nd told me I was no longer alone. I raised my eyes to see an older gentleman standing in the doorway of the mudroom. His hair was graying over what must have been red when he was younger, and he was wearing what looked to me like a 1950’s smoking jacket that went all the way to the floor. Soft leather loafers peeped out from the burgundy silk edging and a patterned neck cloth tucked in around his throat. Quite the picture of distinguished country elegance.
From 1951.
It was also very clear he’d just been roused out of his bed, too. Was it possible for me to have caused any more disruption to this household than I had in the short time I’d been here? I didn’t think so.
He looked me over, probably disgusted by my bedraggled state. Was this one of Mr. Everley’s servants sent down to deal with me? I lifted my chin and tried to pretend he hadn’t just caught me bawling my eyes out. What a joke that was. I slashed at the tears rolling down my face, and stood up quickly, trying to face up to whatever was in store for me.
His face gentled and he reached for my suitcase. “My name is Finnegan. May I show you to your room, Miss Hargreave, is it?” His voice had a definite Irish lilt, but refined, and strangely…kind.
“Y-yes…I g-g-guess so,” I managed to answer. “It’s j-just for the n-night. I’m leaving in the m-m-morning.” It was nearly impossible for me to speak from the involuntary sobs that still had hold of me. I hoped I wasn’t frightening the poor man to an early death.
“Follow me, my dear. You look like you could use some warming up…and drying off.”
Thank God he took charge because I was very near the end of my rope. I followed Mr. Finnegan with the burgundy smoking jacket down a hallway and up an impressive staircase, past enormous paintings and sculptures I refused to even try to make out in the dim lighting because I would never see them again after this night.
I know myself pretty well.
I just couldn’t take in any more. Something dry to put on, a bed, and maybe a couple Nurofen if I was really lucky, and the sum total of my requirements would be mercifully fulfilled.
“This is the room we had arranged for your stay with us, Miss Hargreave. It is a suite with a sitting room just off there.” He pointed to an open doorway lit by lamplight. “You’ll also find things for making tea or coffee if you’d like a hot drink before you retire.”
I looked around at the beautiful rooms set up for me to live in while I worked on assessing Mr. Everley’s art collection, and at Mr. Finnegan regarding me so kindly as he explained the basics…and felt tears leaking down my face again.
I vaguely registered a conversation with him about helping me to get back to my rental car tomorrow so I could leave, amid more pathetic tears. He took it all in his stride and patted my hand awkwardly before he left me alone, saying something about breakfast in the morning, and that things would look better to me after a restful sleep. He probably thought I was an escapee from a mental ward, poor man.
Maybe things would feel better in the morning. Or maybe they wouldn’t.
They probably wouldn’t, I decided.
And by this point I didn’t even care.
I didn’t ponder Mr. Finnegan’s predictions, either. I couldn’t. I wasn’t able to do anything more than strip out of my damp and filthy clothes, don some warm pajamas, and gulp down a couple of painkillers with water directly from the bathroom sink.
THINGS did feel different for me the next morning, but not necessarily better. I had a headache the size of Greenland for one thing, and my throat felt scratchy and irritated.
When I opened my eyes to realize exactly where I was, I jumped out of the luxurious Irish linens dressing my bed and wandered into the adjoining sitting room. I went straight to the tea cart Mr. Finnegan had mentioned last night, hoping a hot cup might help soothe my burning throat. I made a mug of my favorite Titanic Blend and poured in a couple of milk pods.
The first sip was heavenly, but it was much too hot to gulp so I took it with me into the bathroom. All I could think about was getting out of this place and to the Belfast airport.
I didn’t waste time.
I threw on some clean jeans and a long-sleeved brown shirt that felt soft and comfortable against my sensitive skin. In reality, my body ached all over. I left the muddy stuff from last night where it lay on the floor with little concern. They could throw it all away, I didn’t care. Dirty clothes were not my problem right now, getting home was. That and the thought I might be coming down with some kind of vile flu. I was so lost right now, and it wasn’t just in the physical sense.
I felt utterly exhausted and weak. The energy expended in self-loathing and embarrassment had taken its toll on me. I downed two more Nurofen to help with the massive pounding going on in my skull combined with the body aches, and gathered up my bag.
What if I had to face Mr. Everley in person again? I couldn’t. I just didn’t have the strength to deal with that man at the moment.
Or any moment. Ever.
Minutes later I was praying to this fact as I made my way down the grand staircase with my suitcase. I gave it my best Spiderman-stealth-walk and made for the mudroom where everything had gone down last night.
I needed my jacket and remembered he’d hung it up for me dripping wet after our mad dash from the garage through the rain.
Yeah, just before he realized exactly who he’d brought into his home.
He thinks you’re a prostitute trying to blackmail him.
A wave of hysteria threatened to overturn me once more and I suddenly felt too overcome to fight it. Just shrugging into my jacket was proving to be a major effort. Thank God it had dried in the night.