3. Harringford Manor

CHAPTER 3

Harringford Manor

Zain

The journey took close to two hours. The SUV ate up the miles once we left the city behind, heading north to Rhinebeck on the State Thruway. We turned away from the town and headed east into the hills, leaving the Hudson River behind us.

I looked back at the river. It was a silly thought, but losing sight of it severed the last connection to my home. The river was so close to our shop that there was rarely a day I didn’t walk along its eastern bank. Here, much further north, I imagined tossing a message in a bottle that would eventually reach Hudson Burrow, my family, the friends I never truly let be my friends, even when they offered.

The road narrowed as we left the populated part of the land behind us.

Dominic never once looked up from the screen of his slim, elegant laptop. He typed, clicked, and gritted his teeth audibly but never said a word. Not that he owed me a conversation. I imagined he would send me to a butler or gardener or cook as soon as we were at the house.

Occasionally, I checked the maps on my phone to see where we were. And when we turned onto Cedar Heights Road, a narrow road with no sidewalks or even space for two cars to pass one another comfortably, what surrounded us was pure nature. The windswept hills were still vibrant and green, although the trees were bare, and the brown, orange, and red leaves were piled beneath them. Winter was well on its way to these wet and foggy lands.

Even before we reached it, I spotted what was unmistakably Harringford Manor on the satellite view. Within a few minutes, the SUV abandoned Cedar Heights Road and glided up a cobblestone driveway to iron-wrought gates. The gates opened automatically, and I spotted the long limestone wall extending from the gates, ivy covering most of it like some abandoned fantasy castle. Once we were on Dominic’s estate, the gates slowly shut behind us, and the cobblestone path snaked toward the hilltop, where his mansion dominated the view.

It was a sprawling Beaux-Arts mansion with a limestone exterior, countless arched windows, a slate roof adorned with dormer windows, and copper-topped turrets. The facade was decorated with intricate stone carvings, and the elevated first-story entrance was flanked by grand columns towering at the top of long stone stairs. A marble fountain of carved mythological sea creatures didn’t pump water, but it stood out in front of the main stairs.

The SUV slowed down once it rounded the fountain.

“You will go with Orwell,” Dominic informed me.

“Of course,” I said, my voice airy. My eyes were wide as I gazed out at the sprawling landscape. The limewashed structure was imposing by all means, but I grew up surrounded by skyscrapers. The true thing of beauty was the lawn that extended seemingly forever. Trim bushes, hedges, and flower beds were scattered around the land, and a thick forest lay in the distance as well as behind the mansion.

Dominic Blackthorne got out of the car and likely out of most of my daily life. While I was to stay at his house, with unspecified rules for an unspecified amount of time—not to mention the lack of details about the work I would do—I had no expectations of seeing him unless I screwed up miserably.

The SUV glided along the bumpy cobblestones and around the house. In the back, there were garages. No doubt, each housed a luxury car in Dominic’s private collection. The visceral dislike it provoked in my body was instant, but it was tinged with something else. Something I couldn’t name or recognize. This other feeling had been present since he first entered our little store. It wasn’t fear; I was well enough afraid of Dominic that I knew this sliver of a sensation had nothing to do with it. This was different, but it was just as disconcerting.

Orwell killed the engine once he parked the SUV inside the garage, and I hopped out. The walls were close to the SUV on all sides, and tools for maintenance were sorted neatly all around. I was suddenly very curious about taking a look at the other garages, but it was a boyish urge I suppressed instantly.

“This way, sir,” Orwell said as he walked out of the garage.

“Um, Zain is alright,” I said.

Orwell nodded. “If you’re sure. Zain.” He turned away from me, a slight expression of surprise still on his face, and led the way to the back entrance. As we climbed down to the basement level, I had a very vivid thought of Edwardian England. What the hell am I supposed to do here? Luckily, Orwell didn’t wear the full livery of a British manservant but a very nicely tailored pair of black pants, a crisp light blue shirt, and a suit jacket he carried over his arm. We were, I reminded myself, still in the twenty-first century.

