by D L Lane
“Take orders from him?”
“Yes.”
“But that’s what’s expected of your staff—to take and follow orders.”
“You are not staff.”
I turned, sliding my fingers along the flat surface of the desk I’d polished that morning. “What makes me any different from the others?”
“You are a guest here.”
“Okay,” I said, straightening the scatter of papers he’d left out. “But today, and every other day your daddy and Mr. Carrington are here, I’m part of the staff.”
“You are different from the others,” he said in a low voice, causing me to turn and face him.
“But why?”
One step, then two, and he stood in front of me, taking hold of my shoulders. “You just are.”
Brow creasing, I asked, “But why?”
Palm inching up, he cupped the back of my neck. “Do you always have to ask me, why?”
Closer, and closer he bent, not stopping ’til his mouth was almost touching mine, his minty breath bathing my lips.
“Mr. King, what are you doing?” I whispered.
“I have no idea.”
“Well, I have one.” Going up on my tiptoes, my tummy doing flips, I did something I couldn’t quite believe—willingly kissed a man.
The moment my lips brushed against his, he groaned low in his throat—powerful arms wrapping around me—pulling me tight.
Little starbursts exploded behind my closed eyelids. Wave after wave of shivers overtook me. Heat bloomed in my chest, making the too-fast beating of my heart batter my ribcage. Then, as if he’d lost all control, the man parted my lips with the tip of his tongue, catching me off guard when he gently swept his flesh over mine before thrusting deeper, stealing my breath.
Pulling his head away, he panted, “I’m sorry.”
Pressing my damp lips together, I enjoyed the buzz for a second. “What was that thing you did?”
Confusion marred his brow. “You’ve never—”
Bang, bang, bang. “Mr. King?”
Ms. Bonny’s agitated voice coming through the door struck him first, causing him to rip his body from mine, backing up, finger’s raking through his black-as-night hair.
“Ms. Bauman twisted her ankle on the stairs, and it’s all swollen up,” she quickly continued.
Head whirling, I touched my tingling mouth as Mr. King settled his heavy breaths, then coolly, he straightened the cuffs on his sleeves, face smoothing into a blank mask.
The curtain had dropped.
Disappointment balled its fist and punched me so hard I wanted to buckle, but he didn’t notice anything, let alone the likes of me fading into the background.
Turning, Mr. King strode over and opened the door. “Did anyone call for Doctor Rhymes?”
Ms. Bonny shook her head. “She refuses to see a doctor.”
“Yes, well, I’ll be the judge of that.” He stepped out, then flung his parting words my way. “Ms. Singleton, check-in with Inga. I’m sure she requires some help.”
And in the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Chapter Eleven
May I take your plate?
August 20, 1936
Sitting at the vanity in my room, I re-pinned my hair into something resemblin’ a bun. “Well, it’s not perfect”—I turned my head from side to side, peering in the mirror—“but, it’s good enough.”
Squaring my shoulders, I smiled at the person reflecting at me who didn’t look as pale, noticing her cheeks were much fuller, too. But changes happen when you no longer eat whatever scraps you can find, replacing them with three delicious meals a day and yummy snacks.
“Your hair is passable,” I said, pretending to be Ms. Bauman, who had the straightest posture. “I believe you mean my first name,” I mimicked, repeating what she said one morning when I asked what her real name was. “It is, Virginia. So, you and I have something in common. We’re both named after states.”
I’d been named ’cause the Mississippi flooded the night I was born, but I didn’t bother to correct her, wanting to keep our shared bond in place. The thing was, Ms. Bauman had quickly become one of the few people I genuinely liked, and who I believed felt the same for me. At least, her actions said she did, and I didn’t think it was all done as a duty, though Mr. King gave her many when it came to me. No, she always wanted to help, even if I didn’t ask, and had started giving me elocution lessons.
“You have a tendency to drop your g’s intermittently, but especially when you are riled ’bout something,” I imitated, then shook my head. I didn’t get that right.
