“Okay, I’ll just hit the highlights. Three years ago he was married, and they were in a horrible car accident on the way to St. Moritz. It was a miracle they saved his leg.”
The cane…right.
“And his wife?”
Charlotte paused before adding, “Died––and he was driving.”
A somber silence settled between us. I had nothing other than sympathy for this man. It didn’t take a medical degree to realize he was suffering from the loss of his wife. He must have loved her very much. “He’s the only person that lives here?”
Charlotte nodded. “Alone.” She hopped off the bed and walked to the door. “I have to get back. Mrs. Arnaud thought I was going for a smoke. When you’re settled, I’ll give you a tour of the estate. You start tomorrow.”
The events of the day were starting to catch up with me. It felt like lead weights were strapped to my ankles. “Charlotte.”
She turned to face me. “Yes?”
“Do I need a tour?” I asked, yawning.
A wide, bright smile stretched across her face. “There are eighty two rooms in this manor. I still get lost.” She laughed at the look of shock on my face. “Rest. I’ll swing by when I’m done with work.”
The door closed. I shuffled to the small bed and lay down. Too tired to take off my dusty clothes. Too tired to shut the window. I laced my fingers together on my stomach, watched the linen drape flutter as a chilly wind blew in, and fell fast asleep.
Chapter Three
I woke up abruptly, in the middle of the night. Confused and disoriented, it took me a while to adjust my eyes to the surroundings. Someone had turned the desk lamp was on and a note sat next to it.
Vera-
Didn’t have the heart to wake you when I came by at 6. You slept so soundly I actually had to check your breathing to make sure you weren’t dead. Will stop by at 5 am to do the tour. Mrs. Arnaud left supper for you in the kitchen whenever you wake.
Charlotte
I got up and pushed the curtain aside. The moon, hanging high, poked out from behind puffs of smoky clouds. It seemed to be around midnight, which meant I had slept for a straight ten hours. Remarkable. I couldn’t recall ever sleeping so soundly. My stomach rumbled, taking the opportunity to remind me that it had been sadly neglected.
With my hair a mess, hanging loose down my back since I couldn’t locate my only elastic band, and my clothes all crumpled by sleep, I padded barefoot down the stairs. Small sconces of dim light interrupted the darkness in the hallway. Sight became irrelevant when I could simply follow my nose to the kitchen; the perfume of food drifting up from the ground floor led the way.
On a long counter, there was an assortment of cheese framed by muscat grapes; a golden roasted baby chicken––the scent of which made my stomach cry in anticipation; fingerling roasted potatoes sprinkled with fresh rosemary; baby purple cauliflower diced into small triangles; and French string beans tossed with crunchy almonds. And lastly, the beautiful pastries that had brought me back to life from a fainting spell earlier accompanied a petit chocolate éclair and a delicate little fruit tart. Robbed of grace and manners by deprivation, I shoveled everything into my mouth until I was so stuffed I could hardly breathe.
The silence, disturbed only by the subtle ticking of an antique wall clock, wrapped around me like a security blanket. I sat back to study my surroundings as an ease I hadn’t felt in ages came over me. The large kitchen was dark and cozy. The ceiling was vaulted. Gleaming copper pots and pans hung from a suspended wrought iron rack, and a large oak trestle table sat in the middle; its wood grooved from age and use. The smell of mouthwatering food mingled with the aroma of spices that were hung to dry near a window casement. It smelled of safety to me…like home.
I was dying to explore. And after a lengthy debate with myself about the inappropriateness of it, curiosity still easily won over prudence. Unaware of where I was headed, I began walking down a seemingly endless corridor. The house was as quiet as a tomb, despite how sound reverberated against the massive stone walls and the cathedral ceiling. Along the way I came upon an enormous painting depicting a battle scene. The lights were too dim for me to be certain, but it looked like the work of an old master, in the technique of chiaroscuro. I had seen an exhibition of paintings similar to this one at the Uffizi. Apparently this man had one hanging in some forgotten part of his house.
The corridor fed into a foyer that was large enough to house a small airplane. There was so much to take in I didn’t know where to look first. An Austrian crystal chandelier dangled over me. I tipped my head back and circled around and around in awe at the sheer scale of it while an idiotic smile played on my lips. The dim light twinkling off the icy shards reflected onto the mosaic floor beneath me. I couldn’t make out the elaborate image so I knelt down on hands and knees for a closer inspection.