Chapter Three
Grace
I couldn’t believe my good fortune, but I decided it was wise not to test it. It was best to keep my mouth shut in case I said something to ruin this wonderful turn of events, and squander the opportunity fate had afforded me.
Despite his obvious pain and the slight limp in his gait, Nicholas insisted on taking my bags up to the first floor himself.
Unlike Heather House, he had something else to aid him.
A small elevator, old-fashioned like one you might find in an aged department store, which we squeezed into with the bags.
I could feel his breath on my face, we were so close.
It was pleasant, and fresh, and it drew my eyes up to look at his mouth.
Salt and pepper stubble coated his strong jaw, with a dimple the size of my thumb print in the centre of his chin.
His lips curled slightly, as if about to break into a wry smile, and his teeth were neat and even when he spoke.
He was well-groomed, but that didn’t surprise me; the whole mansion was dripping with Victorian wealth and taste, its facade and bay windows well maintained just as he was, without a single tile missing from its many rooftops.
Even the wild gardens were landscaped and designed, giving the illusion of natural chaos – very different from the real, untamed chaos of Heather House.
My heart gave a tug as I realised I was really here, really doing this – and that this handsome, much older man had given me permission to stay here and learn.
That he had considered his options and wanted me here, just like that.
This man, Nicholas Crowthorne, who was allegedly difficult to please; a tough old stick, Mavis said.
This vastly wealthy man who ran a Hampstead funeral home, with branches spreading out around the country.
Private, exclusive, exquisite. A place of beauty and death in equal measure.
In some ways, not too different from Heather House after all.
As the lift made its slow ascent, Nicholas cleared his throat.
My eyes fell on his Adam’s apple, bobbing, and drifted again to his face and hair.
He was looking politely down at his shoes, his brow slightly furrowed as if in deep thought.
His hair was swept from his face; long locks of inky dark hair, threaded evenly throughout with deep blue-greys, which were more prominent at his sideburns.
His eyes were black, like mine; so dark they were like obsidian, deep sorrowful pools to take lives in.
I'd always thought of my own eyes that way; deep, yet somehow cruel.
He had a merciless air about him; hard, cold, judging...yet also sad, void of something.
How could I sense that sorrowful aspect within Nicholas, I wondered? It was more than just his eyes. Perhaps it was in his apparent physical pain. Perhaps it was his permanent expression of deep-thinking, so much like a pained one.
Perhaps it was because he’d called out that name, Louisa. Now I wondered who she might be. She was somebody dear to him. Somebody important. Somebody he hoped to see, but couldn’t believe he was seeing.
When I glanced up again, Nicholas’ eyes were square on me. I flinched to see them, heat flooding my cheeks to know I’d been caught.
But he kept my gaze, and for a moment, I kept his. When his eyes continued studying mine, I wondered if he was thinking the same thing – that we had the same eyes. The same darkness.
I wondered if he was feeling that tension, that squirmy feeling in his navel which felt good and terrible all at once.
I knew, for sure, he couldn’t have a pulsing between his legs; that tingling and throbbing that made me want to clench my thighs.
I struggled to breathe in the enclosed space, almost panting to be so close to this man in his expensive-looking robe, with his hot breath on my skin, and his dark eyes drinking me in.
The elevator door creaked open as if it really didn’t want to.
Nicholas’ gaze finally left my face as we turned onto the landing and went to the end of the hall.
The house was so large that there was a cross-roads, with halls leading to room after room, and the stairwell was grand enough to create a balcony overlooking the foyer far below.
The hall was carpeted in a deep mahogany red, and oil portraits lined the walls in ornate gold frames.
One depicted two teenage boys with dark hair and eyes black as coal, their expressions solemn and remote.
He took me to a large room at the back of the house, overlooking the long landscaped gardens. The door beside my room was shabby, unkempt, and it was locked with a curious padlock. Mine was panelled and looked practically freshly painted.
I went to look at the view from the windows first. In the moonlight, I could see busts and under-lit statues among topiaries and aged shrubs, a large pond, and an enormous white orangery with large green leaves curling against every pane of glass.
Two tall French doors led to a small covered terrace outside.
