Chapter 3
3
JONATHAN
T he door opens to reveal the largest man I’ve ever seen. He’s definitely over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and thick, corded muscles that are stretching his blue-green henley to its limits. His long, rust-colored hair is pulled back in a braid and he sports a close-cropped beard.
Bloody hell.
This is De Villeneuve. The Beast, himself. Even if I hadn’t looked him up online, I’d know it by his sheer size. His sheer presence . I forget to breathe. Was he the one on the intercom? Surely not.
“You must be our teacher,” he says. Same deep, deep voice. Like far off thunder. It was him. It’s him. He’s here. I’m dead. “John Belle, was it?”
I try to find my voice. Zane was right. Forget Scottish prison, this man could snap me in half.
“Well?”
“Oh, I, um, yes.” I offer him my hand robotically. “Jonathan.”
He says, “Hmm,” but it sounds like a growl. “All right, Jonathan. ”
His giant hand closes around mine. His grip is firm but his skin is surprisingly soft. Heat flashes through me.
“Let’s start with a tour,” he says after a beat passes with neither of us speaking.
He drops my hand and sets off without waiting for a response. I fall into step with him, but I feel like I’m trotting to keep up with his large stride.
“The manor sleeps sixteen, but obviously not at the moment. There are five staff. Three stay in the house with me and the children. The other two are in the groundskeeper’s cottage at the edge of the property.”
Five. My stomach swoops. So much for disappearing into an army of hundreds.
He leads me across the landing. We enter a dim passage, papered in a twisting branch and curling leaf design. It’s immediately familiar. William Morris. Genuine? I don’t comment.
“Ground floor is what would be the guest level, if we had guests,” De Villeneuve says. “This is the family floor and upstairs you’ll find staff quarters and the foundation offices. A rough guide. You’ll spend most of your time in this wing.”
He pauses at a door just long enough to say, “Classroom.” I don’t have a chance to look in before he’s off again. “North east bathroom.” The passage hooks right past the door he just indicated. “Playroom to the left, to the right, the kids’ bedrooms. We put them eldest to youngest with you on the end.”
“I’m staying with the family?” The question slips out and I immediately wish it hadn’t because De Villeneuve stops and gives me an appraising look. That is the sort of information Dad would know. Keep it together, for God's sake.
“The nanny doesn’t sleep in the house,” De Villeneuve says. “It was mentioned in your contact. You’ll need to see to their needs overnight. I trust that’s in order?”
I swallow hard and hope he doesn’t notice. I wish I was better at lying. “Ah, yes, I remember.”
He hums, more vibration than sound. I have to assume it signifies agreement because he continues onwards. “Enrique is four and nonverbal. I understand he has some problems with night terrors, so he’ll be next door to you.”
The interviews I read about this project mentioned there would be four children, but didn’t disclose any personal details. I didn’t realize how young they’d be. It feels like I’m carrying a steel ball in my chest. Tiny children, relying on me far more than I expected.
The passage hooks around again. We’ve walked in a horse shoe and now we’re faced with a door at the end. “That will be your room.”
“Easy to find. Just walk until I can’t walk anymore.”
“Angus will have brought up your luggage if you’d like to get settled? Dinner is at seven. If you can find your way back to the control room, my assistant, Meredith, will take you from there.”
“The control room?”
“My office.”
“Right. Since you’re in control here.”
I think a smile flickers somewhere behind his beard, but it disappears so fast I’m not convinced it was real. “Am I?”
Is that a joke? His gaze is so intense that I really can’t tell. His eyes are the color of storm clouds. I want to get lost in the— Oh god, Jonathan, stop. This man will likely kill you when he learns the truth. You cannot be attracted to him. I force a smile. “Is that when I’ll meet the children? At dinner?”
“Hopefully.”
Again, I’m not sure if he’s serious. He sounds serious but he could also just be a giant with an excellent deadpan. I scratch at my ear. “I’ll watch out for pinecones”
His bushy brow furrows. “Pine...cones?”
“Ah, The Sound of Music? Julie Andrews? When she joins the children for dinner for the first time, they prank her with a pinecone on her chair.”
He’s just looking at me so I continue.
“And then she sits on it and screeches. But she’s so nice about it that the children feel guilty and start crying—not that I would make the children cry! Never.” My face is so hot. I must be bright pink.
