Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
The house of Velde rose up out of the ashes.
Taking the advice of Senor Teofilo, I hired British architect Harold Ferring to design the new house. Ferring’s reputation preceded him, and the fact that his services were affordable convinced me I’d made the best choice. Local men worked tirelessly to rebuild under Ferring’s watchful eye.
Teofilo inferred that Ferring’s reason for leaving England was an unfortunate one but assured me that he would complete the work in a timely manner.
He had, after all, designed the grandest of all country homes for Richard III, the king’s newly built Wensleydale estate in Yorkshire.
Ferring liked to drink and, not wanting to imbibe alone, he persuaded me to partake with him.
During those long evenings, when I encouraged him to talk and listened quietly, he regaled me with the most fascinating tales.
I discovered that Ferring had completed his royal appointment, fulfilling his duty by designing the finest home in the north of England.
When he failed to receive payment, he mentioned the matter to the king’s executive secretary, and it wasn’t taken well.
His continued demands for payment resulted in him receiving threats.
Miguel kept his distance from the man he called, “The wayward Englishman.”
I insisted that no part of the original manor be replicated. My vision for the house went askew as the structure manifested. The facade had appeared relatively simple on paper, though when it materialized, the house possessed an aura of supremacy.
We easily went over the budget I’d initially set, but the work continued inside the towering walls. The downstairs rooms were deliberately spacious with high ceilings and low hung chandeliers, wondrously invoking a gracious atmosphere. The bedrooms were twenty in number.
Ferring stocked the wine cellar and at times he would disappear for hours, sampling the vintages.
He outlined what would become two secret rooms, one behind the bookshelf in my office and the other constructed beneath the four-poster bed in the front master bedroom.
I tried to convince him that secret rooms were unnecessary, but to placate his emphatic insistence, I finally relented.
For the library, I purchased a considerable collection of books, many of them written in several languages. I took pleasure in placing them in order along the tall shelves. The task took me longer than expected, as I tended to become lost in each book I opened.
With the work almost complete, and having received payment, Ferring disappeared. I felt relieved that I could take over and make the finishing touches on my own without Ferring’s eccentric influence. My taste was inclined toward a simpler style, and with him gone, I could decorate modestly.
I felt little guilt in how this fortune had come to me. I’d paid for it dearly with my blood, sweat and grief, my youth having been torn apart. It was not given to me – it was wrenched from the jaws of a cruel world. And so I did not shrink from it.
I surrendered to this fate, this brilliantly forged inheritance, with a quiet, burning pride. For I had spun something rare from the wreckage. I had taken the horror, the ruin, and made it beautiful.
Made it mine.
Later, I discovered through Teofilo that a royal warrant had been issued for Ferring’s arrest. I hoped that Ferring had escaped the British authorities.
As I strolled along the sweeping corridors of my new home, I often thought of him.
He’d been wronged by those wielding power, and that we at least had in common.
I spent many an evening reading in my favorite room – the library – and my confidence flourished with the promise of happiness ever present.
During this time, I often thought of the woman who’d made it all possible. Although I had no real proof that Sunaria had taken Roelle’s life, I felt convinced she was responsible. She’d appeared like an exquisite phantom, only to disappear once again into the night.
Memories of Sunaria faded as the day-to-day challenges of running the estate drew my attention.
I hired new staff, ensuring fresh faces around the manor. I strived to reinvent myself, take on the convincing role of master, a man to be respected and even revered.
The cook provided meals with good portions for the staff, helping to maintain morale.
A delicious fare is a boon to a hard worker.
Pascal, my discreet butler, oversaw the employees, including several maids, a gardener, an ageing handyman I’d taken pity on, and several young horse hands to assist Miguel.
I still couldn’t persuade Miguel to take a room inside the house. He said he’d be miserable indoors.
However, when designing the stables, I’d taken into consideration his penchant for fresh air and constructed a thick-walled building to keep him warm in winter and cool in summer, a comfortable apartment suiting all his needs, as well as his desire to be close to the horses.
It was a safe dwelling where he could rest after a hard day’s work, knowing that he was deeply valued.
And from where he lay, he’d still see the stars.
Housing the employees in cottages on the estate ensured that they had their privacy and I had mine.
At night, with everyone banished, I paced the many rooms, marveling at what I’d accomplished and not taking any of it for granted.
I learned more of the horse breeding business from Miguel, studying under the master.
I had every intention of establishing a business that would enable the house to turn a profit and ensure my future.
Miguel and I often dined alfresco. We enjoyed watching the horses running free in the enclosure.
Despite Miguel’s initial hesitation, he soon relented to my insistence that we eat off the finest plates and drink from silver goblets.
The cook prepared flavorsome dishes and delighted us with his exotic recipes, a luxury we both appreciated.
During one of those long, warm evenings, after several bottles of wine, Miguel revealed his dream of working with Andalusians.
He leaned forward with fire in his eyes. “Andalusians have an exceptional temperament and a tranquil presence. We could breed them.”
I found his description appealing, and his portrait of the horse, with its generous frame, arched neck, and sculptured beauty, convinced me he could be right.
The light in my eyes gave him my answer. “And I was thinking of maybe adding a vineyard.”
“Grow grapes?” He nodded. “We certainly possess the land. We have ancient soil that would be ideal. Our climate is warm and indulgent.”
My heart soared that he shared my vision.
What if we could coax from this earth something more than survival, turn this wild, haunted place into a harvest of profit, into a legacy?