“A-b-o-u-t,” I said slowly, watching the shape of my mouth form the word. “About, about, about.” I pointed at myself. “Don’t forget to use your vowels, A, E, I, O, U, and sometimes Y.”
Of course, I had to look up elocution in the dictionary—the skill of clear and expressive speech, especially of distinct pronunciation and articulation. Then I needed to find the meaning of articulation—the formation of clear and distinct sounds in speech.
Tap, tap, tap.
I spun on the chair at the sound of someone knocking on the bedroom door. “Come in!”
Ms. Bonny peeked inside. “Mr. King would like you to serve dinner tonight because I’m helping Cook. With all the interruptions today and Ms. Bauman spraining her ankle, things in the kitchen are running behind.”
“Alright.” I sighed. He hadn’t bothered to ask, sending her instead. But after the way he’d left me in his office, I should have expected I wouldn’t hear from him anytime soon.
“Are you ready?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, come on then, shake a leg.”
I bent down. “I just need to put my shoes on.”
***
“May I take your plate?” I asked, knowing I needed to clear it to serve dessert, but also remembering etiquette required me not to snatch up what remained of Mr. King’s dinner.
“You can take mine, Girly,” the older of the King’s said, snapping his fingers at me.
“Oh, of course, sir.”
I started to move, but Thayer held up a hand, stopping me as he cleared his throat.
“Mr. King?” I asked, confused.
Without a word, he picked up his plate and his daddy’s, stacking them and handing them over. I had no choice but to take his offering. “Thank you.”
He didn’t say anything, only gave an abrupt nod.
“Mr. Carrington.” Balancing the dirty china on one hand, I reached for his with my other. “Would you like me to take your plate as well?”
“Yes.” He leaned back in his chair, that greasy smile on his face as he watched me. “What treat are we to expect next?”
“I believe—” I fumbled, making the dishes clatter.
Mr. King moved to get up, but I righted myself before I made a huge mess.
“Sorry,” I mumbled, heat blazing across my cheeks as he re-settled.
“You were saying, Ms. Singleton?” Mr. Carrington’s fingers were thrumming a rhythm on the table as if playing a bongo drum.
“Um...”
“Well, spit it out,” Mr. King’s daddy said.
“I think Cook has prepared pecan pie or lemon tarts.”
“You think, Girly?”
My gaze went to the man with silver hair and impatience on his lined face. “S-she has”—nerves formed a ball in my tummy—“made them?”
“Are you asking me, Girly?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head. “Cook made them.”
Mr. Carrington swirled a palm over his suit-covered belly. “Sounds wonderful to me, I’ll take both.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll bring you a slice of pie and a tart.”
“Pie for me, but have Cook add some fresh whipped cream. Got that, Girly?”
I nodded. “Fresh cream.” Attention shifting, I asked, “And for you, Mr. King?”
He chopped the air—the ring on his pinky catching the light. “Nothing for me, thank you.”
Dismissed, I held onto the plates, not taking a breath until I walked out the door.
***
Dinner was over, the kitchen cleaned, and the staff had turned in for the evening except for Ms. Bonny and me.
“I think I’m going to get some fresh air,” I said, heading for the door. “Do you want to come?”
“I better not. One of us should stick around until Mr. King’s guests are in bed for the night.”
“Then, I can stay,” I offered.
She shook her blonde head. “No. Go on. You look like some air will do you good. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure?”
She smiled. “I’m sure.”
Thankful to be leaving, I hurried toward the back entrance, opened the door and stepped out into the evening—jumping when someone closed the door behind me.
“Let me go!” I slapped at the dark sleeve attached to the arm holding mine.
“Settle down, Mississippi.”
My lifted hand motionless, I glanced up. There was just enough light to see Mr. King’s handsome face. “Why are you grabbing me?”
“Hush,” he said, tugging me closer.
“I will not, hush,” I argued, “you scared the life outta me.”
