In fact, this was the first time that Winston had really misunderstood his master. If Sanford didn't know better, he might have suspected the old man of playing at some sort of game by hiring Elaine.
But unless Winston's game was to give Sanford a heart attack, he couldn't see the reason behind it. Elaine was loud, clumsy, a bit scatterbrained, and not to put too fine a point on it, significantly curvier than the type of woman Sanford preferred. When he stepped into a party, he looked for the size zero in a tight red dress, maybe an Asian beauty or a New York blonde with her hair elaborately styled and cascading down her shoulders. Hell, Valencia-
Nope. Not thinking about that.
Anyway, he certainly didn't look twice at next door neighbors with fat, wandering orange tabby cats.
Still, as he watched her walk away and head back over to her own, far smaller little cottage next door, Sanford remembered how they'd collided that morning, when he'd been out for his morning run. It had been entirely Elaine's fault, of course, but she'd landed on top of him, warm and round and squirming a little as she tried to get off of him, and he'd felt a surge of warmth and energy to unexpected places...
No! Sanford shook his head, banishing that memory. He wasn't going to slip up, get caught by another woman. Especially not someone like Elaine, totally the opposite of what he wanted. She was just going to be another employee, doing her job and going about her own business, not disturbing him.
At least, he hoped that this would be the case.
"Everything okay, sir?"
Sanford clamped his teeth together firmly to keep from exclaiming in surprise, and controlled his muscles to keep from jumping at the unexpected voice. Only after he had his voice and body language back under full control did he allow himself to turn around as Winston entered the room.
"Everything's fine, Winston," he replied. He didn't bother to correct his manservant's use of "sir." At first, Sanford had told Winston not to refer to him that way, not liking how it made him feel like some sort of slave owner, but Winston kept on using the word, and eventually Sanford gave up on trying to change his butler's ways.
"You had your meeting with Miss Dean, then?" Winston moved closer, although he always remained a pace or so behind Sanford. He liked to hover just behind Sanford's right arm, as if he was assisting Sanford in a medical operation.
For a second, Sanford felt a ridiculous little urge to shout out "Clamp! Tubing!" and see if Winston would slap the necessary component into his hand. He crushed the urge. Ridiculous, utterly ridiculous.
"Yes, I did," he said instead, still frowning out the window. Elaine had disappeared around the corner, back to her own house, of course. "She seems a bit... excitable, but you told me that her references were good?"
If he'd hoped to catch Winston's ulterior motive, he'd need to do better than that clumsy hook. "Quite good, sir," Winston replied. "And given the age of some of the items in the house, she should be able to turn quite a tidy profit as she disposes of the antiques."
Sanford didn't give a damn about the profit. He already had more money than he could hope to spend in his lifetime. And Winston knew this, since he mostly managed the finances. Heck, Winston wrote his own paychecks every two weeks and presented them to Sanford to sign! Sanford didn't know how much the butler charged, but suspected that he was scoring a great deal out of the old man's sympathy for him.
No, Winston was playing some game of his own. Sanford finally gave Winston a sidelong glance, but the man's wrinkled face gave away absolutely nothing. He'd probably been playing verbal poker with previous employers for years before Sanford was even born.
The only way that Sanford could see to find out what game Winston was playing was for him to keep on wading forward, searching for more clues, and hope that he figured out what the old man intended before the trap closed around him.
He considered just continuing to stand quietly, trying to lure Winston into filling the silence, but he knew that the butler wouldn't fall for that ploy, either. "Elaine mentioned that she was in the house earlier," he said instead, his voice distant. "I don't seem to recall seeing her in here."
"Indeed, sir, she only just passed through." Was there the briefest note of hesitation in Winston's voice as he answered?
"And why was she here in the first place?" Again, Sanford maintained his voice. Perfectly calm and level. Don't give away anything, not even to Winston.
This time, there was definitely a pause before Winston answered. "Her cat, sir, apparently managed to get into the backyard a second time."
