“We’ll talk about pay, too, and all the other bureaucratic details that I haven’t the patience for in the middle of the night. Your board and bills are included, so you’ll be on a lower rate.”
“Absolutely,” she said, standing up, unable to hide her joy.
She seemed so eager to please me, even though we’d only just met. Her dualities intrigued me; how she couldbe so naive and trusting in some ways, yet so otherworldly and mature in others. How she could expose my desires to both ensnare her and protect her, all at once. I sensed there was a lot more to her story than simply needing a place to stay; a place to run from the loneliness of the dales, now that her parents were gone.
For now, I was keen to provide her with a safe, warm bed for her to rest in. She’d come such a long way.
I gazed at her, momentarily, as she stood swaying by the fireplace, awaiting my instruction.
Her sombre eyes ignited my curiosity.
Her grateful smile broke my frozen heart.
Chapter Three
Grace
I couldn’t believe my good fortune, but I decided it was wise not to test it. It was best to keep my mouth shut in case I said something to ruin this wonderful turn of events, and squander the opportunity fate had afforded me.
Despite his obvious pain and the slight limp in his gait, Nicholas insisted on taking my bags up to the first floor himself. Unlike Heather House, he had something else to aid him. A small elevator, old-fashioned like one you might find in an aged department store, which we squeezed into with the bags.
I could feel his breath on my face, we were so close. It was pleasant, and fresh, and it drew my eyes up to look at his mouth. Salt and pepper stubble coated his strong jaw, with a dimple the size of my thumb print in the centre of his chin. His lips curled slightly, as if about to break into a wry smile, and his teeth were neat and even when he spoke.
He was well-groomed, but that didn’t surprise me; the whole mansion was dripping with Victorian wealth and taste, its facade and bay windows well maintainedjust as he was, without a single tile missing from its many rooftops. Even the wild gardens were landscaped and designed, giving the illusion of natural chaos – very different from the real, untamed chaos of Heather House.
My heart gave a tug as I realised I was really here, really doing this – and that this handsome, much older man had given me permission to stay here and learn. That he had considered his options and wanted me here, just like that. This man, Nicholas Crowthorne, who was allegedly difficult to please; a tough old stick, Mavis said. This vastly wealthy man who ran a Hampstead funeral home, with branches spreading out around the country.
Private, exclusive, exquisite. A place of beauty and death in equal measure.
In some ways, not too different from Heather House after all.
As the lift made its slow ascent, Nicholas cleared his throat. My eyes fell on his Adam’s apple, bobbing, and drifted again to his face and hair. He was looking politely down at his shoes, his brow slightly furrowed as if in deep thought. His hair was swept from his face; long locks of inky dark hair, threaded evenly throughout with deep blue-greys, which were more prominent at his sideburns. His eyes were black, like mine; so dark they were like obsidian, deep sorrowful pools to take lives in. I'd always thought of my own eyes that way; deep, yet somehow cruel.
He had a merciless air about him; hard, cold, judging...yet also sad, void of something.
How could I sense that sorrowful aspect within Nicholas, I wondered? It was more than just his eyes. Perhaps it was in his apparent physical pain. Perhaps it washis permanent expression of deep-thinking, so much like a pained one.
Perhaps it was because he’d called out that name, Louisa. Now I wondered who she might be. She was somebody dear to him. Somebody important. Somebody he hoped to see, but couldn’t believe he was seeing.
When I glanced up again, Nicholas’ eyes were square on me. I flinched to see them, heat flooding my cheeks to know I’d been caught.
But he kept my gaze, and for a moment, I kept his. When his eyes continued studying mine, I wondered if he was thinking the same thing – that we had the same eyes. The same darkness.
I wondered if he was feeling that tension, that squirmy feeling in his navel which felt good and terrible all at once. I knew, for sure, he couldn’t have a pulsing between his legs; that tingling and throbbing that made me want to clench my thighs. I struggled to breathe in the enclosed space, almost panting to be so close to this man in his expensive-looking robe, with his hot breath on my skin, and his dark eyes drinking me in.
The elevator door creaked open as if it really didn’t want to. Nicholas’ gaze finally left my face as we turned onto the landing and went to the end of the hall. The house was so large that there was a cross-roads, with halls leading to room after room, and the stairwell was grand enough to create a balcony overlooking the foyer far below. The hall was carpeted in a deep mahogany red, and oil portraits lined the walls in ornate gold frames. One depicted two teenage boys with dark hair and eyes black as coal, their expressions solemn and remote.
He took me to a large room at the back of the house, overlooking the long landscaped gardens. The door beside my room was shabby, unkempt, and it was locked with a curious padlock. Mine was panelled and looked practically freshly painted.
I went to look at the view from the windows first. In the moonlight, I could see busts and under-lit statues among topiaries and aged shrubs, a large pond, and an enormous white orangery with large green leaves curling against every pane of glass. Two tall French doors led to a small covered terrace outside. The bed was placed against the back wall – four poster, mahogany, with an embroidered quilt and pillows that had to be goose-down – overlooking that glorious rain-swept garden.
“This is so...glamorous,” I said, unable to hide the awe in my voice.
Nick placed my bag and suitcase by the bed, smiling in a gratified way that made the knot in my stomach tighten.
The walls were panelled and the wallpaper was a thick, beige-pink flock that matched the embroidered quilt and every soft furnishing, from the window seats to the chair by the ornate dressing table. There was a large armoire for my clothes, and even built-in shelving for shoes – not that I had many pairs to put there – and a tall standing mirror to dress in.
The carpet was a soft beige-pink and was plush, bouncing underfoot. Looking up, I saw the ceiling was panelled just as the walls were, colour-flooded in that same muted pastel pink, with an ornate gold chandelier hanging from a ceiling rose at its centre.
