4
JESSA
“This is where you grew up?”
After fourteen hours of travel, a time change, two airplanes, and a car ride, it's possible I'm hallucinating the stately mansion in front of me.
But if I'm hallucinating, then so is Freya. She's looking up at the house with a fond smile.
When she turns to me, the smile remains, though it starts to look a little sheepish. “Actually, this was just the country home where we spent our summers.”
I whistle under my breath. “Wowza.”
Her embarrassed smile only gets more pronounced. “It’s not a big deal.”
“Are you kidding? It’s a huge deal. You neglected to mention you’re a rich kid.”
She waves me away with her hand. “No, my parents are rich. I’m broke as can be.”
“Potato, poh-tah-to, tomato, tom-ah-to.”
The suited driver carries our bags up the polished stone steps that lead to the entrance of Freya’s country house. The facade is made of red brick and what looks like a buttery yellow sandstone. They might clash, were it not for the delicate ivy creeping up the walls and tying everything together like fine emerald thread.
I take it all in, shaking my head in awe. “It’s so nice,” I mumble. “Actually, ‘nice’ doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
The doors open before we can reach them. The man standing at the threshold is an older gentleman wearing what can only be described as a butler’s uniform.
“This is Clark,” Freya says, gesturing me inside. “He’s been with my family for almost two decades now.”
“Ms. Freya,” he says with a half-smile. If he smiled fully, I think his face might crack. His eyes flit to me with disinterest. “Welcome to Laurel Manor, madam.”
“That’s a pretty name,” I say, hoping the austere British butler will warm to me in time. “Do you know its history?”
He hesitates slightly, his eyes moving to Freya and then back to me. “I believe the family that built the manor were called the Laurels.”
“Oh, that’s interesting.”
His expression suggests otherwise.
Freya links her arm with mine and pulls me into the manor. It really is beautiful. Despite the elements of contemporary living that make up the interior—shimmering glass framed in sleek black metal, floating steel stairs, a few harsh, abstract paintings—there are also little nods to a bygone era. Like the diagonal timbers that make up the walls and the large casement windows that overlook the backyard.
“I’ll ensure your bags are put in your respective rooms,” Clark says, even though he makes no attempt to pick up our luggage.
I’ve traveled light. One suitcase and a duffel bag. It was more than slightly depressing how neatly my life could fit into two bags. I even put my first frying pan in the suitcase. It’s the only sentimental possession I allowed myself to bring. Everything else is consigned to the dustbin of my past.
“Don’t mind Clark,” Freya whispers once the butler is gone. “He seems like a stuffy old codger, but that’s only because he is.”
She laughs at her own joke while I shake my head. “He doesn’t seem to like me,” I say.
“He just doesn’t know you,” she dismisses. “He’s accustomed to seeing the same type of people all the time.”
“Is it really just that? Maybe he loathes Americans in particular.”
“Sure, but who doesn’t?” Her eyes twinkle and then she yanks on my arm. “Come on. I want to show you the gardens.”
It’s lovely outside, if a little gloomy. The clouds hang over us, casting a gray pall on the freshly mowed lawn. I’m wearing a light sweater, though I’m not quite sure it’s up to the task. I’m usually better at handling the cold, but not recently. I wonder if the change has anything to do with my pregnancy.
“You okay, Jessa?” Freya asks, watching me with a worried expression on her face.