Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129944 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 650(@200wpm)___ 520(@250wpm)___ 433(@300wpm)
The estate ran with ruthless efficiency. At first I thought it was out of fear of provoking his nasty temper, though quickly realized that wasn’t the case at all. On the contrary, the staff was unusually loyal to him. They never complained or criticism him in any way. I could see why. He was incredibly generous with them. We all ate the same quality of food he did and it was provided liberally. The pay was many times more than anybody else offered for the same position. And when someone became ill, he assumed the cost. One of the elderly housekeepers had enlightened me of that fact, along with the intimate details of her bunion operations, repeatedly––at least three times.
That’s why it was close to impossible to ask anyone about him without earning a raised eyebrow or a disapproving look. Anything I learned about him was from overhearing broken sentences whispered in dark corners.
“Here, place these in the mud room for Mr. Horn,” Claire said with a faint Irish accent. She handed me a pile of fluffy towels. “Likes to swim. Good exercise for his leg. Could’ve gone to the Olympics, you know. Don’t tell nobody that, not allowed to gossip, you know.”
Yes, I know! In no less than fanatical pride, she volunteered that he was some kind of financial wizard, having made his own fortune before inheriting his father’s. Not much was said about that man, except that he was nothing like his son. I got the distinct impression she meant worse––frightening to consider.
A financial genius and an Olympic athlete…hmm what next? Walking on water? Raising the dead? How about some common courtesy? Apparently that simple skill was too difficult for him to master. I almost said it out loud.
Even less was said about his wife. Mostly it was about how beautiful she was. “Nice girl, beautiful” or “Beautiful girl, an angel.” Those words, not necessarily in that order. I wondered what it was that made her so special. There had to be more to her to inspire such deep, lasting devotion from a man as hardened as Sebastian Horn. The absence of pictures still puzzled me though. Was he trying to erase her memory? There wasn’t a single one to be found anywhere in the house. The only explanation I could think of was that the memory was still too painful for him. Then again, what did I know of devotion? I thought Aleksander had been devoted. That was a laugh.
His behavior towards me was still completely baffling. It wasn’t just arbitrary rudeness; it was an explicit dislike of me. But why? What irredeemable transgression had I committed to inspire such disdain? I combed through every moment I had spent in his presence as if the fate of nations depended on unraveling this Gordian knot and couldn’t come up with a single, solid reason.
My head was pounding by the time I lay back down on the cool linen sheets. Staring at the ceiling, I searched for answers that weren’t there. My eyelids heavy, somehow, slowly, I drifted back to sleep.
Chapter Five
The next day, Mrs. Arnaud discreetly asked if I would go tidy his bedroom. There was a strange, apprehensive look on her face when she spoke, as if she was about to explain further, then thought twice about it. When I reached his bedroom, I found the door shut. My nerves fluttered as I gripped the door handle, about to walk straight into the lair of the beast, but Mrs. Arnaud had entrusted me with the task and I would have done anything to please her. Pushing aside my reluctance, I opened the door and came to a sudden halt in lip-parting bewilderment.
The reek of stale alcohol permeating the room knocked the wind out of me. I ran to the tall french doors, which led to the balcony, and pushed them open, letting fresh air circulate. It was a disaster zone; everything was either out of place or tilted to the side. Empty bottles of hard liquor and beer lay scattered on the floor by a stuffed chair. I would never have expected this of him. He was always so immaculate. For a moment, I speculated whether he was an alcoholic and discarded the notion. He didn’t exhibit any of the typical symptoms of the disease. It wasn’t uncommon for grief to provoke some kind of numbing addiction, but I seldom saw him drink, and when he did it was always in moderation. Something must have triggered this binge. Although what, I couldn’t imagine.
It took hours to sort through the destruction, longer than usual because I examined everything as I cleaned. All the furnishings were of the highest quality. Unlike the rest of the house, the design was clean, contemporary––almost monastic in its simplicity. A muted color scheme, a range of barely noticeable shades that played off each other complimented the design.