The Man In The Mirror

The boy rested his head against her skirt in a loving gesture and she lay her hand gently on his head, and I began to shift my earlier reservations about her. Maybe she did really love the child. Maybe I had been too judgmental. With the father effectively a hermit, the dynamics in the household had to be bizarre to say the least. My thoughts were interrupted by the sudden coughing fit that gripped the boy.

“What’s the matter, darling?” Mrs. King asked.

Without warning, the boy jerked back and projectile-vomited. All over his mother’s skirt. Her shrill shriek of horror almost made me jump out of my skin, and her instinctive reaction was to push him away from her.

My mouth fell open in shock as the boy fell on the rug and instantly burst into tears. The housekeeper didn't move, and when my disbelieving gaze found hers, she shook her head at me in a way, as if to warn me not to say anything.

“What are you doing standing there gawking at me? Can’t you see that he needs you?” Mrs. King hurled at me.

Instantly, I sprang into action. Putting the set of instructions she’d given me on the table, I went over to him and picked him up. To my surprise, he stretched his arms upwards and went very quietly into my arms. I lifted him off the ground, he stared up at his mother through tear soaked eyes.

She had grabbed paper napkins from the desk behind her and was angrily scrubbing pointlessly at her skirt. “I’m already so late,” she cried, as she gave up the exercise and looked in dismay at the stain. “Ugh … and the smell. I have to change.” She picked up her phone and, presumably began to call whoever she was meeting. Apparently, she had completely forgotten us.

“Come with me,” the housekeeper said in a fierce whisper.

Carrying the boy, I followed her out of the room. His mother’s curses faded in the distance as she led me down a dim corridor.

“I’m Mrs. Blackmore,” she said over the sound of the child sobbing softly.

“And I’m Charlotte.”

“Come this way, dear,” she said, pulling open another door.

We had arrived in a very basic gray and white kitchen. All the luxury was for the mistress. Here only the servants worked.

“Stay with him. I’ll go find a clean towel,” she said and disappeared through another door.

I pulled out my handkerchief, lowered myself to my knees, and wiped the vomit off the side of his chin. I patted the tears off his face trying my best to console him but he wouldn't stop crying.

Chapter 6

Charlotte

When Mrs. Blackmore returned, I looked at her. “Is he ill?’

She shook her head. “He’s not ill, lass.”

I looked at her curiously. “Why did he throw up?”

“He’s just had lunch and got too excited about seeing his mother.”

“Why should he get too excited about seeing his mother?”

“It’s been a few days. Or perhaps he was just anxious.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “He’s an incredibly timid child. Wouldn’t say boo to a mouse.”

I was irritated because I knew that even though she dropped her voice, he must have heard her critical opinion, so I pulled him into my arms and held him tightly, hoping my warmth would calm him down. A few seconds later he took one last sniff and wriggled in my arms. I let him go. He leaned back and stared into the eyes of the new stranger in his life.

“Hello, Zackary,” I said brightly. “I’m Charlotte, your new nanny.”

He watched me for a few moments as if trying to make up his mind about something, then to my surprise, he stepped away from me and ran back to the housekeeper and hid his face in her skirt. She made a face at me, but she looked down and gave him a sappy smile.

“Give the little lad some time and he’ll get used to you,” she said.

The dynamics of the house seemed very complicated, but I knew I could make the boy trust me. The sooner the better. I rose to my feet. “Perhaps a bit of exercise will do him some good. I’ll take him out to the garden to play for a little while.”

“Nooooo, you definitely can’t do that,” Mrs. Blackmore protested, her head shaking vigorously. She looked positively horrified.

“Why not?”

“You’ll realize once you’ve read Madam’s set of rules.”

I remembered then I’d left my copy back in the drawing room.

Mrs. Blackmore filled me in. “Rule number sixteen. Zackary is not allowed to play outside.”

I stared at her bewildered. That was the strangest thing I’d ever heard and I’d heard some strange things in my life. “Why ever not?”

