by James, E L
Like the earls of Trevethick…
My visit has been a success. Oliver had made a good call insisting I visit both estates. And I’m beginning to reevaluate my doubts about him. He’s done nothing but steer me in the right direction. Perhaps he does have the Trevethick earldom and its continuing prosperity in his heart. The staff now know I’m behind them and that I don’t want to make radical changes. I’ve discovered that I’m very much an “if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it” devotee. My smile is rueful….I’m also too lazy to be anything else, for now. But truth is, under Kit’s authority and shrewd management the Trevelyan estates have been thriving. I hope I can keep them that way.
I’m weary from being encouraging and upbeat for the past few days and from listening to everyone. I’m not used to expending such positive energy. I’ve met so many people here and at Angwin in Oxfordshire, people I’d never met before who work on each estate. I’ve been coming to both of these places since I was a child, and I never had an inkling how many people work behind the scenes. Meeting everyone has been draining. All that talking, listening, reassuring, smiling—especially when I don’t feel like smiling.
I gaze at the path that leads down to the sea and think of Kit and me as two young boys racing to the soft, sandy beach below. Kit always won…always. But then he was four years older than me. And then in late August, armed with bowls and buckets and anything else that would hold them, we three children would pick blackberries from the brambles that lined the path, and our cook, Jessie, would make blackberry-and-apple crumble for supper, Kit’s favorite.
Kit. Kit. Kit.
It was always Kit.
The heir. Not the spare.
Fuck.
Why race through the icy lanes on a freezing night?
Why? Why? Why?
And now he lies beneath cold, hard slate in the Trevelyan family crypt.
Grief tightens my throat.
Kit.
Enough.
I whistle for Kit’s gundogs. On command, Jensen and Healey, two Irish setters, return from their romp along the path and come bounding toward me. They are named after cars. Kit was obsessed with all four-wheeled vehicles, especially fast ones. From an early age, he could strip an engine and put it back together in no time.
He was a true all-rounder.
The dogs jump up at me, and I rumple both sets of ears. They live at Tresyllian Hall on the Trevethick estate, cared for by Danny, Kit’s housekeeper. No. My housekeeper, for fuck’s sake. I’ve contemplated taking them back to London, but my apartment is no place for two working dogs used to roaming the Cornish countryside and the thrill of game shoots. Kit adored them, even though they are useless gundogs. And Kit loved a shoot, too.
I wrinkle my nose in distaste. Shooting is big business, which means the holiday homes are booked out year-round. Bankers and hedge-fund managers seek their thrills at the wrong end of a gun during the open season. Affluent surfers and their families rent from spring through to autumn. Surfing I enjoy. Clay shooting I enjoy. But I am not a fan of killing helpless birds. My father, on the other hand, like my brother, loved the sport. He taught me how to shoot, and I do understand that the sport helps to keep the estate profitable.
I pull up my collar, push my hands deeper into the pockets of my overcoat, and turn to trek back up to the great house. Feeling glum and restless, I trudge through the wet grass, the dogs following close behind.
I want to be back in London.
I want to be back near her.
My thoughts keep returning to my sweet daily, with her dark eyes, her beautiful face, and her extraordinary musical talent.
Friday, I’ll see her Friday, provided I haven’t scared her away.
* * *
Alessia shakes the umbrella free of the snowflakes that had started falling fast and furious on her way to the Mister’s apartment. She is not expecting him to be at home—after all, he’d left money for her last week that included payment for today. But she is ever hopeful. She has missed his brooding presence. She’s missed his smile. She has thought of him constantly.
Taking a deep breath, she opens the door. The silence that greets her is nearly her undoing.
No alarm noise.
He is here.
He is back.
Early.
The abandoned leather duffel bag in the hallway also confirms his presence, and so do muddy footprints in the hall. Her heart rockets into overdrive. She is thrilled; she is going to see him again.
Carefully she places his umbrella in the stand by the door so it won’t drop and wake him if he’s asleep. She’d borrowed it on Monday night. She hadn’t asked, but she didn’t think he would mind, and it had kept her dry from the freezing rain as she’d made her way home.
Home?
Yes…Magda’s house is home now. Not Kukës. She tries not to think of her old home.
She removes her boots and tiptoes along the hallway, through the kitchen, and into the laundry room. Changing into her sneakers and housecoat, she dons her scarf and decides what to clean first. He has been absent since Friday, so everything is clean. The ironing and washing are up to date, and his closet is finally neat and organized, but it’s packed. The kitchen still looks as spotless and tidy as she had left it on Monday afternoon; nothing has been touched. She has to mop up the hall, but first she will dust the shelves with all the records, then wash the windows in the living room. The balcony has a glass wall that looks out over the Thames and to Battersea Park beyond. Grabbing the window-cleaning spray and a cloth from the cupboard, Alessia heads into the living room.
She halts in her tracks.
The Mister is here. Propped up on the L-shaped couch. Eyes closed, lips parted, hair mussed and standing on end, he’s fast asleep. He is fully dressed and still wearing his overcoat, though it’s open, revealing his sweater and jeans. His filthy boots are planted firmly on the rug. In the white light that swirls through the glass wall, Alessia spies the telltale trail of dried mud all the way back to the door.
