by Wendy Leigh
So when I call Grandpa back, I start by asking him the obvious question: “Didn’t you meet Robert Hartwell when you read Lady Georgiana’s stars, Grandpa?”
“Hartwell never knew of my existence, Miranda. Georgiana and I always met in secret, because she was fully aware that he would despise her for consulting an astrologer,” he says.
“What a tyrant!”
“An apt characterization, Miranda. However, I have given your meeting with the great and powerful Mr. Hartwell a considerable amount of thought.”
“Thank you, Grandpa,” I say, and mean it.
“I hope you will not think me self-serving, Miranda, but it has occurred to me that—provided you leave Lady Georgiana out of the equation and never mention my past professional relationship with her to Robert Hartwell—down the line in your acquaintance, he may perhaps be amenable to publishing Star Signs. And you of all people know exactly how much that would mean to me.”
I certainly do. Star Signs, the astrology book I ghosted a few years back as a favor for Grandpa, was really close to his heart. But despite investing all his hopes in it, he never managed to get it published. I know that it would mean the world to him, both emotionally and financially, since he lost all his money in the Wall Street crash, if Robert Hartwell agreed to publish it.
“Your silence tells me that being the good-hearted girl that you have always been, you have already come up with the identical idea, Miranda, and I intend to reward you for your thoughtfulness,” Grandpa says.
“Grandpa, I—”
“Not another word, Miranda. I intend to meet you in Manhattan in three hours’ time. And then I plan to escort you to your favorite vintage store and buy you a designer outfit to wear to your encounter with the formidable Mr. Hartwell, after which I shall drive you out to Hartwell Castle myself. And I categorically refuse to take no for an answer.”
Five hours later and I’m on the LIE, risking life and limb.
“You look lovely in the Chanel, Miranda,” Grandpa says, then swerves, attempts to pass a truck, and narrowly misses slamming into it.
The only way to get through this, Miranda, is to keep your eyes shut till we get there.
As I do, the image of Robert Hartwell swims through my mind: tall, dark, handsome, exuding power, as if he were the ruler of some far-off country. Then the image of Lady Georgiana flickers in my mind, blonde, beautiful, and willowy, a Greek goddess incarnate.
Bad luck that I’m small like my father, not tall like my mother . . .
I flash to long ago, when she was a catwalk model in Paris. The best time of her life, she always says. When I was very young she spent hour after hour poring over Vogue with me, teaching me to identify and appreciate the creations of the world’s foremost fashion designers. Not that I could ever afford to buy any of their clothes, but my knowledge of high fashion served me well when I became a ghostwriter—complimenting a star on her vintage Balenciaga was always the fastest way for me to bond with her and win her trust.
“Can’t wait to tell Mom you blew your last dime on buying me a vintage Chanel suit, Grandpa,” I say, smoothing down the navy blue skirt, which might be the last word in French chic, but which, I’m forced to admit, makes me look more prim schoolteacher than Greek goddess.
“Call it an investment, Miranda! You can’t meet the widower of one of the ten best-dressed women of all time without looking the epitome of a best-selling author. And it’s the least I can do for you when you’re braving the dragon in his den and also trying to get him to publish my book!” Grandpa says.
“I’ll give it my best shot, Grandpa, I really will. You sure deserve it,” I say, and mean it. He was always a second and better father to me than my own; dried my eyes when my first date stood me up and told me that it was my date’s loss, not mine; encouraged me to become a writer, and has never in my entire life let me down, so there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.
As we pull off the highway the gargantuan iron gates of Hartwell Castle come into view, the ornate bunches of wrought-iron flowers adorning them, each flower with an electric light in the center of it, glittering in the afternoon sun.
“Violets. The color of Lady Georgiana’s eyes. And reminiscent of Georgiana Royale, the violet-scented fragrance Robert Hartwell commissioned in Paris as an engagement gift for her. Her signature scent, created exclusively for her and only her,” Grandpa says in a hushed, reverential voice.