"Really." Sanford turned away from the window. "Perhaps I should consider adopting a dog of some breed, in order to keep unwanted animals off of the property. Something large, known for having a strong bite."
Of course, he had no plans to adopt a dog. Sanford didn't consider himself much of an animal person, but he especially disliked dogs, with their loud barking, near-constant motion, and boundless energy. Cats, at least, could keep to themselves and not constantly pester him; they weren't always demanding his attention like a hyperactive child.
Again, Winston didn't rise to the gambit. "I'm certain that Miss Dean will work hard to keep her cat under control," was all that he said.
For a moment, Sanford almost turned to his manservant with more questions, but he decided that it wasn't worth the effort. Whatever Winston might be planning, it likely wasn't intended to be malicious. It would probably end up being just one more annoyance, one more thing to keep him from turning his brain off and just being on his own, not having to talk to or deal with anyone else.
Instead, Sanford strode out of the room. "I'm going upstairs," he called back to Winston. "Oh, and Elaine says that she needs keys to the house, and access to the wireless network. Can you take care of that for her?"
Even after years, Sanford still felt a little twinge of guilt whenever he gave Winston an order. After all, if it hadn't been for good fortune and chance, he would still be broke and living out on the streets. In that situation, Winston wouldn't even consider him worthy of spit, much less wait on his commands, hand and foot, with such obsequious respect. What right did he have to give orders to someone else, even if he paid the other's salary?
But Winston just gave that little head nod of his, his version of what probably would have been a deep bow in Victorian times, and murmured that he would take care of it. And Sanford knew that the butler was as good as his word.
Upstairs, in his bedroom, Sanford stripped off his clothes and climbed into his massive bed. He grabbed the novel he'd been reading the previous night before he dozed off, opening it up to the little scrap of newspaper he'd torn off to serve as a bookmark. The book was incredibly dense, an account of the financial errors that led up to the most recent stock market crash, but Sanford forced himself to read a chapter or so, up until his eyelids started sagging. Only then did he reach over, turn off the lamp that hung over the bed, and put his head down on the pillow.
The window of his bedroom overlooked Elaine's cottage. If Sanford went to the window, he could look right down over the backyard fence into the windows of the little house. If Elaine had the lights on, he might even be able to see inside.
Not that he had any interest in looking at anything inside Elaine's house, of course. The woman was just one more annoyance, one who would hopefully be out of his house, and his life, as soon as she finished her job of inventorying and disposing of all the old furniture that came along with the house.
"What are you going to put in here, once this is gone?" she'd asked, while looking around the main floor.
Sanford hadn't answered, because he didn't have an answer. Whatever he wanted, he thought sleepily to himself before drifting off. He was free, his own man, and that was all that mattered.
He'd never be beholden again.
Chapter Ten
*
Over the next few days, I began to wonder whether I'd bitten off more than I could chew in terms of workload.
The next morning, Winston
greeted me at my front door, giving me a professional little smile as he stood there, looking perfectly pressed and ironed in the tuxedo that I'd come to regard as his everyday outfit. "I understand that you needed these," he said as soon as I opened the door, holding out his hand.
I took a ring with two keys on it and a slip of paper from him, still fighting the latest yawn. I didn't want to look down at myself, see what I was wearing as I greeted this tuxedoed man on my doorstep. "'Kay," I managed to get out around the stubborn yawn.
"On the ring is the key to the front door, as well as the key to the interior closets," Winston went on. "The slip of paper has the login details for the wifi network. It's not especially strong, so you may not have service in all areas of the house, but it should cover most of the main areas."
"Thank you," I managed this time, looking back up from the items to the butler. "I'll be over in a bit, once I've gotten, uh, dressed."
Winston didn't look like he was judging me, but he'd probably had a lifetime of practice at keeping his face straight. "Sounds perfect, Miss Dean. Would you like me to provide you with any breakfast when you arrive? Coffee, perhaps a muffin or bagel?"
My stomach rumbled loudly before I could respond. "Sure, I'll take some coffee," I gave in. My stomach growled a second time, and I smacked myself in the midsection to try and quiet it. "And maybe a muffin, I suppose."
