Chapter 8
Chapter eight
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Placing the book I’m attempting to read down on the chaise lounge, I rise to find the source of the incessant dripping I’ve been trying to ignore for the past half hour.
Usually, I’m not bothered by noise. Living in a house full of staff, meetings, and then Mrs. Nixon’s renovation regime, I’ve learned to tune out background sounds fairly well.
Until today. Today, I’ve picked a new corner of the library to try out, and at first glance, it seemed perfect.
South-facing windows, cozy furniture, a little hidden alcove with a lamp and a shelf at the perfect height for a mug of coffee. Heaven. Until the dripping started.
And unlike my usual tolerance, I find myself unsettled. Bothered. Really, really angry at the dripping. I know exactly what’s vexing me, unfortunately.
My husband.
Or rather, my distinct lack of a husband since he’s been gone for the past week with meetings.
I know they’re important, and he couldn’t move them on such short notice, but still.
I’ve tried all the things he advised. His credit card took a tiny hit because I got a head start on Christmas presents for his family, but I have more stuff than I could ever need.
I’ve kept to my usual routine, enjoying the lap pool in the morning and the home gym in the evening.
I’ve walked over twenty-five miles around the grounds, meeting more of the staff and exploring the beautiful property.
It’s filled with follies, nooks, and crannies from past generations adding onto it, and diverse plant life thanks to the creek that runs through part of the land.
My rooms are organized, I’ve explored a good chunk of the house on top of my hikes around the grounds, and…
I’m bored. I’m not sure what I expected married life to be, but it wasn’t this.
I know Henry has to travel a lot for work, but I thought we had a spark during our last few interactions.
Maybe that was my foolish positivity, seeing things that weren’t there.
Before I can figure out what to do about my absentee husband or my life in general, I have to figure out this blasted dripping.
This is the perfect library corner, and I’m not going to let it go that easily.
Starting from one corner of the wall closest to where I’m sitting, I follow the sound down and around the perimeter of my alcove, finding no evidence of a leak.
As I stare, flummoxed, at the wall, I realize that the little ledge where I’ve been placing my coffee isn’t actually flush with the molding. Sighing, I add this to my list of maintenance concerns before giving up on my moment of peace and making my way back to the kitchen to drop off my dirty mug.
“Ah, Mrs. Sinclair! I thought I missed you this morning.” Mrs. Potts grins as I walk into the kitchen, almost instantly soothing my earlier irritation.
Although everyone here has been kind, Mrs. Potts was the first of the household staff to really make me feel welcome.
There’s something warm about her that makes me feel comfortable and safe.
In fact, I’ve spent much of my time the past week curled up on a sofa in the sitting room, listening to her stories.
I’ve learned so much from her already, from the history of the estate to the neighborhood drama.
According to her, the Sinclair family bought this land in the late 1800s when Henry’s great-great-grandfather arrived from England. However, the Chateauesque-style estate wasn’t built until 1947 by his grandfather, Henry Sinclair I, after the end of the war.
Their land covers a couple thousand acres, so neighbors is a relative term, but apparently, there is the occasional drama.
There’s the Crowley family, whose patriarch recently passed away.
Apparently, the children are trying to sell that land and liquidate some assets.
The Gibbonses’ farm borders on the northern side, and they’ve been complaining about all the pine cones that fall onto their property from our trees for years.
Henry’s sister, Margot, and brother-in-law, Jack, own property nearby.
There isn’t any current drama there, but Mrs. Potts did spill some rather salacious tea about their relationship before they got married.
Apparently, Jack walked quite a thin line of what would be considered consent as a masked suitor of Margot’s.
My jaw dropped from the beginning of that story to the end.
To the south, the Jenkinses’ goats get loose from time to time and wander onto our land, although it’s never been an issue because they clear the underbrush. Recently, however, some were found dead a little farther west than they usually roam, resulting in a distraught Mrs. Jenkins.
We’ve also gossiped like a pair of hens about the rest of the staff. Everything from simple stories, such as a driver’s aunt having gallbladder surgery, to scandalous ones, like the head landscaper sleeping with both a maid and the pool boy.
We’ve talked for hours over hot tea and pastries. As much as I miss the friendships I developed with the staff growing up, I never had a source of maternal affection, and I’m finding that Mrs. Potts fills that void in addition to being a friend.
Like always, I’ve barely stepped into the kitchen before she’s offering me something to eat. “I tried a new recipe for the sauce last night. Try this and let me know what you think.”
She places a plate of cheesecake in front of one of the barstools in the kitchen and tops it with a drizzle of homemade caramel sauce.
Stomach already growling, I sit and immediately reach for my fork to dig into the decadent dessert.
My eyes roll back the moment the creamy bite hits my tongue.
“Oh God, Potts, this is incredible. Forget the sauce, the cheesecake is good enough to stand on its own.”
She smiles as she hops up on her seat beside me with her own plate. “Yes, this is my all-time favorite recipe. I call it better than sex with Daddy cheesecake.”
“Excuse me?” I manage to cough out after almost choking on another bite.
Potts laughs, tears forming in her eyes. “It’s an old joke with a girlfriend of mine, from back in my college days.”
“Well, I’ve never had sex, but if it’s anywhere close to this cheesecake, I don’t think I’ll ever leave the room.”
Chuckling, I glance up to see she’s staring at me, eyes wide, hand over her chest, clearly not as amused at my statement as I was. “You’ve never…you’re a virgin?”