“And after it happened, Robert Hartwell smashed all the Baccarat crystal bottles of Georgiana Royale in existence and destroyed the formula so that no other woman would ever wear it,” I add, quoting from the research I did last night.
“And no other woman ever did,” Grandpa says, his eyes suddenly so bright and brimming over with emotion that it strikes me he might have been in love with Lady Georgiana, if only from afar. You couldn’t blame him, of course—so was half the world.
As we get closer to the castle gates, they swing open as if by magic. A burly security guard in a dark blue uniform approaches, checks my ID, and waves us up a wide driveway shaded by oak trees on either side, leading up to the highest point in Long Island, and Hartwell Castle.
Halfway up the driveway I see a koi pond on our right, dominated by an iron sculpture of a dragon, with blazing electric lights for eyes, and water gushing out of his jaws. I’d love to ask Grandpa to stop the car so we can look at the fish and admire the dragon waterfall, but I don’t want to be late.
So we carry on up the long and winding driveway, past a group of marble statues of nude women, then round a big bend, and suddenly Hartwell Castle, a gray stone fortress modeled on England’s Windsor Castle, and unlike any other residence ever built on this side of the Atlantic, comes into view.
Grandpa stops the car at the moat and wishes me luck.
“Remember, Miranda, the main priority is you and your career. Only mention my book after your relationship with Mr. Hartwell is consolidated. After which, according to the planets, only the sky will be the limit.” He lets me out of the car and drives off to the local mall, where he is going to wait for me.
For a few moments I linger outside the castle, puzzling over his throwaway line—the sky will be the limit. For me? For Robert Hartwell? For all of us? I wonder.
Then I focus on Hartwell Castle’s turreted facade; I’m awestruck by its grim splendor. During my time as a ghostwriter, I’ve met with a Hollywood star in his Pink Palace, which lived up to its name in spades; with Trump at Mar-a-Lago, while fountains splashed and violinists serenaded the guests; and with a South African tycoon at his multimillion-dollar beachside estate as porpoises played in the Atlantic Ocean under his terrace; but nothing has prepared me for the sheer scale of Hartwell Castle.
As I clutch the drawbridge railings and cross the moat, trying to keep my balance, I say a silent prayer that Robert Hartwell isn’t standing by one of the castle windows, watching me totter along in my Louboutins.
I expect to find an English Beefeater standing guard outside the iron portal, brandishing a sabre, but I am wrong. The door is open, and unguarded.
Biting my bottom lip, I step gingerly into an enormous oak-paneled baronial entrance hall with a vaulted, wooden-beamed ceiling and violet and gold stained-glass windows. I hope fervently that the kindly Mary Ellen Mead will be here any second now to make me feel more comfortable.
My heart sinks when, instead of Mary Ellen, I’m confronted by a tall, strapping, hard-faced woman with a helmet of raven hair, and wearing a severe black dress with a white collar and cuffs.
The maid?
Her imperious “Miranda Stone, I gather?” and the way in which she looks me up and down as if I were Typhoid Mary makes it obvious that this amazon of a woman is far more important than that. I get the distinct impression that she expects me to curtsy to her.
“Mrs. Hatch, Mr. Hartwell’s housekeeper,” she announces, and holds out her large
hand for me to shake.
When I do, her grip is so strong that I look at her in surprise, only to be met by coal-black eyes, glowering at me scornfully.
Mrs. Hatch? Mrs. Hatchet-Face, more like it.
Without a word, she crooks a finger in my direction imperiously, beckoning me to follow her, as if I were beneath contempt.
Clearly, Mrs. Hatch, a woman I don’t know from Adam or Eve, really dislikes me and I don’t understand why.
Oh, but you do, Miranda! She obviously knows about the bunny girl and your erotic manuscript. Or else she’s just a prize bitch . . .
Feeling like an errant schoolgirl, I trail after Mrs. Hatch as she marches toward a dramatic horseshoe-shaped staircase, the balustrade garlanded with romantic curlicues.