"Wonderful. See you soon, Miss Dean." And with that, the man gave me another one of his little bows, and headed down the sidewalk and off to the mansion next door.
I yawned again, blinked a couple of times, and then went back inside to get dressed.
No professional outfit this time, however. After seeing the piles of dusty furniture, I instead pulled on a pair of comfortable jeans and a tee shirt emblazoned with a logo from some "fun run" race I'd tried to do years earlier. I didn't remember the run being especially fun, but at least I'd gotten a nice tee shirt out of the whole deal.
I then looked around for Whiskers, can of wet cat food in hand. But even after checking all his usual spots, I couldn't find him anywhere.
And then, ten minutes too late, I remembered that, while I'd held the door open and talked with Winston on my front stoop, I'd felt something warm and fuzzy brush against my ankles.
Dammit. He got out again!
I thought about ducking out into the backyard to confirm that Whiskers was once again on the Winterhearst mansion back porch, but I was already running late for my first day of furniture appraisal work. Instead, I just decided to bring the can of cat food over to the house. Maybe Winston could bring the food out to the cat while I got started on the work.
At the mansion, I knocked on the door - but when it opened, Winston wasn't on the other side. Instead, can of open cat food still in hand, I found myself face to face with Sanford.
"Elaine," he said, his voice giving away nothing. His eyes flicked down to the can of cat food in my hand, and then back up to me. His face remained blank - too blank, I guessed. The stone-faced jerk had to be fighting at least a little smile in there.
"Hi," I said back after a second. "Uh, my cat managed to get out, and I bet that he's headed to his new favorite spot."
This time I was watching his lips, and I definitely saw them quirk up into a smile for the briefest of seconds before he hid the expression. "Of course. So you decided to bring the food over to him."
"Well, I just was so eager to get working!" I replied, giving him a big, happy smile. If he wasn't going to smile at all, well, I'd just show enough expression for both of us! "Now, are you going to help me out with pulling out some of this furniture, or-"
"I think not," he said, interrupting me (of course, I should be used to this by now. I'd forgotten that, despite looking very pretty, he was still a jerk). "I'm about to head out on my run."
Indeed, now that I looked down at him, he was wearing that same ridiculous black jogging outfit that he'd worn yesterday morning. Whatever. If he wanted to sweat from the heat, that was fine with me.
"Have fun," I told him, moving aside so that he could get out through the front door and past me. "I'll be here when you get back, working hard!"
I intended to elicit another smile with that comment, but for just an instant, I saw him grimace. Why did that bother the man? Was he so intent on privacy that he didn't want anyone else around him?
Oh well. Not my problem. Sanford started jogging off down the sidewalk, and I headed into the dusty interior of the mansion.
Even before Winston brought me my coffee and a bran muffin on a plate, however, I was starting to fear that I might have bitten off more than I could chew with this job. I had an inventory of everything on the first floor, sure, but I hadn't been quite prepared for the overwhelming variety of stuff all crammed into the corners of the rooms.
Gritting my teeth, I tugged at a wooden chair (Queen Anne, very nice, looking to be in excellent condition after it got a good wipe-down to get off the cobwebs), trying to get its legs out from where they'd become entangled in a folding table (plastic and metal, totally worthless unless someone was having an outdoor party for their child). With one more heave, the chair finally came loose, but I overbalanced and tumbled backward, landing on my ass on the hardwood floor.
"Ouch!" I exclaimed, getting up and glaring at the floor, the chair, the table, everything around me. I took another sip of coffee to distract myself, and sighed.
At least Winston hadn't been exaggerating about the quality of the coffee. This tasted miles better than anything that came out of my old, dented Mr. Coffee on my counter back at home.
About two hours later, just as I'd finally gotten a handle on the pile of furniture, managing to get most of the large piles broken apart into smaller piles that were easier to manage, I saw a familiar orange face poke around the corner. "Admiral Whiskers!" I exclaimed, giving the face a little wave.