The inside of the basement failed to reassure me of that fleeting thought. It looked like a dining room for servants, long out of use. The house, which must have been built toward the end of the Gilded Age, was fit for a museum. We passed through the basement quarters and climbed the stairs twice before a door led us into the grandest hallway I had ever seen.

“The East Wing,” Orwell said softly. “This is where your apartment will be.”

Once he shut the door, the wall panel clicked into place as if it had never been there. It reminded me of a fantasy portal opening out of thin air and closing when our heroes are in the greatest peril.

The wall panels were made of dark brown wood along the lower third and bloodred along the upper two-thirds. My right side was lined with doors, while on my left side, the wall was filled with paintings of people long gone. We walked until we reached the middle of the lengthy hallway, and a grand staircase opened to my left, then a long balustrade for those wishing to observe the entrance from above, and yet another staircase after that.

Orwell didn’t lead me there but opened the door that faced the nearer stairs, leading me into a huge bedroom. It was, like all else in this haunted place, frozen in time. The door opened to a sitting area. A small coffee table was straight ahead, flanked by mirrored sofas and armchairs. There was a reading chair pushed into the far left corner, and a vintage floor lamp rose high and curved over the chair, with a footstool positioned right in front. A blanket was draped over one armrest of the reading chair. To the right of the chair was a desk with plenty of natural light pouring through the tall, arched windows and an office chair of a more modern design. Then, the bed. Two nightstands flanked it, and a vast, silk canopy hung over it. Silk drapes were tied to the bedposts. The linens were not as vintage as the rest of the furniture, crisp and dark with floral patterns; they seemed brand-new, and the lavender fabric softener was strong in the room. To my immediate right was a dresser, followed by a door to the right of the nightstand.

“A wardrobe,” said Orwell, showing me what lay beyond the door. It was a proper room, with shelves and hangers and sliding doors installed to keep the dust out of the clothes. The hardwood floor was covered with a round cream carpet, and there were two matching ottomans and a marble bust of Augustus for reasons I could not discern. Beyond the so-called wardrobe that was larger than the room my three siblings and I shared back home was a modern, elegant bathroom complete with a walk-in shower, bathtub, massive mirror above the sink, plenty of free surfaces, and a very natural, well-lit feel to it.

“Wow,” I mouthed, exhaling with a mixture of surprise and sheer horror that someone lived like this all alone in the countryside. This room could fit a small family. “Do all employees get rooms like this?” I asked.

Orwell’s impressive eyebrows rose on his face. “No, sir.” He blinked and smiled. “Zain.” After a pause, he elaborated. “Most employees come from the surrounding area and live in their own homes.”

“But some live here,” I concluded.

“They do,” Orwell said. “But not in such lavish apartments. Much too hard to maintain.” He wore a genuine smile that creased his long, hard face. He struck me as a man with standards so high that nobody was excellent at anything but also as kind enough to let people’s best be enough.

As he made a move toward the door, I licked my lips. “What should I do, then?”

“Mr. Blackthorne hasn’t given me any specific instructions,” Orwell replied. “I would say it’s best to wait for a word from him before doing anything.”

He’d said it warmly enough as he left, but it sent a chill down my spine. Before doing anything? Did that mean I shouldn’t just pick up a pair of gardening scissors and trim the rosebushes? Or did it mean I should stay in my room—apartment, as Orwell had called it—until the great Mr. Blackthorne decided what to do with me?

I walked around the room, opened my backpack, and scattered my books around the bed. The many pillows on the bed invited me to take a break, but I hadn’t taken a noon break in years, and I wouldn’t become lazy now.