The glamorous sweeping staircase featured in the documentary! Lady Georgiana Hartwell, swathed in purple chiffon, posing at the top, her blonde hair long and flowing, and Robert Hartwell, his strong arms wound protectively around her, holding her tight, while she gazes up at him, her violet eyes aglow with hero worship.
I push the image from my mind and instead concentrate on negotiating the stairs without falling down them headfirst and breaking my neck, which Mrs. Hatchet-Face would probably love.
At the top of the staircase, she deposits me in a small office, sparsely furnished but with a Monet on the wall—thanks to my college art history classes, I can tell it’s the genuine article—and stomps off without another word to me.
I couldn’t be more glad to see the back of her.
As I wait, I prepare myself for Mr. Hartwell’s first move.
I remember from the documentary that apart from all his other accomplishments, he is also a champion chess player. Whereas I can just about hold my own at checkers.
But I’m not going to let him get the better of me. I’m here at Hartwell Castle, and no matter how famous, wealthy, and handsome Robert Hartwell is, I’ve made it this far, so I am going to do my best to get what I want without letting him bully me into reading Unraveled to him out loud. I’ll think of something, anything, to avoid it.
While I’m in the midst of giving myself a pep talk, Mrs. Hatch slams back into the office again. Without a trace of a smile, she announces, “You’ve been summoned,” as if I’m bound for the gallows.
Which I probably am.
As I follow her along endless oak-paneled corridors hung with a series of gold-framed oil paintings of nymphs and satyrs cavorting together on pink fluffy clouds, then up a number of narrow staircases, I start to dream about ghosting Robert Hartwell’s autobiography.
Of course, with his journalistic background, he is eminently capable of writing it himself. But what with running his global empire, he probably can’t spare the time.
And suppose, by some miracle, that he hasn’t been put off by Unraveled and is serious about hiring me as his ghostwriter? I’d be in ecstasy. Robert Hartwell’s autobiography would be a guaranteed blockbuster.
After all, he’s certainly lived a life worth immortalizing, a life full of drama, excitement, and, above all, tragedy.
The aftermath of that tragedy is all around me at Hartwell Castle. So although I am concentrating hard on not tripping over the thick, plush scarlet carpet, I can’t help but peek out of the purple and gold stained-glass windows and into the dazzling rose garden outside, and beyond, to the ornate bridge over the stream, which I know is wending its way toward Hartwell Lake and, in the middle of it, Hartwell Island.
I’ve seen aerial photographs of the large oval lake, overlooked by weeping willows, and in the middle, Hartwell Island blanketed with exotic foliage, all cloaking the purple marble mausoleum that no one apart from Robert Hartwell has ever entered—the last and final resting place of Lady Georgiana Hartwell.
As I follow Mrs. Hatch along another endless corridor, I try to psych myself up to meet the legendary Mr. Robert Hartwell at last.
I know from our telephone conversation that when it suits him, he can be extremely charming. But I am also well aware that it would be a big mistake for me to let my guard down when I meet him face-to-face.
After all, Robert Hartwell may be a tragic figure whose reputation and star-crossed story commands instant empathy and respect, but I’ve already surmised that he is a man who does whatever he wants, whenever he wants, and damn the consequences.
Then again, he hasn’t met me yet!
Outside an enormous black wooden door embossed with the initials RH, Mrs. Hatch jabs a brass bell by the side of it and marches off.
“Come in,” raps the deep, gravelly voice I remember only too well from yesterday’s phone call.
I push open the door and hover on the threshold, waiting for Robert Hartwell to acknowledge me, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sits in a black and gold Louis Carver chair at the end of a long, highly polished mahogany table, scrawling something in a large black leather-bound book with a diamond-encrusted Aurora pen. I’ve always dreamed of owning one myself. Fat chance, as it costs over a million dollars
A few minutes go by, and Robert Hartwell is still immersed in whatever he’s writing and doesn’t bother to stop and look up at me.
