A Million Different Ways (Horn Duet 1)

“What is it?” Her angelic face tilted quizzically as she patted the spot next to her. I sat down and started quietly, hesitantly…things escalated quickly after that. I worked myself up into an indignant rage. Pacing turned into stomping. My murmur turned into a roar, and then I began to hurl unbecoming epithets like rocks at a sinner.

“And then his Highness asked if I was still crawling around his house like a thief!!! He’s a bully and foul-mouthed…you-know-what without an ounce of class! He actually asked me if I stole something! And by the way, his room smelled worse than the crappy pub under my old apartment in the red light district!”

Charlotte doubled over, howling with laughter. I didn’t find it so amusing. In fact the whole situation was giving me an upset stomach. And I wasn’t certain if it was his contempt for me, or my mortifying attraction to him that was causing it. I was too ashamed to share that little detail with her.

“I told you he has a nasty temper. Although I’ve never seen him behave quite that badly before. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Wouldn’t worry about it? I was way past worry. “Charlotte, the man is making a sport out of humiliating me. He looks like he’s about to throw up every time his eyes land on me. He hates me…I’m sure of it. It’s safe to say, I should be worried.”

“Okay, he’s a moody bastard, but he’s never sacked anyone since I’ve worked for him. And once I dropped a bottle of Pellegrino on his brand new computer.” She made a gesture with her hands mimicking an explosion. “Destroyed it, so I know your job is safe.”

“What did he do?!”

“Nothing, really. He stared at it, then told me to clean it up.”

“That’s all?”

“Yes.” It was becoming quite clear that his animosity extended only to me. How depressing.

After subjecting myself to twenty minutes of mind numbing stupidity, watching people on a deserted island try to outwit each other, I decided that counting sheep would be better entertainment. I was about to leave when she looked up from the screen.

“Oh, I meant to tell you that Isabelle is back tomorrow from vacation. Do yourself a favor and stay away from her.” Pivoting her attention back to the show, she giggled at some absurdity that had just happened.

“I don’t understand.”

“She’s a raging bitch and considers any attractive female in the country a personal threat.”

“But what does that have to do with me?”

“Hello?? You’re beautiful and Sebastian Horn is a gorgeous, rich bachelor.” She waved me off, turning her attention back to the television as if it were silly to discuss the obvious.

“Charlotte, I don’t know who this Isabelle person is or what she is about, but she’s welcome to play Jane Eyre all she likes. I can’t afford to lose this position, and I’m already on shaky ground.”

A large dose of fear made it come out more harshly than I intended. Charlotte’s expression softened. She got off the bed and hugged me. It felt sooo good, the warmth, the contact. I hadn’t had a taste of it in years. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I just think you should be careful. She always seems to get away with stirring shit up. Mrs. Arnaud and Mr. Bentifourt are oblivious to her ways.”

“I understand. Night, Charlotte.”

* * *

I spent the better part of the next day writing letters to the department heads of every hospital in Geneva. With a stiff back and cramped fingers, I crawled into bed earlier than usual and found myself staring at the clock I had purchased in town, growing angrier at every move of the large hand. By midnight I had to concede that reciting the periodic table in my head wasn’t working. I didn’t have any reading material in my room other than my medical textbooks and those held no appeal whatsoever. The mere thought of all those wonderful books in the library made me groan. It was like waving a red flag at a bull. I really did try talking myself out of sneaking around in the dark––as I was rudely instructed not to do. I just couldn’t make myself see reason.

The library was by far my favorite room in the manor. The high vaulted ceiling and aged patina on the walls made it both awe inspiring and cozy. A long eighteenth century table with high backed chairs ran parallel to a carved stone fireplace. Adorning the table, an important looking Chinese vase held an arrangement of fresh cut flowers from the garden. Rows and rows of carved bookcases stood on both sides of the room, extending out towards the windows, under which sat plush couches in cobalt blue velvet perfect for spending a lazy afternoon reading.

My eyes adjusted easily to the dim sconce lights. I tipped-toed downstairs in my linen nightgown and bare feet and made sure to open the library door as quietly as possible, conscious that every sound was amplified by the stone walls.