changed after being hired.
Mr. Wintour must have seen her hesitation, as he rushed on. “Only if you are comfortable with the changes, of course. I am still very much looking forward to your help with the estate. But before that, I was hoping you’d help me with a little side project.”
“A side project,” she repeated, trying to keep up with his vague description. “What sort of side project?”
Once again, his eyes shone. “Have you ever been to a medieval festival?”