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I collect my large lined notepad from its place in the second drawer, before searching for a pen. I’m surprised to find some new Mont Blanc pens sitting in the velvet divider in the top drawer, and as I pick one up, I see etching on it. When I pull it closer, I can make out my own name, in cursive writing. On the other side of the divider are more pens; I turn one over within its spot and see Alexander’s name engraved in the same cursive script. Warmth blooms in my chest, but I stamp it out immediately—gone are any feelings I once had for this man who now ignores me.
I stalk out of the room in search of the incredible Claude Monet piece,Water Lilies, which is hanging in the library I frequent. I have no idea where he got this painting from, as the last time I researched it, it was hanging on the walls of The Met in New York. I drop my notepad and pen onto the wing chair, before dragging it around into position directly in front of the piece of art. I sink into the armchair and cross my legs, then I open my notepad and start my handwritten blog.
“Miss Rebecca, can you hear me?” Thelma calls from beside me.
“Hmmm?” I murmur back.
“I was wondering if you would like some tea and fresh shortbread while you’re working?” She moves in with a silver tray in hand, before placing it on a table nearby. When she bends to drags a small side table closer to my chair, I get up to help her, and ask, “How did you know I was working?”
“I heard you mumbling when I was outside, describing this piece of artwork you’re looking at.” She nods at the painting. “And you have mentioned before that you write articles on art, so I put two and two together,” she states with a shrug.
“It doesn’t matter anyway; Alexander will never allow me to post it. I’m just trying to get a sense of normality back. I can’t just sit around the house all day doing nothing. It’s not in me to just relax. I’m the kind of person who likes to be busy doing something fulfilling. I’m used to travelling constantly, being stuck in this house is sending me around the bend” I pause, looking down at my paper in front of me. I’ve already filled twelve pages with my sloppy handwriting.
“I’m going to talk to Mr. Black for you, to see if we can’t get your blog back up and running.”
I smile up at the woman who is the closest thing I have to a friend in my new life here in England. “Thank you, Thelma, but he won’t allow me to use the internet.”
“Perhaps not, but maybe you can write it all down so all you have to do is upload it.” Her kind smile is a welcome sight.
“I appreciate the offer, and I am actually going to type this up on the typewriter in my office and leave it for him to see. Hopefully, he might be ready to let me connect with the outside world again, since I’ve been here for several months now.” I hope she will tell me exactly how long I have been here, since I haven’t been able to keep count myself.
“Indeed, the past five months with you have been very enjoyable for me. I have loved having another woman about the house to keep me company. I will speak to him for you too.” Thelma’s answer doesn’t surprise me. Five months is definitely plausible, especially when his last two trips away were two-week stints, and the other times he has been gone were for a week here or four days there.
“Do you want to join me for tea?” I ask
“It’s okay, honey, I best be getting back downstairs. Mr. Black returns later this afternoon and I need to start preparing dinner.” And with the conversation now complete, she leaves the room and I’m once again completely alone. This is the first time he has returned since I overheard his conversation with Harold. And that was around two months ago.
After finishing my tea and biscuits, I leave my things on the chair facing the Monet and wander back to my room, all the while thinking about a certain man who I now live with. The fact that Alexander will be home tonight doesn’t change anything. If there is one thing I have come to know about Alexander Black, it’s that he is as cold as ice when he wants to be. When he decides he wants to freeze people out, he does it immediately, and unfortunately that list of people now includes me.
When I first came to be here, I was treated quite well. I was given the run of the house, allowed to do pretty much whatever I wanted. The only exceptions were telephone calls and internet use.
He gave me everything else I could ever want. We had dinner together and hung out with each other often, we even shared a couple of hot-as-hell kisses that could have set the forest outside his home on fire. Then he changed a couple weeks into our new living arrangement. He became cold toward me, leaving rooms when I entered, and never letting me close enough to touch him. I couldn’t understand why he would be like this. It was obvious that our chemistry was off the damn charts and yet he refused to give in to it.
I don’t care that he feels he is doing this out of a warped sense of protecting me, because now I’m being treated like I don’t even exist, and I’m done. I’m done sitting around and just pretending it is all okay. I’m sick of believing my parents willingly gave me to this man as payment of some debt. I’m done with trusting this is where my life should be, and sharing it with someone who acts like I don’t even exist.
So, I decide it is time to put into action the plan I formulated when I first arrived. I have my bag packed, and in my heart, I know it is time. So tonight when I go down for dinner and expect to dine alone, like I have done so, every night for the past two and a half months, I am surprised to find Alexander in the dining room waiting for me.
“Good evening, Rebecca.” His gravelly, masculine voice calls to a part of me that has been dormant for so long.
“Hello,” I reply, tamping it all down and instead concentrating on the shock that he’s not dining in his own quarters as he has whenever he’s been home.
He stands up from his place at the table, then walks around and pulls out the seat opposite his. “I thought we might have dinner together tonight. Would you care to join me?”
I take the seat he has offered, and he scoots me in. “Sure.”
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around much lately,” he apologizes,
“That’s fine, I haven’t really noticed your absence,” I lie.
His eyebrows rise slightly, indicating he doesn’t believe me. “I hope you haven’t been too lonely. Has Thelma been looking after you?”
“I’m not a child, Alexander, I don’t need looking after.”
“I didn’t mean it like that. I—”
I cut him off before he can finish. “It’s fine. Do what you need to do. I’ll just live my incredibly boring life here, by myself, while you get to enjoy the world outside this estate. Tell me, what is happening in the life of the great Alexander Black?” I reach over and pour myself a glass of water before downing it all in one gulp.
“Are you okay, Rebecca? You don’t seem yourself,” he asks, looking directly at me. I can’t let his eyes search my soul; he tends to see things I don’t want him to.
