A rush of pleasure travels through me. He liked the food, and he’s making sure that I’m not working over the weekend.It’s such an odd feeling to have anyone else looking out for me that I’m not sure what to do with it.
I tuck the note away to add to the pile I’ve been accumulating, then return the plate to the kitchen where Kellen’s already dealt with most of my mess.
“Are you the one who cooks?” I’ve been wondering ever since I arrived who stocked this place with high-end vinegars and olive oils. There’s even nitro for homemade whipped cream.
The question appears to confuse him. “I don’t cook, no.” He seems a little ashamed of it.
“Then who used this kitchen before me? They stockpiled some interesting things.”
“Mr. Edgewood.” Mr. Castle pauses, as if weighing how much to say. “He cooks from time to time. And when he did, he was quite good at it.”
This takes me by surprise. The reclusive billionaire can cook, can he?
“Why does he need me?” I ask.
Kellen sighs and dries his hands off on a towel. “Even when I am the only one here, Mr. Edgewood rarely emerges. Before, at least at night, he would sometimes come down and cook a meal. But it has been… a steady decline.”
I understand. He must have some condition that prevents him from wanting to leave the safety of his rooms, and it’s getting worse with time.
“He really must come out,” I say. “As long as he remains entrenched in his habits, nothing will change. Nothing will improve.”
Kellen shrugs. “He does not want to change or improve.”
I shoot him a sharp look. “That is what he wants, yes. But you’re his friend, too, aren’t you?”
Kellen watches me steadily. After a moment, he begrudgingly nods. “Yes. I would count him among my friends.”
“Then it’s your job to push him out of his comfort zone. To keep him connected with the world so that he doesn’t disappear completely.”
His brows go up in surprise. “My job? I’m the butler. I can’t make Mr. Edgewood do anything he doesn’t want to do. You don’t know how stubborn he is.”
I think about this while Kellen finishes up. Before he leaves, though, I stop him.
“Perhaps we could work together,” I suggest. “Maybe if we combine our efforts, we could convince Mr. Edgewood to come out. I really, truly think it would be good for him. It will slow the decline, as you put it.”
I bite my lip, wondering if I’ve pushed too far. But Kellen actually seems to consider it, rubbing his chin.
“All right. If you can come up with a plan, I’ll try to help you. But that’s the most I can do.” A little smile pulls at the edge of his mouth. “I think you’ll find your efforts to be far more effective than mine, so I’ll do my best to support you.”
With that, he salutes me and heads off, leaving me alone in the kitchen to ponder what he means.
rupert
The whipped cream heart will be forever imprinted on my memory. It had begun to melt on top of the hot pancakes, but it was still distinctlythere, with a rather large strawberry sitting upon another mound of whipped cream in the middle.
I wonder what it means.
It’s the most delicious and decadent breakfast I’ve had ina long time. The pancakes were light and fluffy and thick but still cooked all the way through. What did she do to aerate them? Perhaps she separated the whites and whipped them before mixing the batter together, as one does with Belgian waffles.
After a week of her meals, I am certain now that Ms. Austin is not just a housekeeper. She has a hidden history, one that includes cooking professionally, and I wish I could learn it. She is wonderfully intriguing, and I do hope that she appreciated my gifts and didn’t think them peculiar.
I wish there was a way I could speak with her without showing myself. I would love to get to know her, to learn more about her. Frankly, I would enjoy simply hearing her voice. I suppose now that she’s living at the manor, she does have a landline. But she may view it as an intrusion on her privacy if I use it to contact her on a weekend.
Perhaps on Monday. It would be easier than communicating with one-sided notes.
A baser part of me has settled knowing she’s here under my protection and won’t have to climb into her rickety car to go home. She’s safe, warm, and hopefully, comfortable. But now Ms. Austin is also much closer, and it’s as if I can already pick up her scent on the air. She is only on the other side of the manor. All I would need to do is walk to her room, and I could see her up close, with my own eyes.
I know what would happen, though. I know how she would scream. I know how she would run, horrified by me, and never return.
