The taxi came closer to the castle and I could see the massive front door was covered in iron studs, but I could also see a very much smaller door that was almost hidden away.
“Can you drive to that side, please?” I told the driver, pointing to the left.
The taxi came to a stop and I got out. The fare had already been paid in advance by April. She had insisted on it, because she knew I would have taken the train otherwise. He had not put the meter on, but I guess it must have run into the hundreds.
The driver smiled, his first of our four hours trip, wished me luck, and drove away. I walked over to the small door. It had a large lion-head knocker, but before I could use it the door opened and a balding, frighteningly thin man, attired in white gloves, a peculiar green vest, and a long-tailed charcoal morning coat, stood in front of me.
Wow! A real-life butler in full garb.
“I’m Barnaby Boothsworth,” he introduced, his posture rigid and his eyes expressionless.
“Charlotte Conrad,” I replied with a wry smile. “I guess I’m here to see Mrs. King.”
“Of course.” He stepped aside politely and waited for me to enter before closing the door and offering to take my suitcase directly up to my room. I handed my single piece of luggage to him and he led me down a dark corridor.
“Mrs. King will meet you in the drawing room,” he said as he walked in front of me.
Just before we reached a wooden door, he stowed my suitcase into a nook in the corridor, then ushered me into a massive space.
Ah, the great hall.
Light flowed in through stained windows set high on the soaring walls. There was a humongous stone fireplace which I imagined in winter would heat up the entire room. A long wooden table that could seat about twenty chairs upholstered in green velvet stood in the middle of the room. Above it hung a truly massive chandelier. In a touch of almost poetic beauty a magnificent marble sculpture of a centaur reaching his arms upwards had been placed in the middle of the table and underneath the chandelier, so it seemed as if the creature was reaching up to touch the light.
Large tapestries of hunting scenes decorated the walls. Green was the main color scheme of the décor here, and I understood then where the concept of his vest probably came from. It also gave me a look into the psychology of the mistress of the house, who had decided to match her servants attire with the furnishings. I suddenly recalled reading a book by a Victorian servant. He said the best servant was an invisible one.
Our shoes were loud on the flagstone floor as we crossed the great hall and made our way towards another room, which Mr. Boothsworth referred to as the drawing room.
“Please wait here,” he said stiffly, before closing the door quietly behind him.
I looked around the room. The décor had obviously been executed by a professional decorator. It reminded me of watching a program on TV about a billionaire who was trying to sell his yacht to buy a bigger one. Its great selling point was everything in it was made from something unique that no one else had. The coffee table, for example, had been made from the skin of twenty-seven lizards, or something equally ridiculous.
Up on one wall was a lavish and very large painting of a beautiful woman with blonde hair. She was wearing a tiara and sitting on a large gold throne. A small, pale blond boy stood next to her, but he seemed almost ghostly compared to the vigor and greatness of the woman. I knew instantly I was looking at the portrait of my employer, Mrs. King.
Mesmerized by the splendor with which she had been depicted, I walked closer to the painting and stared up at her. There was something about her eyes. The artist had captured something elusive. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but I knew it would come to me. As I was trying to figure out the mysterious hidden message the painter had left for the viewer of his painting, the clack of high heels sounded outside. It stopped at the door.
Chapter 5
Charlotte
Quickly, I moved away from the painting. Standing in the middle of the room I hurriedly adjusted my glasses and smoothed down my hair. A few seconds later the heavy door was pushed open and the woman in the painting stood in the doorway. The artist had not exaggerated her beauty.
I was certain she had to be in her mid-thirties, but she could have easily passed for my younger sister. She was speaking to someone on the phone, but the moment she sighted me, she locked her gaze with mine. I smiled politely and watched her take a seat, shapely legs crossed, the skin of her heels as smooth as a baby’s, and the skirt of her deep pink suit riding high on flawless skin.
She took her time with the call, listening intently to what the person on the other end was saying, but her watchful eyes kept roving restlessly from my face to my body and back. I stood still and politely looked away. Finally, she ended the call which was clearly not important, but she did not want to interrupt on my behalf. It was a form of control. She wanted me to feel uncomfortable and establish her authority from the get go. She didn’t know she hadn’t made me feel uncomfortable at all. Every time people played such shallow games I just pitied them.
“Is it Charlotte?” she asked, her tone as smooth as honey, and eyes moving between my baggy dark pants to my ugly white jumper.
I smiled politely. “Yes.”
“You don’t look much like a Charlotte.”
I knew it was an insult, but I was a professional. No way was I even going to recognize it as anything but an unnecessary comment. I let my smile widen. “I’m afraid that is my name.”
“Yes.” Her lips twisted into a cold, condescending smile. “I wanted someone with more experience, someone … older, but they told me you’re the best.”
“I try hard,” I said quietly, looking unflinchingly into her eyes.
She raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “I suppose you’ll do.” She glanced at her slim watch. “I have a function to attend so I don’t have all day. Let’s get on with it.” She pressed a button on a panel next to her chair. “Bring Zackary into the drawing room,” she ordered, before refocusing her attention on me. “The housekeeper will show you around and fill you in on everything you need to know about how this household works: mealtimes, Zackary’s schedule etc. However, all instructions pertaining to Zackary’s education, or wellbeing will come only from me. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
“So whatever problems you encounter you are to bring it to me and only me. Is that absolutely clear?
I nodded. “Absolutely.”
“The other thing you need to know is, Zackary’s father lives in the South tower. He was involved in an accident five years ago that left him quite …” she searched for the words, “quite unsightly. As such he does not mix with the servants or the outside world. If you accidentally meet him while you are on your duties, please keep your head down and carry on as if you have not seen him.”
I was
sure my eyebrows had disappeared into my hairline. This was the weirdest thing I’d heard.
“If I am not around—sometimes I stay at our apartment in London—and some emergency arises, you will be able to speak to Zackary’s father using the intercom system. You will find it has been installed in every room in this castle. Is that understood?”
“Yes.”
She rose to her feet and headed over to a heavy, wooden desk in one corner. Slipping behind it she pulled out a sheaf of papers from one of the drawers. “Something else crucial to keep in mind; I am your employer, not my son’s father so if you're given any instructions with regards to Zackary that is beyond the scope of what I have stipulated in these pages then you are to contact me first.” Mrs. King held the stapled papers out to me. “Here you go. Let me know if anything is unclear or—”
I walked over and took them from her. “Thank you.”
“Study them. They are very important.”
“I will,” I promised.
There was a polite knock on the door.
“Enter,” Mrs. King instructed.
The door was pulled open and a well-dressed, little boy with a pale sickly face was led in by the housekeeper, a plump woman with salt and pepper hair and rosy cheeks. The moment the child saw his mother, he let go of the housekeeper’s hand, and dashed over to her. She moved around the table to meet him.
At that moment, her phone began to ring so she used one hand to deal with it, while she used the other to lightly tap the tip of the little boy’s nose. His lovely green eyes stared up adoringly at her. It was a strange thing to watch. The boy’s utter devotion to his mother seemed bizarre, almost like something from a Victorian novel. He showed no curiosity about the presence of a stranger.
“I’ll be there in half an hour,” his mother said into the phone. “I’m just about to leave the house.”