Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88270 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 441(@200wpm)___ 353(@250wpm)___ 294(@300wpm)
She smiles back. “No. I’m always perfectly on time. Your father was always late, you know?”
“I know.”
She stands and walks towards her mirror. She touches her hair and fluffs it up a little, then meets my gaze in the mirror, her reflection thoughtful. "How's Carolyn settling in?"
"She seems okay. Have you seen her?"
"Briefly," she says, her tone cooling. "She was with that gardener, Josh." She sets the brush down gently on the vanity's marble top, the clink soft in the quiet room, and refocuses her attention on me, her expression sharp. "How long are you going to let that continue on?"
I sigh, resting my hands on her shoulders, feeling the frail bones beneath the cashmere. "It won’t be long before she’s gone."
Her brows arch with disapproval. "Has she said something?"
"No. It’s my decision," I say. “But I haven’t spoken to her yet, so please don’t mention it.”
Her lips press into a thin line. “Of course, I won’t, but it’s about time you set her free.”
"Will you keep an eye on her for me?" I ask softly. "Especially when I'm at work. If there's anything strange, let me know."
"Strange? Like how?" she asks, turning to face me, her eyes avid with curiosity.
"You know, if you see anything… different about her," I reply evasively, that earlier unease in the study nagging at me—her nervousness, the diverted eyes, that alteration I can't name.
She nods. “Yes, I can do that.”
“Good. Now let's go for dinner.” I offer her my arm, and she slips her hand through the crook of my elbow. Together, we head over towards the hallway. As we reach it Freya clatters down the stairs. Curls bouncing, she takes the last three steps in a single bound, and with a big grin, kisses us both on the cheek. She smells of soap and chocolate biscuits.
She chatters to her grandmother as we walk to the dining room, where the table's already set. Silverware and glasses gleam under the chandelier. We sit down. I amd at the head, Frances by my side, and Freya on my left.
We settle in, but Carolyn is nowhere to be found, her chair empty. Carson nods at me.
“I have sent a message up to enquire if Mrs. Carolyn will be joining us. To my surprise, he sighs softly, a rare crack in his composure, then heads out.
Chapter Twelve
JULIET
Imust have fallen into a deep sleep because I wake up suddenly to an insistent knocking. It yanks me from the depths of my exhaustion, and I bolt upright on a massive bed with a gasp. My heart is slamming against my ribs. Where the hell am I? The vast and beautiful room swims into focus.
Ah yes, I’m in Carolyn’s life.
And someone is urgently knocking on the door.
I hurry towards the sound. Outside, the housekeeper stands, her face pinched with unhappiness, arms crossed over her apron. “Dinner is about to be served ,and everyone is already seated at the dinner table, Madam. Will you not be joining them? Are you perhaps not well?" she asks, but her voice is not concerned, and she is having difficulty reining her irritation in. Looks like I've already committed a grave sin.
Carolyn didn't mention there was a strict dinner time—her briefings skipped the mundane rituals, focusing on the big lies. Still, I didn't know I'd nap this long; I must have been bushed, the day's whirlwind draining me more than I realized, body and mind collapsing under the weight.
"I'm sorry," I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “I fell asleep. Must have been tired. I’ll come down now. Thank you for coming to call me.”
She is taken aback by my apology, but she just nods curtly and turns away.
I close the door and run into the massive walk-in closet. It is lit by soft recessed lights that flicker on automatically. Racks of dresses gleam like treasures. I grab the nearest one I can find—a red and white polka dot thin-strap, soft cotton sundress from Diane von Furstenberg. The fabric feels cool and breezy as I hurriedly slip it on over my head. It hugs my boobs a little too snugly, but the hem swirls demurely around my knees.
I glance in the full-length mirror, and I wonder if this look is inappropriate. The polka dots are playful, almost flirty. Maybe rich people dress in suits even at home, with starched collars and pearls for dinner. This summery slip of a thing that feels too casual, too revealing, but it’s too late to change now.
I slip into high-heeled sandals and rush out. I run lightly down the curving stairs and only slow down as the dining room comes into view. As I enter it, I'm struck once again by how regal they all are—they look like they belong in a painting, Frances at one end in her cashmere twinset, pearls glowing softly, Freya beside her with her curls tied in ribbons, Blake at the head, dark and beautiful just like in the dream. The butler, his face vaguely forbidding, is standing to attention against a massive painting. A waiter wearing white gloves is reaching for a plate under a covered silver dome.