The bed was placed against the back wall – four poster, mahogany, with an embroidered quilt and pillows that had to be goose-down – overlooking that glorious rain-swept garden.
“This is so...glamorous,” I said, unable to hide the awe in my voice.
Nick placed my bag and suitcase by the bed, smiling in a gratified way that made the knot in my stomach tighten.
The walls were panelled and the wallpaper was a thick, beige-pink flock that matched the embroidered quilt and every soft furnishing, from the window seats to the chair by the ornate dressing table.
There was a large armoire for my clothes, and even built-in shelving for shoes – not that I had many pairs to put there – and a tall standing mirror to dress in.
The carpet was a soft beige-pink and was plush, bouncing underfoot. Looking up, I saw the ceiling was panelled just as the walls were, colour-flooded in that same muted pastel pink, with an ornate gold chandelier hanging from a ceiling rose at its centre.
“My god, what a beautiful room,” I whispered, unable to believe this was the room he chose for me. This feminine, luxurious space fit for a princess.
“This was once my room, believe it or not,” he said, gazing around at all the pink just as I did. “I’m glad you like it. It isn’t to my tastes at all, but...it wasn’t designed for my tastes back then. Perhaps you’ll bring it to life again.”
I wanted to ask why, and to probe a little, but I knew I shouldn’t. We’d only just met. I was desperate to ask who the room was designed for. To ask if it was for somebody named Louisa.
“It’s the most stunning room I’ve ever seen,” I said, keeping my mouth shut about the mystery woman for now.
That satisfied smile again, his lips wry and curling, his eyes sparkling beneath his fierce tapered eyebrows. I noticed the hairs were untrimmed and slightly wild, but still well-shaped, a bit like the flowers in the front garden. Nicholas looked ruggedly handsome, elegant and yet not too polished.
He had to be twenty years older than me, perhaps more.
He had wrinkles in his forehead, and slight creases around his eyes.
He was tall, too, and muscular in a lean way, with strong arms and wrists, and hands that could cover my entire face, I was sure.
I enjoyed the way his expensive robe fit him so well, no doubt tailored to his exact measurements.
It hugged his thick chest and tapered gracefully to a slimmer waist, hinting at a trim yet hard, healthy body beneath.
I wondered if his chest would be covered in hair much like the ones on his head, threaded through with silver and grey.
“I’m so pleased you like it,” he said. “There’s an en-suite bathroom with a roll-top tub, which you’re welcome to use, though it is so late.
You might want to get some rest. Margaret, my housekeeper, will be informed of you first thing in the morning, and she’ll know to bring you breakfast and tea. ”
I sighed so audibly with desire that Nicholas chuckled, a deep rumble that made my thighs clench again. The exhaustion came over me in a wave, as my body finally succumbed and admitted it had come a long way in the freezing cold, and could use a warm bed to rest in.
“On a nice tray, too, so you can sit up in bed and watch the rain dancing down the window panes,” said Nicholas, smiling softly. He’d enjoyed this room himself, in that way – that much was clear. “Cosy and warm.”
His expression was so knowing, as if he could see all my anxiety and pain at losing my mother and running from my home, that I felt the urge to cry.
I held back my tears, but something deep inside of me – the little girl who longed to be looked after, for a change, instead of carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders – felt suddenly relieved.
This kind, fatherly man wanted to make me feel at home. Looked after. Cared for.
How long had it been since I’d ever felt that way?
“I’ve never had a room like this,” I said softly, my eyes falling again over the exquisite, soft luxury of it. “With my own dressing table, and a place to properly hang my things, and a roll-top tub...”
Nicholas clasped his hands behind his back and watched me as my voice trailed away, my eyes drifting over the panels and the flocked wallpaper like a little girl in her own little paradise. His eyes were sparkling, his smile satisfied. My gratitude pleased him.
“Consider it yours, for now,” he said. “We’ll speak in the morning, once you’ve had your rest and relaxed a little. Will you be all right, on your own?”
To anyone else, that question might have been strange.
I was twenty-one, after all; a grown woman.
But I was grateful for his concern for me.
Grateful that he asked. Nobody ever asked – not even Tom, who thought he owned me, had ever asked if I was all right on my own, only that he thought I could use his company. He’d never asked if I was afraid.
And I was. I had been.