by Dee Palmer
“Is your mother here?” I ask.
“You’re funny. Like I would do that to you.”
“Sorry, I just —” He doesn’t let me finish; he never does when the subject is his mother, and he is always so quick to try and make me feel better.
“Really, you don’t have to explain, Tia, and you certainly have nothing to apologise for. My mother is a bitch to you. She won’t ever stop, either, but it’s only because you mean so much to me. If it’s any comfort, she avoids you as much as you avoid her. We’re always together when I’m here, and she knows I will not stand by and let her treat you the way she does, and she’s terrified of being exposed as the unbearable snob she is. It’s not an ideal situation, but my only concern is keeping you protected, so I’m happy with her absence.”
“I’m happy, too.” My genuine smile is actually more filled with relief.
“My grandpa is nothing like her. He’s my father’s father. When my father died, Grandpa pretty much stepped in as my primary guardian. My mother was happy to hand me over, and when I’m not here, I’m with him. He’s not a huge fan of my mother either, so I just know you two will hit it off.” His enthusiasm and obvious affection are abundantly clear on his face, which seems to brighten with each step closer to the Library.
“He’s your guardian?”
“Not in the legal sense, my mother wouldn’t allow that, just the pastoral care. He’s my go-to guy.”
“Why have I never met him before now?”
“Well, like I say, he’s not a huge fan of my mother, and he doesn’t like to fly. His health has not been so great recently, and this is where he grew up, so he wanted to come home for…” He falters.
“Cass?” I squeeze his hand after his silence has stretched on too long, and his footsteps have come to a halt.
“I’m just gonna miss him, that’s all.” He gives me a tight smile that doesn’t reach his crystal clear eyes, and the sadness in his quiet voice is painfully loud. I choose to ignore the portent of his weighted words.
“Then you’ll have to come home more often.” He’s already drifted off too far, and I tug his hand to bring him back to me.
“I will, I promise.” He nods, and I nudge into his side.
“Promise?”
“Come on.” He pushes his shoulder against the massive carved dark oak door, which resists with an audible groan but slowly exposes the cavernous library.
The open fire is blazing, and the smell of burning kindling and damp wood is thick and heady. The soft glow from the fire mixes with the rich aroma and illuminates one side of the room. I’ve never seen the room like this. I’m a little stunned. For such a large room, it is transformed and looks both cosy and inviting. The walls are filled with books upon books, and there is a spiral staircase to a gallery housing more volumes. There are several freestanding bookshelves dotted around the room. A few high back chairs are scattered and there is seating built into each of the four imposing stained glass windows. There are three weathered chesterfield sofas arranged around the fireplace, and in the one facing us, there is an elderly man seated at one end. He is dressed in an immaculate three-piece tweed suit, has a full head of short white-grey hair, and has piercing blue eyes, although not quite the same shape as Atticus’s, and these are now staring at me through half-rimmed gold glasses. His skin is pale, deeply wrinkled, and looks almost as worn as the aged leather of the cushion he’s perched upon.
“Grandpa, this is her.” Atticus practically drags me to the centre of the library, clearly over-excited, he spins me around like I’m a prima ballerina. I giggle when I come to a stop, and he sweeps me low into a dramatic and extremely romantic backward dip.
“Cass, you’re being an arse.” I chuckle and squeeze his waist in a grip-type of tickle that always makes him fold in half, too late to protect himself. We both laugh and stand. I nudge him playfully and turn back to face his Grandpa who raises a thick, bushy brow, his face a picture of puzzled amusement.
“Come a little closer, Tia. My eyesight isn’t what it was.” He closes the book he had open in his lap and motions me to move forward with an encouraging wave of his hand.
“Your eyesight is twenty-twenty, Grandpa.” Atticus keeps hold of my hand, shakes his head, and winks at me. The old man lets out a hearty chuckle but pats the seat beside him all the same.
“You can’t blame an old man for wanting a better look at the young lady that has my grandson’s heart all locked up.” I let go of Cass’s hand and walk over to the sofa, and turning back, I smile.
