Chapter 25
M y Monday punishment was bathrooms again—only this time I had to scrub the tiles with a toothbrush, and the only thing the sisters had to do was remove the towels and replace them. At lunch, Edna fetched me from the third floor and said, “I remembered you telling me you missed macaroni and cheese and tuna fish sandwiches.”
Looking up from the place where I squatted in front of a claw bathtub, scrubbing the grout that didn’t need scrubbing, I grinned. “You didn’t.”
“I did, dear. And that macaroni and cheese isn’t getting any warmer.”
It wasn’t long before she and I were sitting at the big wooden table in the kitchen, probably my second favorite place in the mansion aside from my bedroom. “Master Sinclair told me to keep a close eye on you today—but I know you always do your work.” Leaning across the table, her voice took on a conspiratorial tone. “And don’t say anything about lunch.”
“Why? Is this kind of food not allowed in his hallowed halls?”
She laughed as she picked up her glass of tea. “I honestly doubt that. Once in a while, he eats foods that his father never allowed in the house, like hamburgers and pizza. The elder Mr. Whittier always said that there were certain plebeian things his family must never do. Food was one of those things. And the boys were never allowed to have birthday parties with balloons and games, especially once Mrs. Whittier was gone.”
Her face collapsed into sadness, so I hoped I could lighten the mood again. “Don’t worry, Edna. Your secret’s safe with me.”
“Oh, good. But we do have to eat all of it before Mr. Whittier comes home.”
My eyes grew wide because there was no way we could eat that entire pan of mac and cheese. Fortunately, there were only two sandwiches, one for each of us, but I didn’t have room for everything she’d made. “I, uh—”
When she laughed again, I knew her mood was light again. “Don’t you worry, dear. I’m teasing. Greg’s wife said they’d take the leftovers, so I’ll run them up to her after lunch.”
“She’s here right now?” When Edna nodded, I asked, “What does she do?” I imagined an agoraphobic woman hiding behind the doors of her self-imposed prison.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. “She teaches online classes. But she goes out for a run every morning and she has a fairly busy social life, so she’s away most afternoons.” It was a testament to how big the mansion was that I hadn’t run across her yet. Edna whispered, “But I know they’re wanting to get pregnant—so that might happen soon. Ah, it would be wonderful to have a baby in this house again. I do miss babies.”
I remembered then that Edna had told me once she hadn’t been able to have children—so it made sense that she would need to get her baby fix from someone else. And I wondered if she was considering being a nanny to their child when the time came. Then again, they would probably want to move into their own home to raise their child. At least, that was what I would have wanted. I wouldn’t want to live in a cold, gargantuan mansion when I could rear my child in a warm, cozy home full of love and laughter, even if it wasn’t museum-sized.
As I took a bite of the scrumptious mac and cheese, Edna asked, “So what was it you did?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, knowing exactly what she meant.
“Mr. Whittier wouldn’t tell me, but he was hoppin’ mad. He said you’d violated several terms of your contract and that was why he was punishing you.”
I didn’t want Edna blaming herself for my knowing where those keys were, so I decided to skip that part. “I was snooping in the east wing.”
Her eyes grew wide. “I don’t have a contract like yours, and even I know not to go there.”
“But why? There’s nothing there.”
“I think that’s the point.” She got up and walked over to the sink where she rinsed the crumbs off her plate.
“I don’t get what you mean.”
She started to say something but caught herself. Then she came back to the table and nearly whispered. “Mr. Whittier would prefer to forget that wing ever existed—and, because he can’t remove it from the mansion or board it up without it looking ridiculous, he has locked it away figuratively.”
No…quite literally, but I wasn’t about to split hairs with her. “I don’t understand why.”
Letting out a heavy sigh, Edna sat across from me again and twirled her glass of iced tea. “I’m afraid I can’t answer that, love. That’s one of those things you’ll have to talk to Mr. Whittier about.”
And that was something I refused to do—because I wasn’t going to ask him for anything else—not even information, especially when it would mean getting a glimpse inside his head. I was done allowing myself to care for that man.
At breakfast Tuesday morning, I came downstairs dressed for more physical labor—a pink tank top and jeans. Although the work downstairs could be grueling at times, it was only on occasion—and only when I chose to do something physically demanding. Although scrubbing tiles wasn’t anything like digging a hole or carrying heavy rocks, it had proven to be hard on my knees and back.
But I wouldn’t let him know it was getting to me.
When I came into the kitchen, he asked, “Where do you think you’re going?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look like you’re dressed for a day on the beach.”
“In jeans ? I’m dressed for whatever punishment you have ready for me today.”
Edna slipped a cup of coffee on the table in front of me as I stared at Sinclair, waiting for his response. His eyes and mouth had softened since our last meeting and I once again got that feeling of electricity between us. It didn’t hurt that, when he glanced at my bare collarbone, his eyes felt predatory. “Your punishment is over. But if you breach the contract again, rest assured it will be far worse.”
Again, my mind went back to Friday—and it came out of my mouth before I could stop it. “Like a spanking?”
It was as if he was considering it, and it was all I could do to keep from licking my lips. What the hell was wrong with me? I understood why I felt defiant—but why did I want him in that way? Why couldn’t I stop myself?
