Thoroughly Whipped

“Well, Timothy, it takes a lot to shut me up, so that would be quite the feat.”

“You’ll see,” he said then moved through the open doors to the foyer. I stopped in the doorway, almost getting back shafted by Sally, who had ridden in another car.

“Move!”

I ducked to the side to let Sally past, tipping my head back and drinking in my first glimpse of the Sinclair Estate’s interior. A large marble statue of a man stood in the center, dark wooden columns surrounded the room, and plaster busts of Sinclairs of old graced the alcoves.

Timothy was polite enough to let me have my fill and admire the huge fireplace on one of the walls. When I’d stared at the painted ceiling and walked around the antique stone floor, he led me to another doorway. It took me a moment to see that most of the New York Journal and Visage staff were going off to the right.

“Are we not going with them?” I asked.

“No, Miss. They are being given rooms in one of the guest houses in the gardens. You are to stay in the main house.” I stopped breathing at that. Not wanting to alarm Timothy by passing out, I forced my lungs to work and followed him to an ornate wooden staircase with black iron banisters with delicate filigrees.

As I climbed the perfectly vacuumed red-carpeted stairs, I looked all around me. The walls were white paneled, the same filigree patterns swirling in plaster. Old-fashioned couches and chaise lounges were perfectly placed on each landing area. Huge windows peered out onto what Timothy told me were some of the gardens. Some. As in many. I saw topiary bushes sculpted into swans and rabbits and others perfectly shaped into cones. Small hedges swirled around them like ripples of water.

He lives here. Harry actually lives here. I couldn’t even comprehend being raised in such a place. I now better understood why King believed us so incompatible. To know Harry was a viscount and from the British aristocracy was one thing, an abstract bit of knowledge, one that may have been hinted at by his massive apartment on the Upper East Side. But being here, in this house on one thousand acres of nothing short of English countryside perfection, made it very real—very, very real—who Harry was and his place in this society.

I felt I was walking through an art gallery as we made our way down a hallway with paintings older than America on the green wallpapered walls. Timothy had told me it was the original wallpaper from when the house was built centuries ago. Not everything was original, but some furnishings they’d managed to preserve.

Timothy stopped by a large wooden door. “This is your room for the next few days, Miss Parisi,” he said and opened it. A few more doors were to my right. To my left was a door at the end of the hallway. It had a grander finish than mine. The wood had touches of gold painted on the same filigree pattern that seemed to run through the house. “Miss?” Timothy said and held out his hand for me to enter first.

“Holy fucking shit,” I said, eyes wide when I realized this would be my room while I was here. A huge four-poster bed sat in the center, draped ornately in blue curtains that fell to the floor and would completely box in the bed if pulled out of their ties. It had a golden dome over it like a cathedral roof. The wallpaper was sky blue, and white columns stood at either side of the bed. I couldn’t help it; I let out a loud laugh. The sound of my voice echoed off the high ceiling.

“And this is your bathroom,” Timothy said. After running my hand over a plush cream couch and a mahogany desk, I walked into the bathroom. It was just as impressive as the bedroom, with a large claw-foot tub, porcelain sinks that I was sure were older than George Washington, and a toilet that looked like a throne. I would never have believed anyone could look regal while emptying their bowels, but I was quickly rethinking that notion.

As we entered the bedroom again, Timothy said, “Your itinerary is on the desk. The festivities will begin with champagne and strawberries at sunset on the terrace.” Timothy pointed to another pamphlet. “A map for while you are here.”

“It’s crazy to need a map for a house.”

“You’ll get used to it,” Timothy said and went to the door.

“Wait, Timothy, I haven’t given you your tip.”

“We don’t do that in England, Miss. Please, enjoy your stay. The forecast is for sunshine the entire time you are here. It should make for an unforgettable experience.”

Timothy shut the door, and I shook my head in disbelief. “No tip?” I whispered. “Am I in heaven?”