Page 31 of A Thin Line

It was only a matter of time…but I would check it out soon enough.

Chapter 11

Eight bathrooms later, I was heading back downstairs, again overwhelmed by the opulence of the mansion. Just for spite, I’d tried looking in Whittier’s bedroom, not surprised that the door was locked. On the third floor were bedrooms but they were smaller than the ones on the second floor, making space for a room with a grand piano, a gym full of exercise equipment, and another room with two small tables, chairs, and closets. Curious, I peeked in the closets and found board games, playing cards, dominos, dice, and more. When I wandered through the other door of what I now thought of as the game room, I discovered what I might have called a balcony but it was so much more. There were a table, chairs, and several potted bushes.

I hadn’t noticed it before, but the third floor was also open to the anteroom, and when I peeked over the railing, I got a good sense of just how tall this building was.

I’d also been right about one thing: this place really was like a museum, with all the fine art displayed on walls and statuary arranged aesthetically throughout. But there wasn’t a single picture of a person. In the movies, I’d often seen wealthy people’s homes with portraits of family members hanging over a fireplace mantel—but there wasn’t even that. I found it odd but dismissed it as part of the weirdness of rich people. I would never understand them—although I was getting a few ideas about how they operated.

When I reported back to Edna, it was two o’clock—and I was famished.

“Are you ready to eat or do you want your next task?”

I’d been shaky for the last half hour and knew if I had to do more manual labor, I wouldn’t have the strength. Reluctantly, I told her I would eat. First, however, I had to put away the cart and supplies and wash up.

When I came back to the kitchen, Edna was warming my food on the stove, but this time she didn’t offer me any pineapple. I got bold and peeked in the fridge anyway, but it was gone—and I wasn’t about to ask.

Edna didn’t offer an explanation—and that was a good reminder to me that she was not an ally. And why would she be? She willingly worked here so she obviously didn’t hate it.

The earlier smells of spices mingled with onion and garlic were subtler now but there was a big pot on the stove that I was sure was the dinner Edna had mentioned earlier.

She brought me the rewarmed steak and toast, both looking a little dry, but I wasn’t about to complain. When I sliced a bite of steak and popped it in my mouth, I was shocked at how good it tasted. I was sure that was because I hadn’t eaten much.

Edna brought two glasses of tea to the table, one for both of us, and she sat across from me. I figured she was going to tell me all about my next task—but I was wrong. “Master Sinclair isn’t so bad once you get to know him.”

I refrained from scoffing, instead focusing on chewing a tiny piece of steak—but I highly doubted it. Even if his demeanor was “nice,” he was still part of an evil family, pillaging villages, raping and ruining the earth, and devastating families. Besides, I didn’t want to get to know him—not at all.

Still, saying that wouldn’t win me any favors—so I simply nodded while taking a tiny bite of toast. And then it dawned on me: she was calling him by yet another moniker. How strange.

“I started working for the Whittier family just after he was born—but I was a nanny then. Each of the Whittier boys had their own nanny who helped out until they were older but, as you can see, I stayed.”

Curiosity got the best of me. “Why?”

“Because their mother died when Sinny was just two months old. So at that point I moved in with the family until he was in school.”

“You said there were other children?”

“Yes. Master Sinclair has two older brothers. Actually, they’re quite a bit older. Warren is 37 and Augustus just turned 40.”

“How old is…Mr. Whittier?” Damn it. Why couldn’t I keep my mouth shut?

“30.” No wonder we couldn’t see eye to eye. I wasn’t even twenty yet, not until February. I’d already lost interest in the food. “How did their mother die?”

Edna’s face blanched, obviously not expecting that question. To me, though, it seemed natural. “I…uh.” She blew a breath of air from her lips, and I tried to assess if it was because she wanted to tell me but knew it would be distasteful or because she didn’t want to say anything but now found herself obliged. “Please don’t repeat this, because I don’t know how Mr. Whittier would feel if he knew I was discussing his family history with you.”

Maybe she could become an ally? If she was willing to trust me with this information, she was either a kind, trusting soul or a busybody gossip who just couldn’t help herself. But she didn’t seem to be the latter. “I won’t say a word.”

“Mr. Whittier’s father always insisted Mrs. Whittier committed suicide. He blamed it on postpartum depression.”

“What do you believe?”

“I’m no expert, dear. Postpartum depression could have been the cause because she was definitely suffering. I didn’t have to be a doctor to know that much.” After taking a sip of tea, she glanced toward the kitchen door and lowered her voice. “Also, bear in mind that I was new to the household, but both older boys still had their nannies—and we talked. Apparently, she was very unhappy with the marriage in general and had once confided in Warren’s nanny that she wanted to leave—but knew she couldn’t afford to do so and also suspected she’d never see her sons again.”

“Would their father actually do that?”

Edna swallowed. “I’ve probably already said too much.” Standing, she strode over to the stove, stirring the pot an excuse to keep her back to me. “I just wanted you to know that Master Sinclair is not a bad man—and, once you get to know him, I think you’ll see in him what I do.”

She was delusional. She had what could be considered a mother-son relationship with the man…meaning she felt for him unconditional love. I would never feel that way about him.

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