I can’t help the sarcasm that laces my tone. “I know, right? How peculiar is it that a girl locked away her entire life, born and raised for the sole purpose of a contract marriage, didn’t have sexual partners coming out of the woodwork?”
Potts rolls her eyes. “I know that, dear. I just assumed you and Hen…you and Mr. Sinclair…well, you’ve been married for a couple of weeks now and…”
“And what? And you assumed we were making sweet, sweet love every night? You know as well as I do that we sleep in separate rooms. Not that he’s been home long enough to say hello, much less have sex.”
“Hmm…” she says, thinking hard about something as she chews and swallows a bite. “Do you want to? Have sex, I mean? With Mr. Sinclair?”
“Do I want to have sex with Henry? My six-foot-six-inch Greek god of a husband? Yes. I think I would like that very much.” I give a half smile and elbow her, trying to lighten the mood. “Especially if it’s half as good as this cheesecake.”
My joke hits its mark, both of us cackling like hyenas as we finish our desserts.
As soon as our plates are clean, she puts them in the sink, then props herself on her elbows, leaning on the island directly across from where I’m still sitting.
“So, do you have a plan of action to accomplish your mission?”
When all I give her is a raised brow, she continues. “To seduce Mr. Sinclair into your bed?”
I mirror her position, resting my elbows on the counter for support. “I’m not sure he sees me as much more than a girl taking up space in his home, to be honest.”
Potts smirks, and I can already tell she’s up to no good in that head of hers. “I don't think that's true at all, but I happen to have known Mr. Sinclair most of his life. Maybe I can help you understand him a bit more, dear.”
Suddenly, I realize that out of all the things we’ve chatted about over the past week, Henry has never been a topic of conversation.
“You certainly know much more about him than I do. What was he like as a child?” I ask, hoping that she’ll be as helpful with Henry 101 as she has been with learning about the estate.
Laughing, she grabs a chilled carafe of juice and moves toward the solarium. “Come on, dear. This is a conversation for which we need to be more comfortable.”
Three hours later, we’ve had a light lunch, and I’ve laughed harder than I can ever remember. Although it seems my husband was a serious child, it sounds like he was a darling, too.
“And then he told Jack that he was a rapscallion! Can you imagine? He was only ten!” Potts says as she wipes her eyes from laughing so hard she cried.
“But you know, he was only with the other children for a relatively short time before he went away to school, and even when he was here, well…” Potts sighs.
“When he was here, he was just older enough than the other boys that he wasn’t really playing at their level, and with all of his father’s business lessons, he was pretty isolated. ”
She looks out the window, deep in thought.
“I think he felt so much responsibility from an early age—to his father, his siblings, and the company. He knew it would all fall to him one day, and he was desperate to get everything perfect. His routine really started to take shape and become an integral part of his life at that time. I think it was his way of keeping control and not losing track of things. You’ll see more of ‘the routine’ soon, as he spends more time here with you,” she says, emphasizing with air quotes and another of her signature pointed looks.
“It sounds as if my husband and I may be able to bond over abnormal childhoods, if nothing else,” I reply with a self-deprecating laugh.
I’m wondering if I’ll be able to fit myself into Henry’s sacred routine at all when Potts surprises me with a belly laugh.
I give her a questioning look as she waves an apology and tries to stifle her laughter.
“I’m sorry, dear. It’s just that I don’t think you understand what a match the two of you are.
You’ll ingratiate yourself here just fine, or I’ll eat my hat,” she says, giving me a beaming smile.
“I’ve seen you do your daily crossword, for example, and Henry completes one every evening.
I can’t wait for him to see how fast you can finish. It’s going to be delicious.”
Her smile turns devious, and I’m a little scared at what she has up her sleeve.
“You know, his guilty pleasure as a child used to be a luxurious bubble bath. I know it’s hard to imagine, and only his custom tubs are big enough to comfortably fit him these days, but he used to love to unwind with oils and bubbles.
When we went to England and he hit his growth spurt, I think he grew out of the habit, but perhaps… ”
I’m not exactly following. “Perhaps…?”
“I thought you were meant to have seduction lessons, my dear,” she teases. “What on earth did that woman teach you?”
“Red latex…” I mumble as she continues.
“In any case, I’m saying that perhaps when Mr. Sinclair has had a particularly bad day or rough week, you might draw him a bath. He’s not really one for touch, or I would suggest a head massage or neck rub…”
Cocking my head, I interrupt her. “I’ve touched him.”
“You’ve what, dear?”
“I’ve touched him, Potts. He’s touched me as well. Not for very long, or anywhere…private,” I say, blushing but powering through. “But we have touched.”
Mrs. Potts gives me an appraising look and a soft smile. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, darling. I think everything will be just fine.”
Hearing an alarm chime, I realize it’s around time for her to start dinner, and I have a video call with Sasha soon to catch up. We part ways, and as I head to my quarters, I hear her call out behind me.
“I almost forgot, dear! He loves Danish wedding cookies. Barely lets me make them because he can’t eat one without eating the entire batch. I can teach you to make them from his favorite recipe if you’d like.”
Turning to smile at her, I feel my plan forming in my mind already. “I would love that, Potts. Tomorrow, perhaps?”
“It’s a date, Mrs. Sinclair.”
Heading into my bedroom to bathe before calling Sasha, I feel as if I’m turning a page into a new chapter of my new life.
I’ve passed Estate 101, Staff 101, and Grounds 101 in the last week, and aced them all if I do say so myself.
Mrs. Potts has given me the shell of a study guide, and I’ve been trained my entire life to observe and adapt.
Henry 101 is in session, and I’m ready for class to begin.