“Ooh, this is where you get your charm from, then, Cass,” I tease.
“You know it.” He snorts and follows me but takes the seat opposite.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Mr Kruse.” I offer my hand before I sit. He takes it in both of his and gently encourages me to sit a little closer beside him.
“Call me Oskar, my dear. Mr Kruse is much too formal for us.” His kind eyes crinkle, and I get a warm burst in my chest, hearing the sincerity in his voice. I nod, and despite the awkwardness I feel calling any adult in this place by their first name, I push through, because this feels somewhat important to him.
“It’s nice to meet you…Oskar.”
“The pleasure is all mine.” He keeps my hand captured. His hands are warm, impossibly soft, and very bony. “Once Atticus has gone back to the States I can tell you all of his compromising stories that will help you to keep him in line.” Oskar winks at me conspiratorially.
“I doubt you have enough for a long weekend. Butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth,” I retort and Oskar chuckles.
“Oh, young lady, I have enough for the rest of his life.” I laugh at Cass’s strangled groan of embarrassment.
“Ah, you get your wicked side from your grandfather, too, then?” I observe the two men casting affectionate glances at one another. I’ve never seen Cass like this with anyone except me. It makes my heart swell that he has this type of relationship with someone else, and I’m a little jealous. No, jealous isn’t right; I’m glad he has someone. I know how cold his mother is, and I love him so much, there’s no way I’d wish my loneliness on anyone.
Still, I feel a little lost, he has so much more than me, when really, I only have him. Does that make me jealous, selfish, or just an idiot? My troubled thoughts are interrupted when Cass answers my question I’d forgotten I’d asked.
“Perhaps a little but I’m the new and improved model.” He straightens his shoulders and puffs out his chest. His grandfather and I both roll our eyes.
“So Tia, you live in the Lodge, and your mother is the housekeeper?” Oskar inquires, and I hear Cass chuckle to himself. I look over, but he won’t meet my eyes.
“Yes, that’s right. We’ve lived here since I was three years old.”
“And your mother worked for the family before that?”
“Um, no I don’t think so. She came here because the job had accommodation. My mother became pregnant and had no job, her options were extremely limited.” I don’t know why I’m blurting all this out but the certainty of his tone and his question took me by surprise.
“I see, and Mrs Kraus took you both in, how very kind of her.”
“My mother works very hard. I don’t think there is a whole heap of benevolence underlying my mothers employment.”
“Of that I’m sure and forgive me. I know your mother works extremely hard, I didn’t mean anything by my comment. Now come, sit closer, I may have been joking about my eyesight, but my hearing is really dreadful.” He pats the space right beside him on the sofa, and I hesitate. “Atticus, would you fetch us something to drink and perhaps some cookies. Tia and I have much to discuss.”
“Grandpa.” Cass’s tone carries a note of bored petulance, which Oskar cuts dead.
“Did that sound like a request, son? I’m sorry if it did. It was very much an order,” he snaps and the faint American accent is replaced by a much stronger Swedish clip to his tone.
“Of course, sir.” Atticus
stands, flashes a warm smile at us both, and in an overt display of huge respect he gives a sharp nod of obedience to his grandfather before exiting the room.
“Oh, I like you.” I turn, and the tone of my voice fails to hide the awe.
“The feeling is quite mutual. Atticus is one of a kind and a dear boy, but give him an inch and he will—”
“Take a mile,” I finish the well-known saying with a snicker of agreement.
“And more,” Oskar adds. “He loves you very much, Tia,” he says without pausing, and the candid nature of the topic takes me by surprise. My jaw drops a little; however, his kind expression instantly puts me at ease and endears me to reciprocate his openness.
“I love him, too, Oskar. I know we’re young—”
“Age has very little to do with true love, Tia. I met Atticus’s grandmother when I was in kindergarten. We were together for sixty years before she passed.” His lips tighten, and I pause a moment before speaking. He takes that moment, then turns to face me when he is ready.