She stares at him, enthralled, and moves closer, drinking him in. His face is relaxed but a little pale, his jaw is rough with stubble, and his full lips quiver with each breath. He looks younger and not quite as unattainable as he sleeps. If she dared, she could reach down and stroke the stubble on his cheek. Would it be soft or prickly? She smiles at her silliness. She isn’t that brave, and though it’s tempting, she doesn’t want to anger him by waking him.
What concerns her most is that he looks uncomfortable. Briefly she wonders whether she should wake him so that he can go to bed, but at that moment he stirs and his eyelids open and bleary eyes meet hers. Alessia’s breath hitches.
His dark lashes flutter over drowsy eyes, and he smiles and holds out his hand. “There you are,” he mumbles, and his sleepy smile galvanizes her into action. She thinks he wants help to come to his feet, so she steps forward and takes his hand. All at once he tugs her down onto the sofa, kissing her quickly and curling his arm around her so that she’s resting on top of him, her head on his chest. He mutters something unintelligible, and she realizes he must still be asleep. “I missed you,” he murmurs, and his hand grazes her waist, then rests on her hip, holding her to him.
Is he asleep?
She lies paralyzed on top of him, her legs between his, her heart beating an insane rhythm, one hand still clutching the window-cleaning fluid and the cloth.
“You smell so good.” His voice is barely audible. He takes a deep breath, his body relaxing beneath her, and his breathing mellows into the rhythm of sleep.
He’s dreaming!
Zot! What should she do? She lies stiff and unyielding on top of him, terrified and fascinated at the same time. But what if…? What if he…? All manner of horrible scenarios suddenly run through her mind, and she closes her eyes to bring her anxiety under control. Isn’t this what sh
e wants? What she has been longing for in her dreams? What she secretly desires in her private moments? She listens to his breathing. In. Out. In. Out. It’s steady. It’s slow. He really is asleep. She rests against him, gathering her thoughts, and as time ticks by, she relaxes a little. She spies a smattering of his chest hair in the V of his T-shirt and sweater. It’s provocative. She lays her cheek on his chest and closes her eyes and inhales his familiar scent.
It’s soothing.
He smells of sandalwood and the fir trees in Kukës. He smells of wind and rain and exhaustion.
Poor man.
He is so tired.
She purses her lips and leaves a shadow of a kiss against his skin.
And her heartbeat spikes.
I’ve kissed him!
She wants nothing more than to remain where she is, to enjoy this new and thrilling experience. But she cannot. She knows it’s wrong. She knows he’s dreaming.
Closing her eyes for one more minute, she delights in the rise and fall of his chest beneath her. She yearns to wrap her arms around him and curl up on top of him. But she can’t. She lets go of the cleaning fluid and the cloth, depositing them on the sofa, then reaches for his shoulders and shakes him gently.
“Please, Mister,” she whispers.
“Hmm,” he grunts.
She pushes a little harder. “Please. Mister. Move.”
He raises his head and opens his tired eyes, confused. His expression turns from confusion to horror.
“Please. Move,” she says again.
His hands fall away, releasing her. “Shit!” He sits up immediately and gapes at her in utter dismay as she scrambles off him. But before she can run, he grabs her hand.
“Alessia!”
“No!” she shouts.
And he lets go immediately.
“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I thought…I thought…I was…I must have been dreaming.” Slowly he stands, his face full of remorse, holding his hands up in submission. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He drags his hands through his hair and rubs his face as if trying to rouse himself. Alessia stays out of his reach but scrutinizes him and sees how strained and tired he looks.
He shakes his head to clear it. “I’m so sorry,” he says again. “I’ve been driving all night. I got in at four this morning. I must have fallen asleep when I sat down to undo my laces.” They both look at his boots and at the clumps of dried mud he’s left in his wake.
“Oops. Sorry,” he says with a sheepish shrug.
From deep inside, her compassion for this man blossoms. He’s exhausted, and he’s apologizing for making a mess in his own home? That’s not right. He has shown her nothing but kindness, giving her his umbrella, helping her into her coat, and when he caught her at the piano, he was complimentary and generous in his offer to let her play.
“Sit,” she says, spurred on by her compassion.
“What?”
“Sit down,” she says more forcefully, and he does as he’s told. She kneels at his feet and begins to untie his bootlaces.
“No,” he says. “You don’t have to do that.” Alessia bats his hand away, ignoring him, and undoes his boots, pulling each off in turn. Then she stands, feeling more confident that this is the right thing to do.
“You sleep now,” she says, and grasping his boots in one hand, she holds out the other to help him up.
He glances from her eyes to her fingers, his hesitation unmistakable. After a beat he takes her hand, and she hauls him off the sofa. Gently she leads him down the hallway and into his bedroom. There she releases him, draws back the duvet from his bed, and points. “You sleep,” she says, and walks around him to the door.
“Alessia,” he calls before she leaves his room. He looks despondent and uncertain. “Thank you,” he says.
