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I let that go (for now) as well.
So no tour, unless Richard decided to endure our presence for the hours it would take to show us his house. Then again, if he did that, we wouldn’t have time to dress for dinner. Or, if it was as it seemed to be, for the few minutes it’d take to show us the small portions of his house we were allowed to inhabit.
“Daniel’s lovely,” Portia said softly.
He better be, I let my expression say for me.
The door opened and two women wearing dove-gray dresses with mandarin collars, white cuffs on the short sleeves and sensible black flats, came in bearing our tea on silver trays.
The tea service, I’d look up later and find was “Pearl” Nymphenburg, which was used exclusively by Bavarian royalty for a century.
But of course.
No scones and cream, instead, lifeless finger sandwiches and painstakingly decorated but completely tasteless petite fours that I could make better blindfolded.
During tea, I didn’t say the many things I wanted to say or ask any of the myriad questions on my mind, because both my sister and stepmother seemed on pins and needles. They both needed to calm down.
And then I’d get into it.
But it would seem the shiver that went down my spine when we passed the gate, not to mention that bolt of electricity when I walked in, were an indication of intuition I didn’t know I had until then.
And that same intuition was telling me it wasn’t going to get any better.
But it could get worse.
I just didn’t know at that time it was going to.
Or how bad it was going to be.
Three
THE WINE ROOM
My bedroom was a feminine extravaganza in the colors of cream, carnation pink and deep, rosy red.
It was mammoth. It was spotless. It had a bed with four posts that was so tall, I had to climb into it using the step beside it, and heavy, highly embellished but workable curtains. The room also had a seating area complete with a puffy, inviting couch in front of the pink marbled fireplace, and a delicate writing desk in the corner.
And the en suite was a dream.
If I were in a hotel, I’d be in seventh heaven, wouldn’t leave the room for the entire week, and instead I’d read a half dozen books, take daily baths, and drink nothing but champagne from breakfast until I fell asleep.
I wasn’t in a hotel, and I didn’t enjoy the idea of liking the choice that was made for me, because this room wasn’t insulting. It was the belated welcome Lou and I should have had when we arrived.
However, the weird part was that an hour ago, a maid had knocked on the door and asked if I needed any help dressing, “Or with your makeup and hair, Miss Ryan?”
Flabbergasted, hopefully politely, I’d declined.
One could take that as a very nice offering from the Alcotts, but who had lady’s maids anymore?
Stylists for special events, sure.
Someone to help you do your hair for dinner at home? No.
But I was ready and it wasn’t time to go down yet, so I grabbed my phone and texted Lou.
Can I come over?
It took mere seconds before she returned, Sure!