So I scanned through my books and set them on the desk in three piles. One was the particularly salacious pile I definitely didn’t want anyone to find. It involved a great deal of thoroughly described unspeakable things men did to other men. I stashed that pile under the reading chair and draped the blanket over the armrest further down to conceal the books. The second pile was made up of my comfort reads: a wild story of a prince and the president’s son, the tragedy of Patroclus, who loved Achilles, and a World War II drama by Mary Renault. These were the books I could pick up whenever I needed to lose myself in a story, happy or sad. I left them on the small round table by the reading chair. And the third pile was made of books I hadn’t read yet, hoping I would have time to go through them here. It was an eclectic bunch, ranging from mystery to historicals, science fiction and fantasy, a pinch of romance, and a fine serving of horror. Nine novels weren’t nearly enough to keep me entertained for months, but I expected I’d be allowed to go back home for visits and book hauls.

Right now, I felt like getting stabbed in my heart by Patroclus’ love for Achilles, so I sat down in the reading chair, feeling guilty that my “work” here was so much more pleasurable than what my family had back home. I sent my mother a message that everything was going well, then lost myself in the beautiful prose.

When I stirred, it was dusky dark.

I had fallen asleep in the cozy chair and lost half a day.

The knock on my door startled me, and I realized I had been dreaming of door-knocking, possibly because someone’s patience was running short on the other side.

“Come in,” I called.

The door opened, and Orwell appeared with a pool of light pouring in from behind him. “Mr. Blackthorne would like to invite you to dine with him.”

I choked and hurriedly cleared my throat. “What? Now?”

“Oh, no, not right away,” Orwell said. “The dinner is Harringford is served at eight.”

“Um, okay,” I said.

Orwell nodded with pleasure and walked out again, shutting the door behind him. That was when I remembered I should have asked where . This house probably had twenty grand dining rooms. Besides, why would he want my company while eating? That was an oddly intimate time to have me around. I hadn’t exactly hidden my dislike and wasn’t about to start.

Even so, I stretched, sauntered into the bathroom, and had the greatest shower of my life by sheer accident. Standing in the spacious walk-in shower with a rain showerhead pouring water over me at a perfect temperature—I didn’t know how to describe it, but I sure recognized it when it splashed my bare skin—was a liberating feeling. In fact, I caught myself singing by the time I was done.

I put on a pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt. It wasn’t fine-dining attire, but nobody had told me he lived like a noble.

At ten minutes to eight, there was another knock on my door. They didn’t want me nosing through the many dining rooms until I stumbled into the right one. Orwell glanced at me only once and concealed his surprise. He led the way down the stairs, through the grand entrance hall, to the back of the house, and into a snug dining room. Lights were subdued around the dining room, except for the chandelier above the dining table.

On the far side, looking out the window at the night-covered land, Dominic Blackthorne stood still. He turned around at the sound of our footsteps. “Well,” he said, his gaze sliding over my poor choice of clothes. He wore a white shirt, dark blue pants, and a silver wristwatch. His beard and mustache were trimmed and oiled, giving him a sharp, elegant look. “Should we sit?”

The table was clad in white cloth, piled with covered dishes, offering only two plates. Dominic’s plate was at the head of the table, mine to his immediate right, so I walked over and sat down.

“Wine?” Dominic asked, pointing to the decanter.

Orwell moved to lift it.

“We can manage,” Dominic said in a tone I couldn’t read. It was not rude, yet it held no warmth or emotion I could identify.

Orwell acknowledged that and disappeared from the dining room.

“So?” Dominic asked.

“I don’t drink,” I said, teeth closing around my lower lip before I could stop myself. Dominic’s back was straight, his face drawn tight with discomfort he couldn’t seem to shake off. “Water?” I suggested.

“Of course,” Dominic said. He lifted another pitcher and poured me a glass of water.

“This is…” I hesitated, not sure how to put it.

“Not what you expected,” Dominic finished for me. “I’ve been thinking about what you did.”

“What did I do?” I asked, lifting my glass of water to my lips and taking a long sip. The water was cold and delicious.

Dominic studied me for several long heartbeats. He uncovered one of the dishes, which was a Lebanese chicken on rice with dips from my father’s country. I wondered if Dominic had requested this or if the cook thought it would be appropriate. “I hope your apartment is good enough.”

“Good enough?” I asked, unable to stop myself.

