Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
TAMSYN
I cry out and start to lose my balance as I turn to face them. The foyer threatens thirty feet below me on the other side of the railing and at the bottom of all those marble steps, but two people swoop in to grab my upper arms and stop me before I actually fall. They’re staff of some sort, I realize, heart thundering. A man and a woman. They’re both wearing the requisite white polo shirts and khaki pants. The man is tall and handsome, with military bearing and brown hair trimmed to a razor’s edge. The woman looks vaguely familiar with her sandy bob. They’re both in their early thirties, I’m guessing.
“Easy, Ms. Scott,” the man says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“It’s okay,” I say, shaky and embarrassed now as I make sure I’ve got my feet under me and pull free. See? Members of Lucien’s staff. Not the bogeyman. “I’m fine.”
He reaches for my carry-on. “Let me help you with that.”
“I’ve got it,” I say. “But if you can help me with the big suitcase, that would be great.”
The man shakes his head and tugs the carry-on away from me, deftly passing it to the woman before climbing the last of the steps and grabbing the big suitcase. “Lucien said we were supposed to take care of everything for you.”
“It’s fine,” I say, watching as the woman runs my carry-on down to the bottom. She’s pretty much my size and moves at the exact pace that I was moving at. So I’m not sure what was accomplished here. “She’s the same size I am. Why should she be forced to carry my luggage?”
The two of them exchange a look that suggests they’ve caught me playing with a blowtorch and the pilot light on the monster oven in Lucien’s kitchen.
“She doesn’t understand,” the woman tells him, brows up.
“Understand what?” I say, watching the man shuttle my big suitcase down to the bottom.
“Lucien said he doesn’t want you to lift a finger.” He sets it down with a decisive thunk. “On anything .”
He says it with awful finality, as though he expects Lucien to suddenly appear and embody Lord Toranaga from Shōgun , possibly ordering everyone to commit seppuku if his orders aren’t fulfilled to the letter.
I join them at the bottom, recovering now and thinking that this whole situation is crazy and maybe a little alarming. I’ve always known Lucien is rich and powerful, but things are hitting the next level. “And what would happen if you accidentally let me carry my own bag?”
The two of them exchange another oh, shit look. “We don’t want to find out,” the woman says gravely.
“I’m Tamsyn, by the way,” I say as I extend my hand to the woman. “I assume we’re allowed to introduce ourselves and shake hands without Lucien throwing us all in some secret dungeon.”
She eyeballs my hand and hesitates before shaking. “We know who you are, Ms. Scott. I’m Bertha Madden, the housekeeper. We met yesterday when you arrived. Call me Maddie.”
“Oh, that’s right. I remember. Sorry about that. You can both call me Tamsyn,” I say, now turning to the man and shaking his hand.
“No, we can’t, Ms. Scott,” he says darkly. “I’m Ted Winwood. Security. You’re not leaving, are you? No one told us you were leaving.”
“No, I’m not leaving,” I quickly say, although it has crossed my mind several times that it would be easy enough to take an Uber to the nearest train station and disappear back to Brooklyn, where I belong. I could return to Mrs. Hooper’s apartment on the Upper East Side and stay there until my apartment is ready in the fall, when I’m returning to the city to begin working at one of the cancer centers. But I don’t want to leave Lucien, and I certainly don’t want to leave him like that . “I’m just moving to the cottage.”
“Lucien didn’t say anything about that to us,” Maddie tells me. “He’ll want us to make sure the cottage is in order first.”
These people have got to be kidding. “I’m sure that every single thing on this estate remains in constant order,” I say. “Plus, Lucien has had his hands full in the last several hours. He hasn’t had a chance to tell anybody anything.”
“Still,” Ted says, now wheeling both my bags toward the front door. “Please give us some time to make sure everything’s ready.”
“Fine,” I say, changing course and heading for the kitchen, because this is not a hill I want to fight and die on. I’ll just stay out of the way for a bit and let these kind folks do their job. “I can just go to the— One sec,” I say, my attention diverted by a massive formal oil painting at the base of the staircase.
This one is more contemporary than those upstairs. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it when I first arrived—although, come to think of it, I was too nervous and overwhelmed to notice everything here on display in this mansion. It depicts a man who looks like an older version of Lucien sitting on the arm of a chair belonging to a beautiful red-haired woman with Lucien’s silvery-gray eyes. The man wears a tuxedo, the woman a velvet gown in emerald. They’re not smiling, but their shining eyes form the focal point of the painting along with the diamonds glittering at her ears, neck and ring finger and the signet ring on his pinky as it drapes over the back of the chair. It’s a stunning portrait, the kind of piece that draws you in and makes you feel as though you’re just a second too late to hear what they were laughing about, but they’re glad you’re here with them now. I’m suddenly sad that I’ll never meet them. “Wow. Are those Lucien’s parents?”
“They are,” Maddie says.
“I get the feeling they were nice people,” I say.
“They were,” Maddie says.
“It’s a great painting.”