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Mister Belle. You haven’t met the children.”
Another joke? There’s no sign of humor in those stormy eyes. “I’m not sure I follow?”
He folds his arms and I definitely do not notice how his biceps bulge. “Behavioral issues are common with children who’ve been in the system. You may find real life quite far from a musical.”
I fold my own arms—the effect is no doubt far less impressive. “I’m aware of the maladaptive behaviors trauma and neglect can cause.”
“Are you?”
He’s still evaluating me, with a piercing look that makes me want to guard my thoughts as well as my words.
“These children might require a firm hand, Mister Belle. Are you up to the task?”
My throat goes tight. How firm?
My doubt must reflect in my expression because he steps in closer. The oxygen leaves my lungs as he leans in and says, “These children need structure, they need stability, they need discipline. Is that something that you feel you’re able to offer, Mister Belle?”
I look soft. I know I do. God, every bully between year one and my third year of college thought the same thing. I tilt my chin up and meet his gaze, trying to show that I’m not as soft as he thinks. I can handle some unruly children. I can handle them my way. “On the contrary, Mister De Villeneuve. Studies show that children need to feel safe and secure in order to thrive. They need kindness and respect, so they’re able to trust their caregivers.”
He smirks . “Beast.”
“Excuse me?”
“Beast. That’s what people call me. Or Adam, if you prefer. I’ll leave you to get situated.” He turns away and then pauses. “There are few locked doors here. You are free to explore. I ask only that you stay clear of the west wing.”
“And this is the east wing?”
“That’s right.”
And then he’s retreating back down the long corridor, past the rooms that belong to my charges.
I’m starting to form a mental picture of the manor. It’s symmetrical: Two giant wings split by that beautiful sweeping staircase. De Villeneuve’s office is in a mirror location to the classroom, but where this corridor continues in its horseshoe shape—folded around the playroom—there was a big brown door cutting off the opposite passage. That must lead to his private quarters. The west wing.
Images of a plush and luxurious space out of Buckingham Palace fill my mind. But, in truth, there’s no guessing what his space might look like. While the exterior of this house is Victorian, the interior is not so easily categorized. The entrance is baroque, with white paneling and marble floors. On the landing, overlooking the foyer, there’s a white baby grand on an antique rug. Then there’s the rest of this floor, which is more understated but with cozy and elegant details. The average person probably wouldn’t appreciate the hardwood floors, fine wallpaper, or the art nouveau light fixtures. Whoever decorated this house loved it. They weren’t chasing fashion or even consistency. They were trying to make each space magical, each detail significant.
I somehow doubt that person was The Beast.
I wait until he’s rounded the corner before I take a deep breath and turn to open the door to my room.
That deep breath whooshes out of me as soon as I see my quarters.
The mystery designer clearly had a hand in this room too. The wooden floors are covered with a variety of richly patterned rugs and at the center of the room, there’s a four-poster bed, draped in olive damask that compliments the wallpaper. I want to take a closer look at the walls, but my attention catches on the writing desk on the left of the room, which has a vinyl record player sitting on it.
I turn on the spot, trying to take everything in. In addition to the bed and the desk, there’s a large wooden wardrobe and a plush green armchair beneath a bay window.
Dad would love this just as much as I do. This was meant to be his. His crowning achievement after a long career. Considering how hard he’s worked and how much he’s sacrificed for us, he should be here.
But what if he had a fit, like he did last year?
Zane’s voice on the phone. “Something’s happened. Your father collapsed. He’s on his way to hospital. I’m coming to get you.”
An hour or more driving into London, not sure he’d even be alive when I got there.
I pull out my phone, but there are no bars. I slip it back into my pocket and rub at the heaviness in my chest.
It’s not fair that Dad’s poor health denied him this, that I have to be the villain who takes it away.
Will he ever forgive me?
I step around my suitcase, which has been set just within the room, and go to browse through the records stacked beside the record player. It’s all classical music, mostly symphonies and concertos. I select Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony—the one he composed once he’d lost his hearing and retreated to the country. The record cover depicts an idyllic landscape, not dissimilar to what I can see through my window.
When I slide the needle into place, Beethoven’s upbeat first movement fills the room and, for a few minutes at least, the hollow place inside me.