“Is something wrong?” Dominic asked, raising one perfect black eyebrow to emphasize his confusion.

A million questions swirled around me. “It’s just that…I don’t know what I’m doing here,” I said. “The room you gave me is bigger than any I’ve ever had. I napped all day. And now we’re dining together.”

“It’s not what you expected,” Dominic said.

“No,” I said. “Not even a little.”

“What did you expect?” he asked, serving himself a pita bread and several dips.

I copied him and piled my plate with dips and bread. “I dunno,” I admitted. “To polish your shoes.”

“Orwell does that,” Dominic said, missing the irony completely.

A snort ripped out of me.

“Is my way of life funny to you?” Dominic asked pointedly.

“This is weird,” I said as bluntly as I could. “Why am I having dinner with you?”

“Why shouldn’t you? Is it a problem?” Dominic asked.

“No,” I said, unsure how to put it. After a moment of silence, I asked, “Do your other servants dine with you?”

Dominic shook his head.

“Why me, then?” I asked.

“For one thing, we need to discuss your role here,” Dominic said matter-of-factly. “You also happen to entertain me.”

“Like a clown,” I said flatly.

“If you have to be cynical about it, yes,” Dominic said, meeting my gaze.

I swallowed. His eyes were like burning ice, freezing everything they touched. My hand found my glass, and I distracted myself by drinking water. By the time I was finished, Dominic was looking at his plate again.

“My household is well managed,” he spoke as if we hadn’t just dueled a little. “Orwell is in charge of Harringford Manor, and I wouldn’t hand him an inexperienced employee for the sake of the last seven years he had spent with me.”

“Ah, nice,” I said spitefully, feeling more like a petulant child than ever before.

“So you will work with me,” Dominic said.

I choked on a bit of pita bread with spicy pepper and roasted walnut dip. “What?”

Dominic met my gaze with steadfast determination. “Orwell looked up your record. You took Business Administration in college, you graduated with high marks, and you promised to work for your father’s debt. So here it is.” Dominic lifted a folder from the seat of the chair to his left and set it between us. “I prefer a structured relationship to an improvised one. You may take your time to read the contract and raise any concerns you have in the morning. As for your duties, they will revolve around helping me organize the details for my new ventures.”

“I’m going to be your assistant,” I said in a dazed tone.

“Sort of,” Dominic said.

“Don’t you have a platoon of people organizing your ventures?” I asked.

“The latest one is a…passion project,” Dominic said diplomatically.

“I’m struggling to imagine you as a passionate person,” I said without thinking.

Dominic’s lips pressed together for a moment. “You wouldn’t be the first person to think that.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmured.

“Don’t think about it,” he said, directing his attention to the chicken thigh and picking up spoonfuls of rice, prepared just like my grandmother had when we visited four years ago.

“I’m just surprised,” I admitted. “And confused.”

“What for?” he asked, paying more attention to his food than me.

I weighed my words and decided that holding back gained me nothing. “We didn’t meet under the best circumstances. Having me assist you with business matters is a huge leap of faith on the sort of skill and knowledge I might as well not have.”

“I don’t doubt you’ll be up to the task,” Dominic said. “It’s much less glamorous than you imagine. Besides, it’s a starting point.” He glanced at me briefly. It was so quick that I might have imagined the softness in his look. The cool, hard exterior returned in no time. “Unless you would rather spend your life selling turmeric.”

My face flushed with heat. “It’s a family business.”

Dominic pressed his lips together and ate in silence. Part of me thought he was embarrassed, avoiding my gaze and focusing on food. It was the curious, imaginative part of me that had nothing to do with reality. Dominic clearly thought my father’s business was worth little.

After dinner, Dominic offered to sit together in the sitting room. We passed through a different door from the one where I had entered and found ourselves in a dimly lit living room fit for a noble. Long, comfortable sofas were scattered around coffee tables. There was a pool table with balls forming a triangle and no marks of use.

