1 Chapter 1
1
This was not the time to have anything dying in the house. To Rich, the wilted flowers in the vase desecrated the table and represented love lost. He caught Rosie’s gaze and gave the arrangement a single nod. To his relief, she received the message and exchanged the glass jar with a jug of orange juice fast as a magician. If his mother saw, she said not a word. Good.
The spectre of death made the air grow heavy and unpleasant; suffocating, murderous to the appetite. A selfish, unwelcome thought came to mind: if his father had passed before he signed the final accounts, it complicated matters.
No point worrying; simply another problem for him to add to a long list. In the event it proved necessary, he would call the office as soon as nine o’clock rolled around, but better first to check the pile of paperwork through which he still needed to wade. Due to bereavement and procrastination, the workload grew, but not one folder accompanied him to breakfast by reason of avoiding his mother’s wrath.
“Your French toast.”
Rosie’s voice brought Rich back to the more urgent topic of food as she placed a plate in front of him on the table. Ahhh…As much as he adored the woman’s cooking, the aroma of the dark, fresh brew of most-excellent coffee she poured into a cup at his side captured his interest more. A suppressed yawn strained his jaw—he required caffeine. When she set the coffee pot back on its stand, he summoned enough energy to express his gratitude. “Thanks for going to the trouble.”
“No problem, Rich.”
He returned Rosie’s smile, caught sight of his mother’s face, and froze in the brittle glaze of an icystare. What annoyed the matriarch this time? The too-familiar expression she pulled always made him want to be anywhere but near her.
Enough seconds passed for him to reach for the milk before truth dawned. The ice queen’s dagger-like shards didn’t spear in his direction. The shredding gaze targeted Rosie. His mother’s narrowed eyes and pinched lips spoke of her indecision to speak. Her ensuing complaint shattered his hope for a convivial meal.
“We use full Christian names in this house, Rosamund.”
Tired of such shit, Rich opened his mouth to object, but not a single word issued. He sipped his drink while he sought an appropriate remark, but nothing materialised as he put down the cup. The steam from the Java heated his skin to an uncomfortable degree by the time he took a finger from the rim.
His mother’s remark appeared to stump Rosie. “Y-Yes…Ruby. My apologies, Richard.” The woman’s dark gaze flicked his way, right eye—obscured from his mother’s view by the angle of Rosie’s face—winked. “Will that be everything?”
“Yes, thank you, Rosie.” Rich displayed an over-the-top show of teeth, ignoring his mother’s sigh.
“She’s called Rosamund,” his mother admonished when Rosie took her leave. “Don’t encourage her.”
“Because the staff should understand their place.”
“Not at all. We let them use our first names. What more do you want?”
The effort of biting back a retort hurt, but he felt too tired to voice his opinions. What to say? No wayto explain why he preferred Rosie’s company, or his wish to eat in the kitchen with her. Otherwise, he preferred the smaller space so often referred to as the breakfast nook. He didn’t eat there because of his mother’s objections. She consumed every meal in the formal dining room and expected an identical level of proper behaviour from everyone under the same roof. Anyone not working for the family, at least—she expected ‘menials’ to maintain a different set of rules.
To his regret, his mother hadn’t finished. “I’m not for shortening names, as you know. But…Rich. Ugh. What an awful contraction.”
“Better than Dick. In any case, it’s why you chose the name, isn’t it? Rich-ard. Bloody suitable, considering our status.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“How is Sapphire?” Rich enquired after his sister to underline the point.
Mother’s jaw tightened. She shook her head. “I will not get into this with you. I will never understand the youth of today. There are people starving. People who would love to own a fraction of ourpossessions. People who must fend for themselves.”
“You mean people who don’t retain servants.”
She stirred her tea, surprising him; he wouldn’t put it past her to call Rosie back to do that, too.
“Their being hired help does not make them servants.”
“Political correctness. Rrrruby—” he rolled the R, “—there’s no need to pretend when it’s just you and me.”
A sharp sniff of rebuke followed. “You may view me as colonial, but everyone is a product of…”
Her voice became a familiar drone, though an occasional snippet slithered into his eardrum. Best education. Advantages. Given the finest of everything. In an attempt to block the noise, he concentrated on the excellent breakfast prepared by Rosie. Alas, the dish, in part ordered because Mother didn’t approve of egg-soaked bread, lost his interest. The act of defiance now marred the flavour.
