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)
My sweaty hand was beginning to blister. The pain was a welcome distraction. I pushed thoughts of my father down and away, locked them up with all the other heartbreaking truths I did my best to ignore, and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.
* * *
What started as mild fatigue steadily grew into bone crushing exhaustion. I was dragging my feet by the time I reached the driveway. Dandelions tumbled around me. Fat clusters of white, hairy seeds surfed the wind that kicked up. One landed on my nose. And as I placed my bag down to scratch the itch, the estate finally came into view. I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice as a surprised bark of laughter erupted out of me. Somehow I had been transported to a land of make-believe…or a Disney movie. For a bizarre moment, I expected to see Julie Andrews come around the corner singing and dancing while Nazis stood on the front doorstep. I had anticipated something grand but this…this was unreal.
The manor was in the French style, with lawn as tidy as a carpet extending out as far as the eye could see. It had a steep-pitched slate roof, chimneys shaped in pointed peaks, and slender windows capped with stone demi-lunes. A fuzzy vest of ivy clung to the golden limestone façade. And in the background, framing the breathtaking scene, sat Lake Geneva in all her splendor. In short, it looked like the home of a fair-haired prince. Except this was no fairytale. Well…not mine, at least.
I barely heard the rumble of a car approaching until it almost ran me over. Apparently nobody in the countryside drives at a reasonable speed. The sports car raced past me without pausing. It looked absurdly expensive. All black and sensually sleek, the dark windows obscured the driver’s identity. Gravel fired off under its tires like firecrackers on Bastille Day and kicked up a fog of silt.
As I coughed at the dust billowing up around me, I noticed a white haze had settled on my clothes. Add that to the list of injustices I needed to discuss with God on Sunday. I tried to brush it off but only succeeded in smearing it deeper into the wool of my navy cardigan.
By the time I stood at the service entrance, I was limp and dusty, and my toe was poking out through a large hole on the top of my canvas sneakers. Basically I looked like a character in a Charles Dickens novel. Hunger and weariness made me impatient. I knocked several times, the blows growing more forceful, until a tall, elderly gentleman opened the door. My eyes snapped up to meet his. He looked north of seventy years, with olive skin and a neatly combed, thick shock of white hair. He stood stiffly, and wore both an expression and a black suit that made him look like an undertaker. I angled one foot over the other in a ridiculous attempt to conceal the hole.
“Yes?” His English had a subtle French lean to it.
“I was told you have a housekeeping position open at the house, sir,” I answered with a shaky smile.
Looking through his horn-rimmed glasses, he inspected me closer. Thinly disguised suspicion lurked in his dark eyes. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-nine, sir. I’ll be thirty in September.”
A heavy pause.
“You have a very cultured British accent,” he stated––although it sounded more like an accusation. Then he arched an eyebrow and dipped his chin, gazed at me from above his glasses, as if a better angle would uncover my ruse.
“I also speak French and Italian, sir,” I said quickly, pressing my case before the door slammed in my face.
“Come in, we’ll talk,” he conceded with a sigh.
Spinning. Everything was spinning. I stepped inside and gripped the doorframe for support as a wave of nausea and light-headedness washed over me. “I’m Olivier Bentifourt. I have been the butler for the Horn family for thirty-five years.” I don’t remember what happened next, but I must have fainted because I suddenly found myself horizontal, with the weight of the world sitting on my eyelids and strange voices surrounding me.
“She’s so thin, the poor, poor girl,” said a woman with a jovial French accent. “Charlotte, quick, get the pastries I made last night. She must have low blood sugar,” there was a rustling sound, “and put some tea on the stove. She looks like that actress, you know the one, the American.”
“Audrey Hepburn?” offered the butler.
“Non, Olivier. That actress,” a snap of fingers, “I think her name is Natalie Porter.”
“Portman,” corrected a woman in a crisp British voice.
“Natalie Portman, oui. Thank you, Charlotte.”
“She can’t work here, Marianne. It doesn’t look like she could lift a pillow.” The butler’s voice broke through the fog. I could feel the cool stone floor beneath me and a sore spot developing on the back of my head. I forced my eyes open and saw a halo of sparkling lights and fuzzy shapes, blinked repeatedly and still couldn’t focus.