I wondered if I should talk to him. I wondered if he expected me to speak and entertain him. There was nothing wrong with being entertaining, but it felt almost humiliating to think that that was why he wanted me around.

Instead of talking, I sat on the edge of a sofa while Dominic sat in a worn-out armchair. My hands fiddled with the folder. I opened it, glanced through the contract, and closed it.

“A problem?” Dominic asked.

“No. Not a problem. It’s…very thorough,” I said.

“I don’t like uncertainty and vagueness. Of course, what you do from four in the afternoon and on weekends is up to you. The forest is not so charming this time of year, but there are walking trails you might enjoy.” He drank whiskey from a small glass.

When I looked at him, I noticed that the top button of his white shirt was undone. I hadn’t looked at him too much throughout dinner, but we weren’t sitting so close now, and my gazes weren’t so noticeable. The V-line formed by the open collar revealed smooth, taut skin, and the snugness of the shirt around his chest and shoulders made me think he was in very good shape.

As if reading my mind, he said, “There is a gym you can use. Not all of the house is open throughout the year, but the gym will be.”

I found myself feeling ever so slightly grateful. It was a sensation I squashed instantly, reminding myself that I was here because he was a ruthless lender. Yes, the job would give me the experience necessary to start a career if a career was something I wanted to start. And the living quarters were better than I’d ever imagined. And the food my grandmother would have made was a nice touch, too. Still, that didn’t make Dominic Blackthorne any less of a cruel billionaire than he had been three days ago.

“Am I allowed to leave?” I asked.

Dominic looked at me like I had asked something that had never crossed his mind. Why would you want to leave? But I refused to read the answer from his expression. So I waited. “You will have to coordinate it with Orwell.”

I nodded. After a while, the silence grew too thick again. “And this passion project, what is it?”

Dominic inhaled through his perfect, straight nose and held his breath, looking into my eyes. “I acquired a company,” he said. “And I would like to maximize the return on that investment.”

I frowned. “I’m sure you have a dozen seasoned businesspeople who could do that better.”

“It’s not a monetary return I’m hoping for,” Dominic said.

That only deepened my frown.

He licked his lips, an action so surprisingly sensitive that my mind faltered for a moment. “Don’t let me be misunderstood, but you have a very forward approach to people. You seem shy until the moment you speak. There’s anger in you.”

“Er…” I sealed my lips as a protest welled in me.

Dominic leaned in. “I could use it,” he said. “It’s an odd feeling because it sparks so much creativity at times. And I would like to get creative in this endeavor.”

“I don’t think I understand,” I said carefully.

Dominic leaned back and fingered the edge of his glass. “I took over a company from three men I once knew. It hurt their pride, but I’m not satisfied yet. I want them to hurt.”

I shook my head. “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”

“It’s my company,” Dominic insisted. “I can do with it whatever I want. And I happen to want a thorough audit. I want to see every mistake, every fuckup, blunder, and miscalculation, every recorded burp, and every single case of rudeness, harassment, or cover-up neatly organized, categorized, and labeled. I want those men’s names to be synonymous with failure. For a start.”

“A revenge,” I said. There was that familiar tickle of fear in the depths of my heart, but another feeling lurked in the shadows, and I couldn’t grasp it.

“If you want to put it poetically,” Dominic agreed.

“Why me?” I asked again.

“Why not?” Dominic replied. He didn’t want to tell me. He didn’t want to say it, so it left me in an impossible situation. The cards were mostly on the table. Whatever it was, it wasn’t illegal to want to smear someone’s name if they had done something wrong. And this was a career-forging position. Assisting a billionaire, no matter how ruthless, was much higher up the ladder than reading Walt Whitman behind the cash register.

When neither of us said anything for a little while, Dominic finished his whiskey. “Think about it,” he said. “And read the contract before you sign it.”

He stood, smoothed his pants, and walked out of the sitting room.

The scent of pine and the first winter snow lingered in the room, tickling this sensation of sheer excitement that had no right to be present in me.

He was terrible. Terrible and exciting in a way I hadn’t considered before.