“Yes,” Maddie says fondly. “Ravenna is an art fanatic. She chose many of the newer pieces around the house. And she commissioned this one for Lucien for their first wedding anniversary. He loved it, of course.”
Of course .
I tear myself away from the painting, my enthusiasm for it seriously dimmed by the Ravenna connection, and continue toward the kitchen. “Okay. Thanks for the help. See you later.”
“Is there something I can help you with?” Maddie quickly says, hurrying after me.
“Nope. I’m good. I’m just heading to the kitchen to grab some breakfast.”
“Oh, I’ll get it for you.” She gestures me toward the massive dining room that seats twenty if it seats two. “Just let me know what you’d like.”
“I don’t know,” I say, startled by this new obstacle to normal behavior. I’m not allowed to grab my own food now? “I was kind of hoping to take a peek around and see what looks good.”
She recoils as though I’ve suggested sticking my arm in the Amazon to see if I can find some piranhas. “Chef is here. He doesn’t let people poke around in his kitchen.”
“Oh,” I say, starting to feel like one of the Beverly Hillbillies again. “Well, maybe I could just get a bowl of cereal and some coffee, or something.”
“Sounds good,” she says, brightening. “What kind of cereal, milk and coffee would you like? And what about fruit and pastries to go with it?”
“That sounds tasty,” I say. “Do you have Raisin Bran Crunch?”
The question seems to amuse her, but she smothers her smile and maintains her crisp professionalism. “We have everything. Matter of fact, let me go get Chef. He’ll want to know how you take your coffee and if you’d like some eggs. Plus, he needs to tell you what kind of pastries are available today.”
“Oh, no,” I hastily say before she can get too far. “I don’t want to put him to any trouble.”
Uncomprehending stare from Maddie. “It’s no trouble. It’s his job. Ravenna always wanted him to make a variety. She also oversaw the menus. She was very particular about what she wanted.”
And there she is again. Casting her long shadow over me. My heart sinks. I just want to get out of here and breathe some Ravenna-free air for a minute.
“It’s fine,” I say, backing toward the door and hitching my purse strap onto my shoulder. The idea of eating alone in that Buckingham Palace-banquet-hall-sized dining room after the chef (who was probably trained in Paris and has a couple of Michelin stars to his name) prepares my cereal bowl strikes me as way too complicated. Absurd, actually. “You know what? I think I’ll just, I don’t know, walk to the little town and grab something there.”
Now it’s Ted’s turn to object. “It’s a long walk. I’ll grab someone to drive you.”
This is getting ridiculous. I appreciate the extreme privilege I’m experiencing here. But, swear to God, the only thing I need is a little fresh air, some time to myself and a strong cup of coffee to help me over the residual jet lag and lack of sleep from last night. I’m not used to all this attention. I’m used to rolling out of bed and drifting into the kitchen to fix my own breakfast. Around here, I feel as though every small event is worthy of attention from the National Guard.
“I’ll go by myself,” I say. “It’s fine.”
There’s a delicate pause. I get the feeling the two of them have run out of all patience with me.
Ted again: “You want to take one of the cars? I can get you the keys for the Range Rover.”
“I don’t need the Range Rover.” I catch my voice pitching higher and make a mental note to tone it down. “I need the exercise. Didn’t I see bikes in the garage yesterday?”
Maddie grins with way more delight than the situation warrants. “We have bikes, yes.”
“Great! I’m all set.” I speed for the door before anyone can come up with anything else?—
“Wait,” Ted calls after me. “I’ll just make sure there’s enough air in the tires.”
“I’ve got it,” I call without stopping. “I’m fine. Thanks. Bye!”
I make my escape, half expecting them to tumble out of the house after me. Perhaps with a high-tech tracking device in tow just to make sure no one loses me during my perilous trek up the straight driveway and left to head into town. But nothing follows me, so I begin to relax. By the time I make it to the garage, I’m looking forward to a little solo adventure. I help myself to a nice bike and take off for the little town, where I spend a quiet day exploring all the shops by myself. It’s pleasant. Or it could be.
If only I could escape the feeling that someone is hovering over my shoulder just out of sight, watching me.
Eventually I run out of things to see and head back. The tangy breeze feels good against my face, and I finally start to relax. I even note the way the stump from the fallen tree has now been ground into a fine mulch along the drive. All seems well.
Which is why it’s such a shock to see several cars in the circle driveway, doors open and engines idling. A group of staff is listening to Lucien as he shouts instructions and gestures at the cars. I’m too far away to hear what he’s saying at first, but I have no problem picking up his grim urgency and air of command.
Oh, God. What now?
My stomach lurches because we don’t need any more shocking developments. Not today. I speed up, thighs burning with the effort to get there and find out what the hell is happening. That’s when someone looks around, sees me and points.
Lucien’s head whips around just as I screech to a halt and hop off the bike. “Tamsyn?”
“Oh my God,” I say, pulse thundering in my throat. “What’s wrong? What’s happened?”