“You were married for sixty years?”
“No, I was married to another woman for ten years, but I was always with Atticus’s grandmother.” My face must be a picture of utter confusion because he lets out a deep belly laugh and pats my knee. “I think that’s a story for another day, don’t you? Tell me, do you often come with your mother to the Hall? I would hope you do.” He switches the topic like the wind changes on a brisk winter day, and I feel a little whiplashed.
“I don’t actually, Mr Kr…Oskar, not unless I can help it. It’s not my favourite place, unless Cass is here.” I shrug and pull my mouth into a thin, apologetic smile.
“Inga?” He nods with understanding.
“Who?”
“Atticus’s mother.”
“Her name is Inga?”
“Does my boy tell you anything?” He barks out a laugh, shaking his head, and I mirror his astonishment. Although, maybe it’s not such a surprise, I never liked her, so I probably never asked.
“He told me all the stories you told him growing up. We tended to skip over his family history,” I reply.
“I understand.” He tilts his head and his thick grey eyebrows knit together. His eyes seem to search my face with such scrutiny I wonder if I have something embarrassing stuck to my face. I even surreptitiously sweep my hand over my mouth just in case, but I can’t feel anything. The silence is at the point of being excruciating when he speaks again.
“Your father is where exactly?”
“Um.” I shift back, taken a little off guard with the question. It’s not that I haven’t answered that type of question before, but for some reason, with him asking, it feels just too personal.
“I’m sorry; it’s none of my business. I understand he doesn’t live at the Lodge, and I wondered if you remained in contact. Just a nosy old man. Forgive my impertinence.”
“Oh no, that’s fine.” I shrug off the awkward feeling because it really doesn’t matter. To me, my father is one subject I have no problem taking about, since there’s nothing to tell.. “No, my father doesn’t live with us.”
“But he’s alive?”
“Honestly, I have no idea. He left before I was born.”
“I understand.” He pats my hand as if he is sharing some unbearable loss on my behalf.
“Really, it’s not anything I think about. It’s his loss.” I force a tight smile, hoping this subject is going to change or I might have to excuse myself and go and offer to help my mother with the cleaning. My father is not worth this wasted breath.
“Yes it is. Anyway Tia, I would very much like to change your mind regarding the house.” I feel the tension in my face soften at the swift turn in the conversation, and my widening smile is evidence enough that I am happy to discuss anything else, even the Hall. “Tartarus Hall has been my family home since my great-great grandfather bought it from some very wealthy merchant fallen on hard times. He came over from Sweden with his young bride and fell in love with the place. I’m very fond of her,” He takes a slow look around this room, casting his eyes upward to the high vaulted ceiling and along each of the panelled walls; his eyes smiling with affection before returning his attention to me. “And I’m always grateful for the company,” he adds and holds my gaze expectantly.
“I will visit, if you’re sure, but I have to warn you, I’m a bit of a bookworm, so I usually just have my nose stuck in some novel, or I’m drawing in my sketch pad.”
“Why do you think I’m in the library, my dear? We don’t have to talk, in fact, an easy silence is one of my favourite things.” He stares intently at me, and I get the feeling that, a little like his grandson, Oskar is used to getting exactly what he wants. Although, looking around the room and sitting beside this kind and inquisitive man, I can think of worse places to be.
“Then I’d love to keep you company.” He beams a bright smile that I’ve may have seen before in a face not changed with time and one that is far too handsome.
“What has he got you agreeing to? Whatever you do, don’t sign anything.” Cass returns just as my mind has wandered his way. He’s carrying a tray with the contents spilling with every step. I doubt there’ll be a drop of coffee left in the cups by the time he places the tray on the low table.
“Your grandfather may have persuaded me to spend a little more time at the Hall when you’re not here.”
“Oh, I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.” He shuffles to sit next to me and flashes a wide-eyed warning look my way, which makes me laugh.