“I didn’t mean to frighten you, but lower your voice, or people will start showing up, curious as to what’s going on.”
Eyes narrowing, I set my chin. “What is going on?”
“I wanted to ask you a favor without eyes on us or ears listening in.”
“Favor?”
“Yes.”
It was quiet, all but the quonk-quack, quonk-quack, quonk-quack of the frogs.
“Well? What’s the favor?”
The hand clasped on my forearm slipped up, up, up, tickling my elbow. “You have the prettiest eyes.” He released me, lifted his palm, and cupped the side of my neck—thumb tracing along my jaw, making me snap my gaping mouth shut. “Has anyone ever told you that?”
The shake of my head seemed all I was capable of.
“Shame,” he said, “but someone has now.”
Sparks of heat and chills mixed, creating a spiraling dance over my skin. “The favor?”
He grinned. “You are a breath of fresh air.”
“So you’ve said, Mr. King.”
“Thayer.”
“Huh?” I blinked at him.
He lowered his head. “Call me, Thayer.”
Little bombs of excitement went off in my chest as I whispered, “Thayer.”
Closer and closer he came, almost kissing me, but then he placed his forehead on mine. “I don’t want you going to the library.”
All the trembling anticipation drained from me, anger taking its place. “You don’t want me in the library?”
“No.”
I broke his hold, backing up, those thrilling bombs I’d felt earlier changed into explosions of furiousness. “Why not?”
“Lower your voice,” he said.
“Why not?” I whisper/yelled, repeating myself, hand on hip.
“I don’t want you sneaking around while my father and Mr. Carrington are here.”
I caught the emphasis.
“You don’t like that man much, do you?”
“Not much,” he confessed, then he walked into my space. “Just stay put in your room at night. Will you please do that for me?”
Watching him watch me, the mad started to weaken, and I came to another conclusion. “Mr. Carrington’s not a good man when it comes to women, is he?”
The muscle in his jaw ticked. “Not at all.”
“Okay,” I said.
“You’ll keep to your room?”
I looked into his eyes, not as blue in the ever-darkening light. “I will, Thayer.”
The smile on his face took my breath. “Thank you.”
A beam of brightness from the opening door, shot across us—Thayer stepping away from me.
“There you are, son. What are you doing out here? I thought we were going to have a smoke and some after-dinner drinks in the parlor.”
Thayer smoked?
The older King came out, stopping when he noticed me.
“I was talking with Ms. Singleton, Father.”
“I can see that.” His daddy’s gaze bounced between us. “I hope you explained the necessity of a good server. They should always know what is on the menu.”
Inga had made pecan pie, rice pudding, and berry torte for dessert, but at least I got one of the options right.
“Ms. Singleton,” Mr. King said, Thayer no longer with me. “Since we have an understanding, you may retire for the evening.”
The sinner inside of me boiled to the surface, and I bowed my head while doing the slight curtsy he’d forbidden me to do. “Goodnight, sir.”
Not bothering to look at him, I went in, calling Thayer Drayton King every nasty name I could think of inside my head.
***
I had one of those moments, where you’re asleep, enjoying your time in dreamland, then something wakes you, but you’re not sure what. So, yawning, I stared into the shadows, listening. I didn’t hear anything, except there had been scurrying outside my bedroom door, or at least I thought so.
Turning on my side, I closed my eyes, trying to forget about the noise, but after a few minutes of, whatever it was, pay it no mind hopscotching through my thoughts, forgetting wasn’t going to happen.
Rolling out of bed, I grabbed the robe draped over the back of the vanity chair and put it on, tying the belt around my waist while shuffling to the door. Once there, I place my ear to the wood, but again—no sound.
Carefully, I turned the doorknob, inching the door open a little at a time—the squawk of the hinges sounding louder than they probably were, halting my progress.
Using my fingers, I mentally counted to ten, then gave in and looked into the hallway. “Ms. Bonny?”