He arched an eyebrow. “ Worse. ”
Either Edna hadn’t heard or she was pretending she hadn’t when she placed a plate with an omelet and an English muffin in front of me. If I hadn’t been so hungry, I would have simply stared at him, daring him to say something else.
But he didn’t have to be dared. Once Edna had returned to the sink, he said, “Disobey me again and there will be hell to pay.” My skin heated up, wanting to discover exactly what that would entail. But before I could come up with a retort, he stood, picking up his phone and planner. “You can return to your regular duties today. Edna, call me with a report after lunch.”
“Yes, sir.”
As he walked out of the kitchen, he turned briefly. “And, in case you’ve forgotten, you will be serving on Friday night—so make sure you get your rest this week.”
I would have never said it, but that felt more like punishment—and that thought made me ashamed, because lots of people served him willingly, people like Edna, Greg, and Henry, at his beck and call for different things. I was no different from them, so why did I find the idea of serving at his party so humiliating?
But I knew why…it was because I wasn’t willingly working. I was being forced—and that made all the difference.
As I returned to my regular duties, I tried not to think about it. It had only been a few days, but it felt like forever since I’d been down here—and once I’d walked into what appeared to be a time capsule on the second floor of the east wing, I’d begun to associate it with the trunk. So, instead of focusing on a variety of tasks as I had been, I spent the entire day sorting through what was left in the trunk.
It was mostly papers—business documents, medical records, notes—but there were several more journals written in the same hand as the red one.
There was also a baby book of Sinclair. There were two or three pictures in it of him as a newborn, along with his birth statistics—but the book had never been completed.
Sinclair wouldn’t want to know about that, any more than he’d want to know about the presence of all those journals—but I did. I was dying to know what those pages contained. Still, I didn’t know that I had time to read them all “on the job”—but I suspected that the information I found in there might explain the mystery of why Sinclair had effectively closed up the east wing’s second floor. So, after spending ten minutes with Edna for our afternoon tea break, I went back downstairs and waited until I heard her busy in the kitchen, enough that I could tiptoe.
I wasn’t going to Sinclair’s office or the east wing. Instead, I had a handful of journals, including the red one, and I snuck them in my room. I’d return them when I was done but I couldn’t give them the attention I wanted downstairs. Just as I would be getting into the woman’s words, my phone alarm would ring, reminding me that I needed to get something done that I could count on my timesheet.
After dinner that night, I went straight to my room and cracked open the red journal. It wasn’t long before I was sucked into the woman’s world again.
Gus has decided to send Augie to a boarding school in New Hampshire against my wishes. He’s only eight years old but Gus insists it will “toughen the boy up.” I argued it from every single angle I could think of, but Gus would always come back to insisting that if he was going to inherit the business, he needed to get a taste of the real world. And he’d have Warren start attending a boarding school in a few years too, he said.
So I spent all day researching for a boarding school that was at least closer to home so I could see him every weekend, but there was nothing. The only boarding schools I could find close by take boys of a more reasonable age—when they are in high school.
I cried most of the day, and the boys asked me what was wrong. I just told them my tummy hurt. In a way, it did. I know Augie was worried, especially because I kept holding them close instead of letting them play. He knew something was wrong.
My only other thought was taking the boys and leaving—but where would I go? It isn’t like I have family to run to, and I have no money of my own. Even if I took what money I could get my hands on and even borrowed a credit card, it isn’t like Gus couldn’t find me—and, when he did, he would take sole custody of the boys. More than once, he’d said he paid his lawyers well because they could bend the law to make it say anything he wanted.
And they’d make sure to make him look like the world’s best father…and me the exact opposite.
After reading that passage, I hated Sinclair’s father even more.
I stayed up past midnight reading about her growing anxiety for her oldest going away to school, but she described the younger Augustus—whom she affectionately called Augie —as having a “stiff upper lip” and looking upon the whole thing as an adventure. The elder Augustus balked when she insisted upon sending her son with a cell phone so he could contact her whenever needed, but she managed to win that battle.
Once the new school year came around, she suffered what she called “dark days,” and it wasn’t long before I remembered all the medical paperwork I’d found in the trunk, indicating that she was being treated for depression and possibly bipolar disorder. But, I wondered, who wouldn’t feel that way with a cold, possibly cheating, husband, one who sent your oldest child away? She probably felt like her family was being ripped apart—she’d almost said as much.
She also talked about smothering Warren, spoiling him more than she should—but knowing that he too would be sent away in a couple of years, she wanted to make sure he knew he was loved. Unfortunately, she said, it was beginning to make him act like he was entitled—and neither she nor his nanny knew how to rein his behavior back in.
When Christmas rolled around and Augie got to spend two weeks at home, she said she felt more like her old self. Even Warren, she said, reverted to his previous younger sibling behaviors. Letting her oldest go back to school the second time was less traumatic, but she still hated the way his little eyes “looked supremely sad, as if he’d lost his dearest friend.”
I fell asleep reading and was jolted awake by my phone alarm. When I got up, I picked up that red journal, which I was almost done reading, and put it in the bottom drawer of the nightstand next to the other ones.
I couldn’t wait to read more later on…even while knowing that this background information was making me feel far more compassion for Sinclair Whittier than I ever should have.
It was blurring the line between enemy and friend…and possibly something more.