I make the decision to keep quiet and wait until he acknowledges me first. Meanwhile, I glance around his office, primed to see framed photographs of Lady Georgiana on every surface. But there aren’t any. Too painful for him, I guess. Instead, on the wall behind his desk hangs a portrait of Napoléon, emperor of France, who was of Italian descent. On the desk lies a copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War.
Well, I don’t have to consult the stars to interpret what that all means: Robert Hartwell, who is half-Italian and clearly as authoritarian as the day is long, is a man who not only identifies with one of the most powerful dictators who ever lived, but also studies military strategy.
It’s clear that leaving me to dangle while he ignores me is just another strategy designed to give him even more of an advantage over me than he already has. But even if he didn’t, I have to admit that now that I am in his presence, Robert Hartwell lives up to his role as the hero of the documentary, and more.
Big, broad-shouldered, imposing, in person he has the aura of a man born to dominate other men. In fact, he reminds me of a five-star general I once met, who was considering hiring me. Except that Robert Hartwell is far more powerful, far more commanding than the five-star general, or any other general, could ever be. He is seated (so I can’t tell if he is really six foot three, as legend has it), his posture is ramrod straight, and he is elegant in his black Armani suit and crisp white shirt. On his thick wrist, a solid gold Patek Philippe watch underscores his wealth and prestige.
I flash back to the documentary and the story of the gold Cartier Panthère watch he bought Lady Georgiana, on which he had engraved the letters G.I.L.Y., which stood for “Georgiana, I Love You.” After he witnessed her delight at his romantic gift, he made sure to engrave the identical letters on every single piece of jewelry he gave her forever afterward.
Imagine being so loved and cherished!
Then I notice the ostentatious lapis lazuli cuff links he’s wearing, and his highly polished black crocodile shoes, both flamboyant in the extreme.
Robert Hartwell can be as flamboyant as he likes, but if he doesn’t say something to me in a minute, I’m going to walk out, no matter what.
As if he has been reading my mind, he looks up and stares straight at me.
Instead of being sorrowful or soulful, as I had expected, his large, hypnotic, dark green eyes bore into me like guided missiles fixing on their target.
“Miss Stone,” he says, unsmiling, not bothering with any polite preamble, “so we meet at last . . .”
He is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen in my life, and however arrogant and forbidding he is right now, he simply takes my breath away.
“Yes, Mr. Hartwell,” is all I manage to summon up.
; He indicates that I take a seat next to him, and I do.
And then I flush from head to foot. Not because of his reputation, his dark good looks, wealth, and power, or the intensity of his eyes, but because a palpable heat emanates from his body, which is so erotic that I’m rendered practically senseless.
I realize that he is waiting for me to offer my hand for him to shake, only I can’t because I’m paralyzed with sexual arousal. But I know I have to say something, so I search for an original conversation opener.
“What do you think about astrology, Mr. Hartwell?” is all I manage to come up with, and then want to bite my tongue for saying something so idiotic to him.
He raises his eyebrow at me.
“Not much, Miss Stone. Why do you ask?”
I’m about to blunder into a pitch for Grandpa’s astrology book when I’m saved by the bell—literally, as the desk phone rings.
I get up to leave, so as to give him some privacy, but he motions me to stay where I am.
He launches into a long telephone conversation in Russian, while I take advantage of the renewed opportunity to study one of the most famous men in the universe at close range.
I’ve met countless Hollywood stars, so I’m no stranger to charisma, but Robert Hartwell is head and shoulders—both literally and figuratively—above any other man in terms of his sexual magnetism.
His green eyes fringed by unnaturally long, dark lashes are a complete contradiction to the firm, somewhat hard line of his mouth, his muscular, toned body, his broad shoulders, and his big hands.
I flash on what that body, that mouth, and those hands could do to me, along with the all-encompassing power of his height, his strength, his aura of mastery.
I’ve been in the presence of Robert Hartwell for just eight minutes. He’s spoken exactly fifteen words to me.
And I’m already wildly attracted to the man who seems set on making me jump through all sorts of hoops before he gives me what I want.
But judging by his autocratic my-way-or-the-highway attitude, even then he probably won’t give it to me.
