Page 13 of Caged in Desire
Humming my agreement, I look out my own window at the estate growing smaller as we drive away.
Katerina is different, indeed.
Chapter eight
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Placing the book I’m attempting to read down on the chaise lounge, I rise to find the source of the incessant dripping I’ve been trying to ignore for the past half hour.
Usually, I’m not bothered by noise. Living in a house full of staff, meetings, and then Mrs. Nixon’s renovation regime, I’ve learned to tune out background sounds fairly well. Until today. Today, I’ve picked a new corner of the library to try out, and at first glance, it seemed perfect. South-facing windows, cozy furniture, a little hidden alcove with a lamp and a shelf at the perfect height for a mug of coffee. Heaven. Until the dripping started.
And unlike my usual tolerance, I find myself unsettled. Bothered. Really, reallyangryat the dripping. I know exactly what’s vexing me, unfortunately.
Myhusband.
Or rather, my distinct lack of a husband since he’s been gone for the past week with meetings. I know they’re important, and he couldn’t move them on such short notice, but still. I’ve triedall the things he advised. His credit card took a tiny hit because I got a head start on Christmas presents for his family, but I have more stuff than I could ever need.
I’ve kept to my usual routine, enjoying the lap pool in the morning and the home gym in the evening. I’ve walked over twenty-five miles around the grounds, meeting more of the staff and exploring the beautiful property. It’s filled with follies, nooks, and crannies from past generations adding onto it, and diverse plant life thanks to the creek that runs through part of the land.
My rooms are organized, I’ve explored a good chunk of the house on top of my hikes around the grounds, and…I’m bored. I’m not sure what I expected married life to be, but it wasn’t this. IknowHenry has to travel a lot for work, but I thought we had a spark during our last few interactions. Maybe that was my foolish positivity, seeing things that weren’t there.
Before I can figure out what to do about my absentee husband or my life in general, I have to figure out this blasted dripping. This is the perfect library corner, and I’m not going to let it go that easily. Starting from one corner of the wall closest to where I’m sitting, I follow the sound down and around the perimeter of my alcove, finding no evidence of a leak.
As I stare, flummoxed, at the wall, I realize that the little ledge where I’ve been placing my coffee isn’t actually flush with the molding. Sighing, I add this to my list of maintenance concerns before giving up on my moment of peace and making my way back to the kitchen to drop off my dirty mug.
“Ah, Mrs. Sinclair! I thought I missed you this morning.” Mrs. Potts grins as I walk into the kitchen, almost instantly soothing my earlier irritation.
Although everyone here has been kind, Mrs. Potts was the first of the household staff toreallymake me feel welcome. There’s something warm about her that makes me feel comfortable andsafe. In fact, I’ve spent much of my time the past week curled up on a sofa in the sitting room, listening to her stories.
I’ve learned so much from her already, from the history of the estate to the neighborhood drama.
According to her, the Sinclair family bought this land in the late 1800s when Henry’s great-great-grandfather arrived from England. However, the Châteauesque-style estate wasn’t built until 1947 by his grandfather, Henry Sinclair I, after the end of the war.
Their land covers a couplethousandacres, so neighbors is a relative term, but apparently, there is the occasional drama.
There’s the Crowley family, whose patriarch recently passed away. Apparently, the children are trying to sell that land and liquidate some assets. The Gibbonses’ farm borders on the northern side, and they’ve been complaining about all the pine cones that fall onto their property from our trees for years.
Henry’s sister, Margot, and brother-in-law, Jack, own property nearby. There isn’t any current drama there, but Mrs. Potts did spill some rather salacious tea about their relationship before they got married. Apparently, Jack walked quite a thin line of what would be considered consent as a masked suitor of Margot’s. My jaw dropped from the beginning of that story to the end.
To the south, the Jenkinses’ goats get loose from time to time and wander onto our land, although it’s never been an issue because they clear the underbrush. Recently, however, some were found dead a little farther west than they usually roam, resulting in a distraught Mrs. Jenkins.
We’ve also gossiped like a pair of hens about the rest of the staff. Everything from simple stories, such as a driver’s aunt having gallbladder surgery, to scandalous ones, like the head landscaper sleeping with both a maidandthe pool boy.
We’ve talked for hours over hot tea and pastries. As much as I miss the friendships I developed with the staff growing up, I never had a source of maternal affection, and I’m finding that Mrs. Potts fills that void in addition to being a friend.
Like always, I’ve barely stepped into the kitchen before she’s offering me something to eat. “I tried a new recipe for the sauce last night. Try this and let me know what you think.”
She places a plate of cheesecake in front of one of the barstools in the kitchen and tops it with a drizzle of homemade caramel sauce. Stomach already growling, I sit and immediately reach for my fork to dig into the decadent dessert. My eyes roll back the moment the creamy bite hits my tongue. “Oh God, Potts, this isincredible.Forget the sauce, the cheesecake is good enough to stand on its own.”
She smiles as she hops up on her seat beside me with her own plate. “Yes, this is my all-time favorite recipe. I call it better than sex with Daddy cheesecake.”
“Excuse me?” I manage to cough out after almost choking on another bite.
Potts laughs, tears forming in her eyes. “It’s an old joke with a girlfriend of mine, from back in my college days.”
“Well, I’ve never had sex, but if it’s anywhere close to this cheesecake, I don’t think I’ll ever leave the room.”
Chuckling, I glance up to see she’s staring at me, eyes wide, hand over her chest, clearly not as amused at my statement as I was. “You’ve never…you’re avirgin?”
