Page 2 of Power and Possession
“Have you ever met him?” Henry asked, continuing to let the paint slowly drip off his brush.
This time, I couldn't suppress my laugh. “How old do you think I am?”
Without skipping a beat, Henry answered. “Forty?”
“Ouch!” I put my hands on my hips, mock anger playing on my face.
Martha jumped in to scold her brother again. “Henry, you should never ask a lady’s age, it isn't polite.”
“Sixteen?” he tried again bashfully, realizing his mistake.
I laughed again. “Somewhere in between the two. Now let’s get this mess cleaned up and the two of you in bed.”
The Harringtons were at some type of benefit in London and planned to stay at their flat in the city for the evening. Which meant that I was at their estate for the night, getting their children fed, clean, and to bed. Getting them fed was the easy part. Their cook, Mrs. Davis, was amazing. Her food was part of the reason I needed to exercise more. She trained inParis and could bake like no one’s business. The kitchen always smelled like bread and pastries, and everyone from Otis to the grounds crew huddled around the long kitchen counter for a taste.
I hurried the twins up the staircase to the third floor, where their bedrooms were. Each child had a private suite, with a bathroom and a little sitting area. A simpler bedroom separated their rooms, which belonged to me whenever I needed to stay the night. Henry quickly moved by me, his socks slipping a bit on the hardwood floor.
“Easy there, buddy,” I said, catching his arm. Martha waltzed by him elegantly, determined to show up her brother. She rolled her eyes exaggeratedly at him, before heading to her room and shutting the door.
“Show off,” Henry murmured.
“You better go get cleaned up too. Behind your ears, and please actually wash your hair with shampoo this time.”
He sighed and stepped into his room, closing the door and leaving me in silence. I walked back to the second floor, my eyes darting to the portraits hung neatly on the wall in the stairwell. Generations of Harringtons stared back at me, the ladies with demure expressions and the men looking formidable. Seeing their portraits often made me think about my own roots. My mother was raised in Minnesota, living a normal life in a suburban neighborhood. Both of my grandparents on my mother’s side passed away before I was born, but my mom spoke of them with a tender fondness and warmth. My paternal grandparents, however, lacked any degree of love or compassion. After spending time with them, it was easy to understand why my father was so cold. The only warmth I had in my life was from my mother. Still, being at the Harrington Estate made me miss my family. Just being in a household with a mom and a dad and their children made me sad, in a way. Now that my mom was gone, there were no more birthday parties, no more Thanksgiving Day feasts. My father was only interested in doing what he loved most—making money and screwingbeautiful women.
I went inside the playroom, retrieved my backpack, and headed back upstairs to my guest room. By the time I’d changed into my pajamas and robe, there was a knock at the door. Martha flounced in, ready for a bedtime story. She sat on the guest bed, her lavender nightgown frilly and ruffled.
“What story do you want to read tonight?”
She handed me the book she cradled in her arms:Charlotte’s Web. “Good choice,” I said, flipping to the earmarked page.
“Will you do the voices?”
“Of course,” I said, smoothing her hair. She smiled up at me, her missing front teeth making her grin even more endearing. I had never really given much thought to children, and I wasn’t even sure if I wanted them myself one day. But the Harrington kiddos were cute.
Henry barged into the room a second later, not wanting to admit he was there to listen to the story. Instead, he stood near the window with his arms crossed.
I stopped reading. “Do you need something, Henry?”
“I’ll just wait until you’re finished.”
I raised an eyebrow but let him pretend that he was disinterested in the story his sister was engrossed with.
After I finished up the chapter, Henry said he forgot what he needed, and he stalked back to his bedroom. Martha tried to stall, asking for everything from an extra pillow to a glass of water, but I finally managed to get them both tucked in and asleep. Since it was only a little after eight o'clock, I decided I wasn’t ready for sleep yet. I’d tossed and turned the night before, nervous about the incident at my apartment, but it was still a bit too early for me to go to bed.