“Too late, young man, it’s a done deal,” Oskar states emphatically. I’m looking forward to the tales of Oskar Kruse, especially if they involve Atticus.
Three Months Later
“I’ll pay you, Tia. I need the extra help and from someone who knows how Mrs Kruse likes things. You know how particular she can be,” my mother pleads, and my heart sinks.
“Boy, do I,” I mutter under my breath, the sarcasm heavy, but I endeavour to hide it all the same from my mother’s oversensitive ear. In my mother’s eyes, the Kruse family can do no wrong. She has, over the years, elevated Mrs Kruse, in particular, to a platform so far above us mere mortals, it’s a wonder she doesn’t have a permanent crick in her neck. The Tartarus Hall annual Summer Gala is today, and my mother has been relentless all week in trying to enlist my help. I have attended this party with Cass in the past; however, he is still in the States, and I have been relegated to staff. I don’t have a problem waitressing, working behind a bar, or cleaning even, but if there’s one thing I hate, it’s serving that woman. If only I didn’t need the money.
“Can I stay in the kitchen?” I’m set to negotiate my terms in order to make this a tolerable experience for everyone.
“Oh, definitely.” Mum exhales, nodding with a rare display of enthusiasm. On this occasion, I happen to share her relief. “You’ll still have to wear the uniform, just in case you are needed elsewhere, and maybe tie your hair fully back so you don’t confuse the guests. Some will no doubt have seen you at the Hall with Atticus, and that could be awkward.” She gathers her bag, keys, and her jacket ready to leave for the Hall. I am still waiting for her to acknowledge how I might feel about that last comment. She rarely makes eye contact at the best of times; I’m not sure if she just can’t stand to look at me, or if she is just uncomfortable with my relationship with the heir apparent.
“Not for me,” I state. My confidence in this area unnerves my mother. Mrs Kruse may have tried to carve the line between them and us a long time ago, but Cass erased that, and I will not let her or my mother try and draw it back in, not even in pencil.
“No, but Mrs Kruse wouldn’t want to be seen as—”
“As what?” I snap my interruption. This conversation never gets old. I swear my mother thinks that family shits gold. Who knows? They’re rich enough, maybe they do. “A pompous snob that would rather hire her son’s girlfriend than invite her to a social gathering? Yes, heaven forbid she should reveal her true colou
rs.”
“Any chance you could lose your voice for the day, too, young lady, as well as the attitude?” my mother fires back, and rather than rehash a very tired argument, I let it go. I’ll never win. I just like to make sure she knows we’re not on the same page when it comes to Mrs Kruse; we’re not even in the same damn library.
“What time do you need me?”
“Come up at lunch time. You can clear the kitchen after the afternoon tea and help me prepare the evening meal.”
“Great,” I say to myself since my mother’s jacket is just a blur of pink, disappearing as the back door slams shut.
I spend most of the afternoon washing up and refilling trays for the other temporary waitstaff to serve to the guests, which suits me fine. It’s the evening I am dreading. Mrs Kruse has my mother and I dressed up like prudish French maids, and my hair is slicked back so smooth and severe, I barely recognise my reflection in the antique silver spoons I’m polishing. To top off my humiliation, I have to wear this stupid little frilly white cap, which perches precariously on my head. My feet are killing me in these damn court shoes, and I think I have managed to reach a whole new height of hatred for Mrs Kruse, since the temporary staff’s attire is simply black shirts, skirts, and flat pumps.
“The table is all set, and the first course has been laid out,” my mother mutters more to herself than anyone else, mentally crossing off her never-ending to-do list. “Tia, would you like to call the guests through to be seated.” I really don’t, but I give a tight nod and dry my hands down the front of my skirt.
“Tia, for goodness sake,” she huffs, shaking her head with disappointment.
“My hands are clean, they’re just wet. Don’t worry, no one will notice. That is the general idea, I believe.” My snide comment is either not heard or, more likely, ignored, and my mother clearly pretends I have said something entirely different.
