Love the One You Hate

I jump out of my skin then turn away, ashamed. “Nothing—wandering. Is Nicholas still here?”

“He had lunch with friends and then he had to leave to go back to New York.”

I pretend to study a nearby bust. I have no idea who it is, some old guy in a wig. Meanwhile, relief floods my system.

She frowns and glances back and forth between me and the painting of Nicholas. I know she wants to ask me more, but instead she nods down the hall. “Well, come along. I’ve been looking for you everywhere. Someone sent you flowers.”

There’s an overflowing bouquet of pink and white peonies waiting for me on the circular table in the front entry. I’ve never received flowers from anyone, and if you’d asked my thoughts on them before this moment, I would have groaned about it being a silly gesture perpetuated by the Hallmark Channel. That said, now that I’m looking down on two dozen heavy blooms, all meant for me, I can’t help but feel a little flutter of joy deep down inside.

Who in the world sent them? I wonder as I pull out the small white envelope nestled in the blooms.

Sorry we didn’t get to spend more time together last night. I hope you feel better. - BarrettI’m smiling even before I realize I’m happy they’re from him.

I can’t believe it, really.

I read the note again then hold it up for Cornelia to see when she flutters over, curious about the sender.

“Handsome boy. He was sad you’d left the party, and I’m not surprised he sent these.” She touches a bloom and twists it so it catches the light. “They’re very pretty.”

“I’m sorry. It’s probably inappropriate that he sent me flowers.”

“Why on earth would it be inappropriate?”

“It’s just…I don’t know the rules. I’m your employee.”

“Please stop saying that.”

“But it’s the truth.”

“Well so what? If Barrett wants to send you flowers or take you out, good for you! I hope you have a wonderful time. You might even see him on Wednesday. We have lunch plans at the club with Lydia and Victoria.”

Oh good. I feel bad that I left Tori high and dry. I hope her offer of friendship still stands.

“That is if you’re feeling up to it,” she adds gently.

“Oh, yes. I’m feeling much better, so you can put me to work now. Do you need me to do anything? Help clean up after the party?”

“It’s already been done.”

“What about dinner?”

“Chef is taking care of it.”

“Has the table been set?”

“By Patricia.”

“And what about—”

“You know what? If you’re so intent on doing something, come play a song for me. I haven’t heard you on the piano in days.”* * *On Monday, I try to make myself as useful as possible for Cornelia without getting in anyone’s way. I offer to walk into town to pick up her dry cleaning, and Collins actually agrees to let me go because he’s so busy with other tasks he had to put off to prepare for the ball. When I get back, I unwrap all the clothing and hang everything up in the designated sections of her very organized closet. Once that’s done, I cut fresh roses and replenish the vases in the blue drawing room. Then, I join Cornelia for tea, and when she asks me to read a book aloud to her, I happily oblige. We stay there until the early afternoon reading Pride and Prejudice together.

At dinner, we discuss whether or not Elizabeth Bennet should have accepted Darcy’s first proposal.

“Absolutely not!” I say, slamming my fist down on the table for added effect. “She thinks Darcy is proud and selfish and assumes, at the time, that marriage to him would be absolutely miserable.”

“What if it would save her family from poverty?” she prods.

“No. The sacrifice is still too great.”

“So then you’ll only marry for love?”

“We aren’t talking about me,” I say, frowning in consternation.

She smiles then. “No, perhaps not.”

After dinner, I play her a few songs on the piano and then go to bed that night feeling less guilty than days prior. I like feeling useful, and I think I could make a real place for myself here if I try hard enough.

On Tuesday, Tori calls the house while I’m out on a walk around the property with Cornelia. Apparently, she was serious about the invitation to play tennis.

“I can’t go,” I say, looking to Cornelia. “I need to help you prepare for the kids from St. Michael’s.”

“Nonsense. There’s nothing left to do. Now hurry and change or you’ll keep Tori waiting.”

“Change? Into what?”

“Tennis whites, dear. They’re in your closet.”

Of course they are, because why wouldn’t they be?

An hour later, Frank drops me at the entrance to the yacht club, and I rush to the tennis courts near the edge of the property. Tori’s already there with our instructor, a giant of a man with a heavy Russian accent who takes his job very seriously. It’s a shame considering the fact that Tori and I barely get to chat as he leads us through a round of Olympic-level tennis training. I’m sweating bullets by the time we’re done, and Tori sends me an apologetic smile.