I made my way down to the first floor of the manor and swung by the kitchen. Since it was late in the day, Mrs. Davis had already retired to her room in the staff wing off the kitchen. Glad to not run into anyone in my pajamas, I quickly grabbed a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and turned to leavethe enormous kitchen. My eyes caught a jar of blueberry scones left over from breakfast, and I couldn’t resist helping myself to a couple.
With the scones in hand, I made my way through the grand entryway, past the huge piano and to the opposite hall. The smell of old books hit my nose, and I sighed happily. One of the perks of working for the Harringtons was access to the library. Like most old families in Europe, they’d inherited most of their possessions. Neither Harrington read much, and they hardly spent any time in the library. My heart ached for all those unwanted and desolate books that had been handed down from generation to generation. If it wasn’t for the fact the house employed multiple housekeepers, the entire library would have been covered in inches of dust.
It was a dark room, with the only light coming from one of the fireplaces that the staff kept burning in every room. And, even then, the manor house was chilly, even in the summer. I switched on a lamp at the desk and walked over to one of the shelves. The entire room was wall-to-wall bookcases, built into the room itself and sprawling from floor to ceiling. It was incredibly grand. I had never seen anything like it in a private home. We had a library in the penthouse back in Manhattan, but it was stuffed full of National Geographic magazines, old college textbooks, encyclopedias, and the trashy romance novels my mom enjoyed reading. I smiled at the thought of her reclining in the tiny fabric lounge chair in our sitting room, reading the latest novel she could get her hands on. There was always a muscular, shirtless man on the cover, while some thin wisp of a woman simpered and hung onto his bulging biceps. Now looking back, I wondered if my mother sought escape from her own loveless marriage. The older I got, the less my parents had in common. By the time my mother died, they hardly spoke or did anything together. Yet neither one seemed interested in ending the marriage. It was as if they didn’t want to admit defeat in front of their upscale social circle, despite being miserable together. It made me want to swear off the entire institution ofmarriage altogether.
After a few minutes of perusing the massive collection, I found a copy ofAlice in Wonderland. Perfect. It was one of the books I tried to reread every year. I held the ancient, red-bound book to my chest, and I headed through the back doors, to the garden. It wasn’t what I thought of when I pictured a garden, but that was what the Harringtons referred to it as. While part of their massive estate was ancient, and made you feel like you stepped back in time, the area directly behind the manor boasted an outside living room, a bar, and a large swimming pool. It was chilly out, since autumn was already here, so I flicked the switch that turned on their outdoor fireplace, and I curled up on the outdoor sofa. Before I cracked open the book, I glanced at the cover. This was a seriously old book. I flipped to the inside and checked the date, cross-referencing the info on my phone.
Damn. A first edition. I shook my head in wonder. The Harringtons probably had no idea what treasures remained hidden in their library. I turned the page, but before I could read the first sentence, I heard the trees off to the side of the pool rustle. Instantly, a wave of panic rolled down my body, and the blood drained from my face.
I looked across the pool towards the dark forested area where Lord Harrington sometimes went shooting. It was dense and thick, and the moonlight didn’t penetrate the heavy branches. I stared, paralyzed with fear. I swore I saw a dark figure up against the tree, the face indiscernible. As fast as my legs could carry me, I darted back to the house, throwing open the French doors and locking them behind me. My bare feet nearly slipped on the hardwood as I rushed to the staff wing, where the Harrington’s security team was located. The lights were still on, although the doors were all shut. Luckily, Otis had given me a tour when I first arrived, and I knew that the security team was at the end of the hall. I didn’t bother knocking and opened the door.
A row of security camera feeds lined one side, and a guard dressed in jeans and a blue shirt watched them lazily. I could seeall the different views of the estate on them, small and in black and white. Another guard sat in the corner, his feet on a dark wooden desk as he read the paper. A plate of the scones Mrs. Davis had made was sitting on the desk, along with a half-empty cup of tea.