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.