Private Property (Rochester Trilogy 1)

A truck from a local vineyard arrives with bottles of wine and hard cider. A separate delivery from a liquor store arrives with cases full of every other kind of alcohol.

Then a package arrives through UPS next-day air that requires a signature. Turns out there’s a cake from a famous bakery in New York City inside. I didn’t even know you could get these kinds of things delivered.

Paige frets about the dinner party, about what to wear, about meeting all of Uncle Beau’s friends. “What if they don’t like me?” she asks me.

“They will love you. You’re kind and adorable and smart. Of course they’ll love you.”

She frowns. “Of course you say that. You’re paid to like me.”

I sit up straighter in the armchair. We’re sitting in one of the living areas, a Monopoly board open between us, way more pieces of property and stacks of cash on her side than mine. “Hey. I like you for yourself. Not because I’m paid to do it.”

“But I gave you so much trouble with the schoolwork.”

I circle the coffee table and sit next to her on the leather couch. “You are a brilliant little girl, and it’s an honor to get to see you every day. I’m not mad one second about the schoolwork. You had a hard time, and you pushed through. That’s something to be proud about.”

“I don’t want to go to the dinner party.”

I look away, not sure how to handle this. “Well, I guess we could talk to Mr. Rochester about it and see what he thinks. But I feel like if you’re invited, you should go. It could be fun.”

“Mama had dinner parties.”

My heart sinks. “She did?”

“Big ones like this. With fancy food. I never liked the fancy food.”

Mrs. Fairfax works past noon today on dishes full of paella with king prawns, chicken, and mussels. There’s also a hanger steak with greens and a saffron risotto. In other words, I’ve never eaten most of what’s being served tonight. “We can find something to snack on before the dinner starts. That way you’re not hungry.”

“Why can’t you come and sit next to me?”

Because I wasn’t invited. Because I’m the help. I don’t know how best to explain this to Paige. Noah would probably have something snarky to say about class systems, but I just feel lower than dirt right now. “I’m sorry, honey. I wish I could.”

It’s not entirely true. I don’t want to sit and watch Zoey Aldridge fawn over Mr. Rochester. Or worse, watch Mr. Rochester fawn over her. Though I am curious about the food and the decor. I’m curious what it would feel like to be rich.

“If you’re not allowed to go, then I’m not going to go.”

I have to grin at her impassioned response. “You’re loyal, and that’s a good thing. I appreciate it, but you belong there. You belong right there with your uncle Beau. Just think, he might need your help getting something and not want to look weak in front of his friends. You could help him out.”

She considers this. “I did like looking at the cake. It’s so tall!”

“So it’s settled,” I say. “You’re going.”

“I’m gonna wear my Electric Company shirt,” she says in a warning tone. The shirt is very soft from being washed so many times. The yellow ink threatens to fall off.

“That sounds like a great idea. Very festive.”

I’m determined to keep a smile on my face throughout the evening. It should really be like any other evening where I work taking care of Paige. This is my job. I was a fool for ever thinking of it like anything else. It’s only a small, sad amount of vanity that has me changing my clothes in late afternoon. Of course I don’t put on anything fancy. I don’t even own anything fancy. I’m windswept from walking outside, so I put on a fresh black T-shirt and jeans, wash my face, and brush my hair into a ponytail. It does not make me look like Zoey Aldridge in the least.

The doorbell rings for the first time at six thirty. And it continues to ring until there are eight new people in the house. Luckily the table is long enough to hold everyone.

I walk Paige downstairs right before dinner starts. She’s vibrating with nerves and excitement. People stand around in one of the formal sitting areas, a fire burning. Zoey holds court in a gorgeous black dress and high heels. Mr. Rochester sits in an armchair, facing away from us.

Paige squeezes my hand, and I give her a gentle squeeze back.

“See?” I whisper. “There’s Uncle Beau.”

A few of the people standing with glasses of wine look our way. I feel a flush heat my cheeks. I don’t want to be noticed by them. Maybe it’s immature of me, but I want to push Paige into Mr. Rochester’s arms and then run away. Instead I stand there because she needs me. Even if I end up looking like a forlorn fool in front of these rich people.