She nods and exits, still holding his filthy boots. She closes the door behind her and leans against it, her hand at her throat in an effort to contain her emotions. She takes a deep cleansing breath. She’s gone from uncertainty and confusion to delight and wonder to compassion and assertiveness in the space of a few minutes.
And he kissed her.
And she kissed him.
She touches her fingers to her lips. It was brief but not unpleasant.
Not unpleasant at all.
I missed you.
She takes another deep breath to calm her pounding heart. She has to get a grip on reality. He’d been asleep. He’d been dreaming. He hadn’t known what he was saying or what he was doing. She could have been anybody. She shakes off her disappointment. She is just his cleaner. What could he possibly see in her? Feeling a little deflated, but with her equilibrium restored, she picks up the Mister’s leather duffel bag and heads back to the laundry room to clean his boots and sort his clothes for washing.
* * *
I stare at the closed bedroom door, feeling every shade of stupid known to man. How could I have been so fucking idiotic? I frightened her.
Shit.
I have no hope with her.
She’d appeared in my dream, a vision in blue—even in that ugly housecoat—and I’d welcomed her.
I rub my face in frustration. I’d left Cornwall at eleven the previous night, and the five-hour drive had been exhausting. It was a stupid thing to do. I nearly fell asleep several times. I had to open my car windows even though it was freezing and sing along to the radio to stay awake. And the real irony is that I drove home to see her. The weather forecast threatened a rare blizzard, and I didn’t want to be stuck in Cornwall for a week…so I came home early.
Fuck.
I’ve blown it.
But she knelt at my feet and undid my shoes and led me to bed as if I were a child. Led me to bed to sleep. I snort. To sleep!
When was the last time anyone did that for me?
I don’t remember any woman putting me to bed and leaving me….
And I frightened her.
Shaking my head in self-disgust, I peel off my clothes and leave them on the floor where they fall. I’m too tired to do anything but crawl into bed. As I shut my eyes, I find myself wishing she had undressed me completely and joined me…here. I groan as I recall her sweet, wholesome scent, roses and lavender, and how soft she felt in my arms. Feeling simultaneously morose and aroused, I fall fast asleep and surrender to her in my dreams.
* * *
I wake with a start and an odd feeling of guilt. My phone is buzzing on my bedside table. I didn’t leave it there. I pick it up, but I’m too late. It’s a missed call from Caroline. I place it back on my bedside table, noting that my wallet, spare change, and a condom are also there. I frown, and then I remember.
Oh, God. Alessia.
I jumped her.
Bugger.
I screw my eyes shut to escape the embarrassment that washes over me.
Fuck. A. Duck.
I sit up, and sure enough my clothes have been tidied away. She must have emptied my jeans pockets. It seems such an intimate thing to do, rummaging through my possessions, her fingers on my clothes, my stuff.
I’d like her fingers on me.
That’s not going to happen, you idiot. You frightened the poor girl.
How many houses does she clean anyway? How many pockets does she rummage through? I dislike the thought. Perhaps I should hire her full-time. Then the dull ache in my gut would never go…unless…unless…There’s only one way I’ll be rid of this ache.
Shit. That’s not going to happen.
I wonder what the time is. There are no shimmers on the ceiling. Glancing out the window, I see nothing but a wall of white.
Snow.
The predicted blizzard has arrived. A glance at my alarm clock confirms it’s 1:45 P.M. She should still be here. I leap out of bed and in my dressing room pull on a pair of jeans and a long-slee
ved T-shirt.
Alessia is in the drawing room, where she’s cleaning the windows. All evidence of my muddy walk through the flat has disappeared.
“Hi,” I say, and wait to see how she reacts. My heart is thundering. I feel like I’m fifteen years old again.
“Hi. You sleep well?” She gives me a brief but unreadable look, then studies the cloth she’s holding.
“Yes, thank you, and sorry about earlier.” Feeling ridiculous and self-conscious, I wave in the direction of the sofa where my misdemeanor took place. She nods and rewards me with a small, tight smile, and her cheeks turn a lovely shade of pink.
I look beyond her through the windows, where the view is obscured by swirling snowflakes. The snowstorm is in full force, and outside is a turbulent torrent of white.
“It doesn’t often snow like this in London,” I say, moving to stand beside her at the window.
We’re talking about the weather?
She steps beyond my reach, but she stares out of the windows. The snow is so dense I can hardly see the river below.
She shivers and wraps her arms around her body.
“Do you have far to go?” I ask, worried about her making her way home in this storm.
“West London.”
“How do you get home normally?”
She blinks a couple of times while she processes my words. “Train,” she answers.
“Train? From where?”
“Um…Queenstown Road.”
“I’ll be surprised if the trains are still running.”
I head over to my desk in the corner of the room, shuffle the mouse, and my iMac springs to life. A picture of Kit, Caroline, Maryanne, and me with Kit’s two Irish setters appears on my desktop, and with it I feel a wave of nostalgia and sadness. Shaking my head, I check online for the latest on local transport. “Um…South Western Trains?”
