A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“I’m stronger than I look. I can prove it. I can lift at least twenty kilos.” My voice sounded weak––even to my own ears.

“Where’s Bentifourt? Where the fuck is everybody?!” The deep, raspy male voice reverberated through the kitchen and echoed painfully in my head. Assertive footsteps drew closer, the ancient limestone walls amplifying every sound. I sat up with whip-crack speed and instantly felt dizzy again.

“Olivier, you should go, before he finds us in here,” said the French woman. A minute later I heard the elderly butler’s shuffle grow fainter. “Here, eat these.”

My vision sharpened to discover a short plump woman bending over me. She had a wide face, a crown of short blonde hair, a gap between her two front teeth, and deep blue eyes as round as gum balls. She must have been in her sixties but didn’t have many wrinkles on her skin, except for the fine laugh lines fanning out from the sides of her eyes. Resting in her chubby palm were three beautiful little pastries. After shoving them indelicately in my mouth, I shut my eyes. Manna from Heaven. An explosion of flavors assaulted my taste buds. Rich crème, fresh ripe raspberry, and flaky dough. A balance of sweet and tart married in perfect harmony. It was the most wonderful thing I had tasted in…well, in forever.

Her eyebrows lifted a fraction as she watched me shovel the third one in. “Better?” she asked with a warm smile.

“Much better, thank you.” Mortification began to creep in, and the realization that I may have ruined the one good chance I had at a decent job. I scrambled to my feet. “Madame, I am so sorry, but I have been walking for hours and didn’t notice…” My voice trailed off as she waved her pudgy little hand in front of my face.

“Shhhh, c’est bien. It’s okay. I understand. You are here for the housekeeping position? I see you already came with your things.”

Two sets of eyes fell on my pathetic valise.

“Yes,” I answered meekly.

“Do you have a work permit?” The moment of truth…I couldn’t answer, just held my breath and prayed for divine intervention. She considered me for a moment. “Do you know how to clean?”

“I clean very well, madame,” I answered quickly.

“We will try for a week. If you cannot do the cleaning properly I will have to let you go. Agreed?” Her gentle eyes searched my face.

“I won’t disappoint you. Thank you, so much. Thank you,” I repeated, overwhelmed with relief.

“My name is Marianne Arnaud. I run the housekeeping staff.”

I extended an ever so grateful hand. “Vera Sava, madame. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

* * *

I followed Mrs. Arnaud up the stairs to the servants’ quarters. She opened the door to a small, tidy room that had a twin bed dressed in crisp white sheets and a navy blue blanket, a pretty antique armoire, a picture window, and a small writing desk with a table lamp. It was perfect in every way. A spot in my chest began to warm, evicting the permanent chill that had taken up residence there since that night at the pub.

“The toilette is down the hall and your towels are in the armoire, along with fresh linens. I will send up your uniforms,” she informed me, as she walked over to the window. Pushing aside the linen drapes, she opened it up. “Très jolie, non? This room has a pretty view.”

I walked over to the window and glanced outside. That was a gross understatement. My eyes beheld an explosion of color as if Monet himself held the paintbrush, beauty in its most profound definition. Neat segments of rose cultivars grew in between a boxwood hedge shaped in an intricate pattern; flowerbeds of tulips and irises were artistically arranged by hue; Japanese cherry trees in full bloom framed the south border. And hidden among the lush vegetation, moss covered statues of cherubs and naked nymphs peeked out. I was no gardening expert but this one seemed elegant enough to rival Versailles––or what I’d seen of Versailles in books and on the Internet.

“I’ll leave you to get settled,” Mrs. Arnaud said, closing the door behind her afterwards. I couldn’t believe my good fortune. Rubbing my tiny cross, I made a mental note to call Emilia and thank her again.

“Sebastian!” A velvety female voice floated in from the garden.

I glanced from behind the linen curtain and noticed a tall woman, her greyhound thin body encased in tight britches and riding boots, walking purposefully towards a very tall man. Leaning on a cane, he stood under a magnificent pergola covered by white trumpet shaped flowers that formed an otherworldly halo around him. He was too far away for me to make out his features, but the inherent grace in his posture, the refined casual clothes he wore, spoke volumes about him. Wealthy and entitled––he was sure about his place in this world.