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Rudy and I climb back down to the car and cross the short distance between the spot where he parked it and the main entrance, with Angie in tow. As much as I love being Mount Evor’s emissary to Portugal, coming home to Arrago fills my heart with unique joy.
As I walk, I admire the audacity with which the eighteenth-century dukes of Arrago gave their impregnable mountain stronghold a feel of grace and refinement. Where to begin? The purity of the lines and the height of the windows of the new façade… The creamy stone and the slim, almost decorative, turrets… The geometric formality of the manicured gardens and the classical symmetry of it all…
In truth, the many additions, extensions and remodels by the dukes over the years have served one purpose, and one purpose alone. That noble purpose was to impress upon every citizen of Mount Evor that the dukes of Arrago had more money and class than the sovereigns entrenched in their rustic Château des Neiges.
I run up the grand staircase that leads to the main entrance. There the real bosses of Falcon’s Nest—its butler and housekeeper, happily married since… er, forever—welcome me. Both have aged since my last visit.How is that possible?
“My lord, what a pleasure it is to see you again!” Jacques, the butler, bows ceremoniously.
His wife Serafina dabs her eyes.
“It’s been only six months,” I say.
“Seven, my lord,” she argues.
While Angie and Rudy exchange greetings with the château staff, I gaze at the old girl. Despite her busy work schedule, Serafina spent more time playing with me as a little boy—a sad little boy desperately lonely in this huge house—than my parents, grandparents, and nannies combined. Inwardly, Serafina hasn’t changed since those days. Outwardly, on the other hand…
To silence the pinching sensation in my chest, I spread my arms wide. “Won’t you give me a hug?”
Her wrinkled face expands into a grin as she throws her skinny arms around me.
“How are the kids and grandkids?” I ask her.
“Thank you, my lord,” Jacques replies in her stead. “Everybody’s fine.”
That’s all he ever says about their offspring, convinced that sharing more would be inappropriate. If I want more information, I’ll have to ask Serafina again later when her tight-lipped husband isn’t around.
When she draws away, the three of us stride to the main interior staircase. Angie trots behind us, while Rudy helps one of the servants carry our luggage.
“His Grace is in his office, expecting you,” Jacques says. “Would you like to see him at once? Or would you prefer to shower and change first?”
We stop at the base of the staircase.
“Is the duke all right?” I ask.
“Quite all right, my lord.”
I nod, relieved. “And my parents?”
“The marchioness is well,” Jacques glances at his wife. “She’ll come to see you as soon as her lady’s maid locates her and lets her know you’ve arrived.”
For as long as I remember, Mother has been disappearing on her maid, on Father, and on me. Typically, she leaves her phone in her office or boudoir and settles with a book in one of the remote salons. As a grown man, I understand and respect her greater-than-the-norm need for privacy. As a child, it made me feel unloved.
“And my father?” I ask.
“The marquess…” Jacques swallows nervously. “He’s…”
“Still hungover from last night’s whiskey and already tipsy after the half bottle of wine he downed with lunch,” I utter the words Jacques can never get out.
“Resting in his chambers,” he says. “Would you like me—”
I gesture, no. “I’ll see him at dinner. Take me to the duke.”
On the first landing we turn right.
“What’s this?” I point at the stain on the faux-marble wall.
“We had a leak in one of the first-floor bathrooms,” Serafina explains. “It damaged the paint on this wall.”
