Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

She doesn’t take her eyes off the kitten. “Maybe she didn’t want to be rescued. Did he think of that? No, of course not, he does whatever he wants. Like a man.”

I don’t bother telling her that the kitten had fallen off the cliff. That would only give her nightmares, probably. And I don’t tell her that the kitten might have frozen to death outside. She doesn’t need more thoughts of death in her life.

Besides, she isn’t really talking about the kitten right now.

She’s talking about herself.

“I’m sure he’s only trying to help,” I say softly, though in my mind I can still hear him saying, in the business world, she’s what we call a liability. Something I’m required to pay. An expense. A loan. The wrong side of the balance sheet. “Let’s go downstairs, and we can find something for the kitten to eat. What do you think she would like? And we can get breakfast for ourselves.”

Paige scrunches her small nose in concentration.

This is a pivotal moment. She wants to refuse anything to do with me, but she also wants to help take care of the kitten. Which one will win out right now? She scoops the tiny thing against her chest and stares straight ahead, all without saying a word.

I take that as a sign that I should lead the way.

Ironic, since I have no idea where the kitchen is.

I head out of the room toward the direction of the stairs. We climb down together, me keeping an eye on both of them since the girl is clearly distracted and halfway in love with the kitten. She keeps making moon eyes at it instead of holding on to the rail. I’m too nervous about our tenuous peace to tell her to be careful, so instead I just use my body to block a potential fall.

We make it down safely and head past the miles of rooms. Living rooms. Sitting rooms. Formal rooms. Parlors? I don’t really know the difference between them all. I’m used to one central space with a TV blaring and too many butts to fit on the sofa.

Even before, my family had a modest suburban house, not a mansion like this.

The smell of bacon and coffee pulls me in the right direction. We wind up back in the kitchen where I nursed the kitten back to warmth last night. It doesn’t feel quite real, that “interview” with Mr. Rochester, like something that happened in a dream.

An older white woman stands at the stove, flipping something. Pancakes. My stomach growls audibly. I didn’t eat anything since before I got on the plane yesterday.

“Breakfast ends at eight,” she says without turning around. “I’m the housekeeper. Call me Mrs. Fairfax. Show up on time or be hungry.”

“Thank you,” I say, flashing a quick smile at Paige so she doesn’t feel hurt by the abrupt comments. “We’ll definitely come down in time to eat.”

“I don’t change diapers,” she continues. “Or wipe dirty faces. Don’t get paid to do that. Only cook and clean up around the place. Sweep the floors. Stock the fridge.”

Indignation rises in my throat, but I force it back. I don’t mind her being rude to me, but she has no cause to be rude to the child, who clearly is well out of diapers. “Great. Then I’ll give you a list of some things to get. Starting with plenty of fruits for snacks for a growing child, vegetables to cook for dinner, and kitten food.”

The woman’s eyes narrow, but she gives me a brusque nod.

I haven’t made a new friend here, but at least we understand each other.

There are platters of pancakes, eggs, bacon, and salmon on the counter. I find two large plates and fill them up, one for me and one for Paige. Then I find a saucer and put tiny bits of eggs, bacon, and salmon on there for the kitten. I set them out on the blue kitchen table.

Paige puts the kitten down in front of her plate and urges her to eat. “There you go, little kitten. Have this fish. Have some really good, salty fish. Yes. It’s so good for you.”

She uses a “mom” voice for the last part, and my heart breaks, thinking that her mom would have said similar things to her about fish and vegetables. Only six months ago her mother was in this world, caring for her little girl. Now she’s gone, and Paige seems adrift.

CHAPTER FOUR

Mr. Rochester never appears for dinner. I heat the food for him and even set a plate when Paige and I sat down to eat, but he never shows up. After dinner I tackle the alarmingly large pile of dirty laundry in Paige’s closet, and make it my goal to organize her clothes. “Paige. Where is the washing machine?”