Page 57 of All Saints: Pledge

His eye closes again, and he gives a small nod. “Thanks.”

The ticking of the radiator in the corner fills the room, and my own eyes droop. It’s quiet and Kendall’s presence—this version of him at least—is somehow comforting. Human. Familiar. Like how I felt as a kid, knowing my parents were just down the hall. I feel less alone. I watch as his breathing evens out, taking some sort of weird pleasure in knowing he feels safe enough to fall asleep here. In getting to watch the way his fingers twitch slightly on his knees. He’s completely unguarded. I can’t bring myself to move him.

I slide down in my covers and fluff my pillow. Eventually, my eyes drift closed. And when about an hour later, he sits up, pulls off his vest and shirt, and stretches out between me and the wall…I let him. I’ll blame my sleep-addled brain, high on the endorphins of having a shirtless man in my bed. I blame the exhaustion from studying. I blame the part of me that doesn’t want him to leave, that enjoys having another person here with me. We don’t talk about it. I just wiggle over so that he has room for his broad shoulders, and let my eyes flutter closed. I know in the morning we’ll have to talk about it. About how this can’t keep happening, but secretly, I enjoy it too much to kick him out. Inestle my head into his chest, he drops his chin to the top of my head, and we’re out.

In the morning, when my alarm goes off, he’s gone.

26

Loughty House’s sprawling immense estate is situated next to the town that popped up to support it when the first Earl of Donegal started construction in the 1700’s. That’s what the plaque on the gates to the town proclaims as we drive through in our black sedan. Clara, the rowing twins, and I are sharing a chartered car on our way to the grand house. I still can’t get over the first class plane flight from London. First class! Champagne and all.

Despite it being December, the Irish countryside remains lush and green. In the distance, sharp cliffs drop off into an unsettled ocean. The air is thick with the smell of the little wharf we’re passing, pushed by a restless breeze that swirls around the car in gusts.

Clara, the twins, and I watch as a quaint Main Street of multi-colored stone buildings rolls past. It’s beyond gorgeous. All my life I’ve wanted to go places andseethings. I have to pinch myself, because as much as I’m missing home right now…a winter holiday at a private Irish estate is not an awful place to land.

We wind through another set of stone walls, these with gates that sit closed until our driver makes a phone call. The car passes smoothly through them before the drive turns to cobblestone and we have to slow even further.

“Charming,” Clara says, her voice going up and down as we bounce up the drive. The rowing twins are not so subtle as they watch her chest jiggle up and down in her sweater. I’m still in my coat, and pull it around my shoulders.

She may be sarcastic, but to me itischarming. I’m utterly enchanted. These cobblestones are likely original to the estate, hundreds and hundreds of years old—there’s nothing like that in my town back home. Wild Irish grasses stretch away from the more manicured drive—set intermittently with tended trees and shrubs. Several of the trees reach over the drive and I’m in raptures. They remind me so much of the trees from Game of Thrones. There’s a regal elegance to treesthatold. Something you just cannot capture in suburban America. There’s a sense of appreciating the true pleasures of life here: fresh air, well-tended land, construction meant to last centuries, and a love of art. Even the pillars had been carved, not just simple rocks.

The drive winds past several smaller buildings, and I gasp as I catch a glimpse down a hill to our left of acres and acres of horse pasture. Chestnuts and bays graze lazily in the misty afternoon sunshine in front of a gable-roofed stone stable. It’s like something out of a magazine.

Clara seems less impressed. “I’m waiting to see if the house has indoor plumbing before getting excited. I read a whole expose on staying at Scottish castles last year,” she says. “The review wasn’t a compliment.”

I squint. I hardly think that All Souls would bring us all this way to stay in a manor that didn’t have indoor plumbing, and yet. I’ve learned that I don’t understand all the mechanisms atwork here. Maybe they want to see if we can rough it with a castle privy. Who knows?

A slight turn to the left brings us within view of a Pemberly-esque manor house. More to the gothic side, it’s several stories high and the size of a small hotel in the United States. Ancient gray stone spires frame the front entry, and Ivy and moss creep up the sides while a bower of roses grows on a trellis over a set of windows to the right of the door, keeping the whole thing from looking too foreboding.

We pull around the circle, and an honest-to-godbutler,in literal livery, opens the back door as soon as we roll to a stop. It’s one of those fancy cars with the back door that opens toward the front, and I’m granted a grand view of the house as the twins and Clara climb out.

My pencil skirt makes it hard to get out gracefully, and I’m appreciative that the man in livery offers assistance. Princess Kate always makes this look so easy, but it’s not. I smooth down my buttoned shirt, pencil skirt and straighten my thigh high-knitted stockings. My Oxford shoes seem made for this setting. I’m feeling old-world Hollywood and imagine this being a movie set with little trouble.

“Right this way, I’ll show you to your rooms,” says the man after he shuts the car door.

A man and a woman dressed in matching polo shirts appear as the trunk of the car pops open for them to grab our luggage. I don’t even have to carry my bag.Bliss! Although given the strict outfit and workout requirements for All Saints, I pity the person who has to drag it up these stone steps.

The twins peel off in the entry as another staff member joins us. Clara and I follow the gentleman, who introduces himself as Edmund, up the grand staircase in the center of the foyer and off to the left.

“Services and public rooms are on the main floor,” he tells us as we walk on a stone floor thickly carpeted with a runner down the center. “Library, kitchens, morning room, dining room, ballroom, study, the housekeeper’s room, the game warden’s room, and butler’s quarters. Guest rooms are on the second floor. Here we are, miss Clara.” He holds open one of the wooden doors we’ve come to, and Clara and I peer inside. It’s a comfortable, if slightly small, bedroom. A carved wooden bed dominates the room, floral wallpaper adorns the walls, and a delightful beam of sunlight enters through the window. It’s old-money vintage. European class, but make it effortless.

“You will share the ensuite, between your rooms.”

Clara heads into her room while Edmund holds the next wooden door open for me. My room is like Clara’s, but covered in a vining green wallpaper I love. Her room has a floral garden bent while mine is more English study. The vines in the wallpaper offset the deep fern color of the bedspread and I happily note some antique paintings of racehorses on the wall.

Edmund catches me looking at the paintings and says, “I chose the rooms from your interest profile. We have over thirty guest rooms, if this isn’t to your liking, we can move you.”

I’m startled and blink at him. Kendall’s words about just how deep All Saints digs into people before allowing them full membership ring in my brain again.

“It’s wonderful, thank you.”

He nods. “We have tea and sandwiches downstairs for tea time. Supper is at 7pm, drinks served in the library before and after meal service.” And then I’m left alone. I flop on the bed. The mattress cover is down—deep, soft and cozy, so I stretch out on my back and doze off until there’s a knock at my door.

“Pardon me,” a woman in a polo shirt says as she sticks her head in. “I have your bags. Would you like me to unpack your suitcase for you?”

“Unpack…for me?” I echo, confused.

“Yes, hang up your dresses so they can release any wrinkles. I also have a steamer in the bathroom for your use, and miss Clara. I’m Aoife if you need anything.” She has a wonderful Irish brogue, and I immediately like her round face and dark hair. She, at least, seems friendly.

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