She spun around, eyes wide, clutching her sleeping gown at the neck. “Shh...”
I flipped up a hand in question, wondering why she’d been sneaking down the hall.
On tiptoes, Ms. Bonny came to me, hitting something with her bare feet. “Ouch!” Bending, she picked whatever it was up.
Face-to-face, both of us stood wearing confused expressions and mussed hair.
“These are for you,” she said, pulling me into my bedroom.
I looked at her, the stack of books in her hands, then back at her. “What’s going on?”
“Don’t tell anyone, okay, Mississippi?”
I scrunched up my nose. “Tell anyone what?”
“That you saw me coming from Mr. Carrington’s room.”
“You were coming from his room?” I asked, shocked.
She put a finger to her lips. “Shh...remember?”
“Why were you in his room?”
Ms. Bonny looked heavenward as if needing divine intervention. “You know why.”
I did, but I didn’t want to. The thought of her pitching woo with Mr. Carrington was disgusting.
“A woman gets lonely sometimes, so when an offer happens, you take it,” she explained.
I pulled a face. “Don’t tell me anything else.”
Grinning, she held the books out. “Here.”
Taking them, I glanced down. “There’s an envelope,” I said, “with my name on it.”
“Yeah. How do you think I knew they were for you?”
I shrugged. “Maybe you left them?”
“They’re not from me,” she said through a yawn. “Sorry.”
Her eyelids drooped.
“For what?”
“I’m tired.”
“You’re not gonna get much sleep,” I said, “the sun’s almost up.”
“Yeah, just a nap at this point, but that’s better than nothing.” She rubbed at her forehead. “I’m going to head up to my room.”
“Okay.”
She waggled a finger. “No telling on me, right?”
Brow puckering, I asked, “Who would I spill the beans to?”
“No one, I hope.”
“Don’t worry, Ms. Bonny. What you do is your business, not mine. I won’t be gossipin’ about it.”
She hugged me, making my nose twitch; she stunk like a man’s body odor. “Thank you.”
“Welcome.”
Turning, she waved over her shoulder, leaving me standing in the middle of the bedroom, balancing books in my hands.
Chapter Twelve
The gift
Opening the curtains to let in the early morning light, I took a deep breath before I dropped myself on the bed, placing the books beside me, then with cautious fingers, I picked up the envelope with Mississippi written in dark, spiky letters.
I hadn’t seen his writing, or if I did, being written on the papers in his office, I didn’t pay any attention at the time, but there could only be one person who would give me anything—Mr. King.
Untucking the flap, I tugged a folded piece of paper out of the envelope, catching the slight scent of that citrus/spiced cologne I couldn’t get enough of. I’d been so angry at him earlier, but opening the letter had me smiling like a loon.
I thought you might enjoy reading these. I know you already read one of them, but I added it to this gift anyway. These books are for you, not on lone.
—TDK
P.S. Stay out of the library at night!
Dropping the note, I shook my head. The man just had to add a P.S. as if I’d go back on my word. I already made him a promise, and I wouldn’t break it, but he didn’t know me well enough to trust me, I supposed.
“You sure are somethin’ else, Thayer Drayton King,” I said under my breath as I glanced at the small pile of books, picking the first one up—Sense and Sensibility.
Sparks of happiness flicked to life inside of me.
Spreading the stack out, I counted, “One, two, three, four, five, six books.”
Tears rolled down my cheeks as I read the titles. Pride and Prejudice. Mansfield Park. Emma. Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion. Jane Austen wrote all of them, and they were mine! Thayer had given them to me.
Clutching a book to my chest, pinpricks of stinging regret hit ’cause of all the nasty things I’d thought after leaving him with his daddy outside the night before. Mad, I’d stomped up the stairs thinking of one of Fawna-Leigh’s Cajun sayings, adding it to my insults—coo-yon chicken-hearted booger-head, and slammed the bedroom door hard enough to wake the dead.
