The Housekeeper's Daughter. Christine Flynn
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focus was simply on getting her married.
The way her mother kept pushing, it was almost as if she was afraid Scott would back out on Addie if she didn’t commit to a date soon. When her mother had said before that a long engagement wasn’t necessary, what she’d really meant was that a long engagement could be broken.
He has a good job, she reminded her at every opportunity. And he’s good to you. That’s as good as it gets, Addie. A man like that won’t wait around forever.
It had done Addie no good to point out that her mom would have to move to the main house once Addie quit her job there. Her mom had said that after so long she was ready to move, anyway. The cottage wasn’t the same without Tom, and she’d be closer to her work.
Before her mom could start in on any of her arguments again, Addie turned with the artfully arranged bouquet, set it on the table where the servants ate and grabbed the towels.
“Tell me where these go and what else you want me to do.”
Oblivious to the impact of her comments, Rose headed for the cabinet-and drawer-lined hall between the kitchen and the laundry.
“You can take those up to Marie in the family wing,” she continued while Olivia walked over to stick her nose into the blooms. “She’s trying to make some order out of the bedrooms. I’ll do the same in the guest wing after I help Ina down here.”
Pulling out a plastic basket loaded with rags and furniture polish, she handed it to Addie and stuffed in a plastic bag for trash. “Ina is running the vacuum in the living room and dining room and straightening both. If you’ll bring in the glasses and ashtrays from the library and straighten up in there, we should be finished well before people start trickling back in.
“And, Addie,” she said, checking over the fresh jeans and long-sleeved burgundy T-shirt she’d changed into, “when you’re finished, go out the front door. People will be milling around out back by then.”
Addie thought nothing of the reminder to remain out of sight. She’d heard so many similar requests over the years that she simply did it automatically, slipping around like a small ghost whenever family or guests were near.
She moved that way now as she used the butler’s door that led into the huge marble foyer and hurried up the nearest side of the curving, chandelier-lit double staircase to leave the towels on the antique sideboard at the top of it. She didn’t know which of the rooms Marie was in, but her mom or the new maid couldn’t miss seeing them there.
She barely glanced at the gilt-framed landscape hanging above the sideboard, or the brass sconces flanking the enormous work of art. Anxious to escape the nagging sense that she didn’t belong there, she hurried right back down the stairs, her footsteps soundless on the thick burgundy runner, and headed across the spoke pattern in the marble tiles that radiated from beneath the foyer’s round entry table.
She had no idea which rooms were whose upstairs. Except to drop off the towels just now, she’d never set foot up there before. She knew several of the rooms downstairs, though. As her dad had done before her, she brought in the garlands for the fireplace mantels every December.
The monotonous hum of the vacuum cleaner grew louder as she passed the enormous living room with its groupings of gold damask sofas and chairs and butter-colored faille walls. She kept going, the hum receding, as marble floor gave way to a Persian hall runner, and walked through a set of carved mahogany doors.
The lingering scent of expensive cigars mingled with more expensive leather, old books and lemon oil. Empty cocktail glasses and soda cans occupied end tables and the coffee table across from the open television armoire.
Intent on getting in, getting the job done and getting out, she left her basket on the round game table, opened the wide floor-to-ceiling French doors to let in some air and turned to pick up pieces of a children’s game from the floor.
Applause filtered through the open doors. Moments later the lilting strains of “Ode to Joy” drifted inside.
They were playing the recessional.
Addie sat back on her heels. It wasn’t just being where she didn’t belong that made her feel especially uneasy tonight. It was knowing that her mom was probably right. Scott was a good man. He wouldn’t want to wait forever.
He wanted to marry her now. He’d told her so when he’d proposed three weeks ago. He’d mentioned it again when she’d seen him the night before last. Though her mother didn’t know, Scott definitely did not want to wait until she graduated. He wanted to help her through school himself.
She didn’t know why she hesitated to set a date.
Setting a handful of plastic game pieces on the table, she stepped through the doors and onto the curved balcony. Down by the reflecting pool with its garland-wrapped Roman columns and cascades of white flowers, she could clearly see the hundreds of gowned and tuxedoed guests. They occupied row upon row of white chairs perfectly angled to have caught the sunset.
Now, in the fading twilight, the glow of hurricane candles lit the aisle, adding to the radiance of the bride as she and her groom moved down the length of white, petal-strewn carpet. A dozen attendants in as many shades of lavender followed the trailing swath of white gown and veil, along with the beaming parents and guests a few moments later.
Two dozen waiters in white dinner jackets funneled from the gazebo, bearing silver trays of champagne to carry into the elegant crowd. The string quartet continued to play, the sounds lovely and classical. The tiny white lights the florists had strung began to twinkle everywhere.
Addie stepped closer to the railing. It didn’t matter that she was apparently suffering bridal jitters herself, the scene was magical.
She would never know such a wedding. Even if she’d had the means to create the fairy tale, she couldn’t imagine being in front of that many people. Or having to converse with them afterward. Her knees would freeze, her tongue would tie and she would forget everything she ever knew about anything of any interest at all.
The scene absorbed her, drew her closer—and kept her from wondering why she felt more and more trapped.
She could see Gabe on the fringes of the milling assembly. He shook the hand of an older gentleman, then gallantly kissed the hand of the gray-haired matron with him. He moved on, clapping another guest on the back, buzzing a kiss across the cheek of a lady wrapped in a gold lamé stole. Two men came up to him, offering their hands as if to introduce themselves. With his back to her, she couldn’t see what he did, but she knew he would have accepted their handshakes, made them feel welcome and at ease. He had a gift for that. He would draw them out, listen to what they had to say. He had a gift for that, as well. She knew, because he’d done it so very often with her.
He would have been easy to pick out of nearly any crowd. He stood taller than the rest, his presence more powerful, more commanding somehow. He definitely commanded her attention in the moments before he turned and his glance swept the empty space behind him.
As if he knew he was being watched, his glance searched the house a moment before he started to turn back. As he did, his glance moved up.
Her heart gave an odd little jerk when he seemed to notice her. For several unnerving heartbeats, he stared at where she stood half-hidden in the shadows.
The dim lighting made it impossible to clearly see his expression. Still, remembering how unhappy he’d seemed with her, he managed to knot the nerves in her stomach once more before a woman in a strapless gown approached him with another gentleman and he turned to take two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter.
Stepping back into the shadows, she turned to do what she should have been doing all along. No good could come from being idle. Her mother had drilled that into her from the time she’d entered school. Her father had taught her that it was all right for a person to not be doing something so long as they were using that time to recharge their batteries with nature, a long walk or a good book.
All she’d been doing was wasting time.
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