Nice Day For A White Wedding

I’ve never considered myself to be a country girl. I’ve always been a city girl. Even our holidays when I was younger were always city breaks or beach holidays. But just standing here like this, I feel as if this is the way life should be. Not that empty rat race of the city. I don’t feel isolated like I always thought I would in a house in the middle of nowhere. I feel wonderfully alive and enthusiastic to get out there and explore.

I don’t know if we have anything planned for today, but Alex did mention showing me around the stables. I keep that in mind as I get ready. I don’t own any jodhpurs or riding boots, but I choose a pair of black leggings and a long lemon colored top. I finish up with a pair of flat shoes. Sitting on the bed I French plait my hair. When I’m ready I take a look in the mirror. While I don’t exactly look like a country girl, my outfit doesn’t scream city girl.

I debate knocking on Alex’s door, but I decide against it. I’d like to explore on my own for a bit. I head down the stairs, steeling myself to keep calm and unruffled if I meet the ice sisters. I peer into the dining room, but no one is around except for a man in uniform polishing the silver.

He puts down the silver piece and cloth, gives me a stiff bow, and says in a thick accent, “Good morning, Miss Forrester.”

“Good morning,” I say with a smile and a nod.

He doesn’t smile back, but beckons to me with his hands. “Come, please. I will show you.”

Without waiting to see if I will follow him, he leaves the dining room by a different door than the one I had come into. Clearly, he has been instructed to take me to the others. He leads me through what must be a music room since there is a gleaming grand piano in it and then down another short hallway. When he reaches the end, he throws the door open with a flourish, gesturing for me to enter.

“Thank you,” I say with a smile.

I step through the tall open door and smile with delight as I come out into a huge, sunny conservatory filled with padded delicate metal chairs and matching tables. Alex stands from one of the chairs as I enter. He says something to the manservant in Russian, and the man nods politely, then closes the double doors and leaves Alex and I alone.

“Good morning,” I say brightly.

“Did you sleep well?”

“Sort of,” I reply, sliding into the chair opposite him.

“Was the bed not to your satisfaction?”

I make an offhand gesture with my hand. “I’m not used to the sound of pipes in old houses.”

Alex lowers himself back into his chair. “Pipes? The pipes were troubling you?”

“That and the child crying.”

One eyebrow arches. “What?”

“Isn’t there a child somewhere in the house?”

He looks at me strangely. “Not to my knowledge.”

“Well, that’s strange, because I could have sworn I heard a baby crying last night.”

He rubs his chin. “I’ve never really heard anything, but some people do say that old houses freak them out with all the sounds of floorboards creaking as they cool, and old pipes moaning and crying. I guess that must have been what you heard.”

I wanted him to tell me about a baby somewhere in the house and how sound echoes and carries through old houses, but I suppose it’s more believable that the pipes make noises like that than the idea that there’s a ghostly baby in my bathroom. Apart from anything, the ice sisters wouldn’t have been able to resist mentioning the ghost of a baby as well as the ghost of a crazy aunt.

“Oh. Uh … where is everyone?” I ask, to change the subject.

“Babushka doesn’t come down for breakfast anymore. In fact, she doesn’t usually leave her quarters before midday. I have no idea where my cousins are, but I’m getting the impression you’d actually prefer me not to run into them,” he says with a crooked smile.

I nod vigorously.

Alex gestures to the side table which is laid out with a breakfast spread fit for a king. There are croissants, grapefruit, yoghurt, cereal, toast, jam, honey, and just about every berry imaginable. In the hot plates are bacon, sausages, and fluffy scrambled eggs.

“All this and I can have the cook make you something else if you’d prefer,” he offers.

“This is more than fine,” I assure him. “But coffee first, I think.”

“Let me,” he says and gets up before I can.

I watch him walk across the room to a trolley I hadn’t noticed. On the trolley is a jug of fresh coffee, a jug of what I assume is tea and a range of different milks, sugars and syrups.