With a meow, my cat strolled around the corner and into the room, looking as if he owned the whole place. He greeted me with a rub against my legs, sniffed at the empty plate that had very briefly held a bran muffin, and then began crawling into the largest remaining pile of furniture.
"He ate all his food," Winston spoke up behind me, and I leapt a foot in the air.
I landed with a gasp, pressing my hand against my chest and feeling my heart thumping at a million beats per minute. "Winston! Don't sneak up on me like that!" I exclaimed. "You're going to give me a heart attack!"
"My apologies, Miss Dean." The man really did look sorry, and I instantly felt bad, reassuring him that he didn't do anything wrong. "In any case, he seemed to want to explore the house, and I didn't see any dangerous hazards. Is that alright with you?"
I looked over at Whiskers, who was now shoving his paw into a sideways vase in an attempt to reach something trapped inside. "I suppose that he'll be fine," I said. "As long as Sanford doesn't throw a hissy fit over having a cat inside his house."
Winston didn't have the same facial rigidity as his employer, and he smiled at this comment. "I'm sure that Mister Welles will be fine with the cat's presence," he assured me. "Is there anything else you require at the moment, Miss Dean?"
I shook my head, and the butler disappeared, presumably off to work on some other chores around the house. I glanced back over at Whiskers, who had flopped down onto his side, presumably exhausted by his effort to get the mystery item out of the vase.
"Fat lot of good you'll do me as an assistant," I told him, and he purred back at me, squeezing his eyes into slits. According to a book I'd read, that was a sign of affection from cats.
By mid-afternoon, I was still working on that first room, and I'd started to despair about ever finishing the entire house. If Sanford fired me halfway through, would he pay me for the time I'd put in? Whiskers, meanwhile, had found a spot where a beam of sunlight shone into the house, and now lay sprawled out in the hallway. I could just barely spot him out of the corner of my eye.
"What is this?"
I looked up at the question. Sa
nford had appeared from around the corner, and he now stood a couple of feet from Whiskers, looking down at the cat with an expression like he'd just been fed a bowl full of sour milk.
"He's a cat," I replied. "You know, hunts mice, sleeps a lot, chases laser pointers?"
The look that Sanford shot at me was cold enough to freeze the sun itself. "Why is it in my house?"
"He, not it," I corrected him. "Admiral Theodore Whiskers-"
"Seriously?"
"-and he's over here because he wanted to explore," I went on, ignoring the interruption. "Maybe he'll find some mice or something, kill some bugs. He's not bothering you, so just leave him alone."
Sanford frowned at me, but I wasn't as put off by that glare as I'd been a couple of days ago. Who knows, maybe I was developing an immunity to handsome jerks. "You don't look like you've made much progress."
"I'm making progress," I said defensively. "You just inherited a lot of stuff when you bought the house, that's all. Good appraisals take time."
"Whatever." Fortunately, he didn't seem inclined to argue with me. He just turned and walked off, not even saying goodbye to me.
At least, I thought that he walked away. A minute later, however, I caught movement out of the corner of my eye, and I saw that Sanford had paused to crouch down beside Whiskers. I froze, fearing that he might try and hurt my cat, but he instead just reached out and dangled his hand in front of Whiskers for the cat to sniff.
I didn't make a sound as Sanford, Mister Cold and Stony, scratched my cat behind the ears a few times. He then rose back up to his feet and moved off, not saying anything to me, clearly assuming that I hadn't seen him suddenly show his softer side.
I grinned for the rest of the day, just picturing Sanford kneeling down in his dark jeans and button-up shirt, petting a fat and purring cat that lay at his feet.
Chapter Eleven
*
"Really, there isn't that much for me to tell!" I insisted a couple of days later, as I swirled the glass of wine in front of me. "I'm telling you, he doesn't have a bunch of secret skeletons in his closet. And I'd know, I've looked in all of them."
Sculpting Grace: A Light Romance Novel (Art of Grace Book 2) Page 25