“He’s always been quite sickly so Madam worries about his health.”

“But that’s not enough reason for a child not to go outside to play. Sunshine and fresh air is a good thing for a growing boy.”

“Madam sets the rules and they are not to be broken,” Mrs. Blackmore said firmly, even though I could tell she secretly agreed with me.

I glanced down at the timid child as he watched me from beneath his curled elbow. Was this poor boy really a prisoner in this dark castle? No wonder he was pale and timid. The adults around him were scaring him half to death over everything. I wondered how I was going to get around this ridiculous rule. Another thought occurred to me. The ‘rules’ that Mrs. King had handed to me were at least eight pages thick. What other rules were there?

“Come on,” Mrs. Blackmore said briskly. “I’ll show you to his room. He needs to be washed and have his clothes changed.” We left the kitchen and went up the narrow wooden stairs meant for servants. As our party ascended, it creaked at various points.

But once we got to the landing we were back in the grand part of the house as we passed another vividly painted portrait of Mrs. King. This time she was depicted as Cleopatra. The boy’s room was the first one in the corridor of one of the wings. It was a room that had been painted as if the walls and ceiling were blue skies filled with fluffy clouds. Cartoon characters sat in their planes flying around us. Together Mrs. Blackmore and I washed Zackary and dressed him from his collection of formal clothes. Right after we had dressed him, he began to suck his thumb.

“That means he wants a nap,” Mrs. Blackmore whispered. She put him to bed, then we tip-toed out. After that she showed me to my room, which was just next door to Zackary’s. There was a single bed and a cupboard in it.

“I had Heidi air it for you yesterday, but let’s open the windows,” she said. As she was showing me how the shower worked, we heard a car roar away.

“I guess that is Mrs. King going out, huh?” I said.

“No doubt.”

“Okay, so just press that level. That’s easy enough. It seems very modern for such an old building.”

“It’s from the fourteenth century, but apparently, the master spent millions updating it. Plumbing, central heating. He even dug up the whole countryside to run high speed fiber cables to this area. He’s some sort of big wig trader so he needs the internet a lot.”

“Have you ever seen him? Mrs. King used the word unsightly to describe him.”

Her face showed her disapproval. “I’ve talked to him on the intercom many times, but seen him only once. It was at night in the corridor. He had just left Zackary’s room and was on his way back to his wing. He wears a mask on his face and there are some scars on his neck, but he is a fine man. Tall and broad with a full head of thick black hair.”

“What happened to him?” I asked, my voice hushed.

Chapter 7

Charlotte

“The poor man was in a car accident about three years ago. I think he was paralyzed for almost a year, but he fought back. He was in a wheelchair for another six months, but he wouldn’t give up.”

“Mrs. King said that if I was to accidentally run into him I was to pretend I had not seen him.”

She sniffed. “You must decide for yourself what you want to do, but I wouldn’t kick a man when he’s down. There’s nothing wrong with a polite greeting. He’s not a monster. In all m

y dealings with him I found him to be fair and honest. And the man who comes in from the village four times a week to clean his wing says, he keeps to himself, but he never has a bad thing to say about anybody.”

“I see,” I said slowly. “What is the boy’s relationship with his father like?”

She frowned. “I don’t think they are ever together. Zackary’s days are filled with activities that don’t include his father.”

“Why not?”

She sighed. “You must ask Madam that. She is the one who decides what happens in this household.”

“What about the boy’s relationship with his mother?”

“Oh, he just adores her. Worships the ground she walks on. You saw what he was like this afternoon.”

“She must be a brilliant mother then,” I said softly.

Mrs. Blackmore couldn’t bring herself to agree. “She has her own life … her own plans … her own lovers …”

My eyes widened. “Really?”

“It’s not for me to gossip or anything, but men come in from London and stay at the village bed and breakfast.” She stopped and sniffed. “She visits them there. Once a month she will go to London herself and when she comes back, the other staff say, she has bruises all over her body. God only knows what she does there.”