Page 114 of Prelude To You

She picked up the two books I’d chosen. “Lady Chatterly’s Lover?”

I needed to defend my choice of reading material. “Well, we want Henry to get better. And I don’t think the Brontë sisters or Jane Austin might be up his alley.

“And you think adulterous sex in the woods might be?”

By now I’d picked up that Miss Leyland was teasing, and I was all-in for the banter. Anything to forget my mounting misery. “That’s not what it’s really about though, is it?” I said. “There’s a moral to the story. For me anyway.”

“Which is?” she asked.

“Even with all the money and status in the world, if you don’t have love, hope or passion, you have nothing.”

“That’s quite true… Still principally laced with scandal and sex though.”

“Would you prefer I get something else?”

“Definitely not. You’re absolutely right. Henry might enjoy it very much.”

She looked over the short stories of Roald Dahl. “It’s interesting you would choose Roald Dahl. Henry used to keep a copy of this book in his office, and every so often when he needed a break, he would read a short story of Dahl’s. He was tired of starting a book he’d never finish because he never had time.”

Miss Leyland looked at Henry with a wistful smile, reliving some memory. And it wasnotthe kind of look you saved for your boss. Seeing him like this gutted her and she made no effort to hide it. Suddenly I felt like a third wheel.

But Miss Leyland salvaged her composure gracefully, put the books back on my lap and studied my curious expression. “Would you like to change the music, Isabel?”

“Yes, please,” I said, perhaps a little too quickly.

“What did you have in mind?”

“Did Henry listen to anything other than classical music?”

She bit back a wistful smile. “He secretly listened to some popular music back in the day. He loved The Beatles, The Carpenters, and he had a soft spot for 70’s and 80’s popular music… Also Edith Piaf.”

I didn’t want to ask how she knew so specifically what Henry’s preferences were. Did they listen to it together?

“Great, I’m familiar with those,” I said. “I’ll cue them up on the playlist.

At noon Henry’s two nurses came into the room to take care of him. They greeted me like this would probably be the one and only time they saw me. Which was understandable given the history of readers here. It was my cue to take a lunch break.

Armed with my map of the house, I found my way to the kitchen and entered heaven. For a blissful few minutes, joy superseded my heartache. The enormous kitchen looked like it had been pulled out of Architectural Digest, with one entire wall of French doors overlooking what looked like a vegetable-and-herb greenhouse.

I circled the room, trying to take it all in. It was eerily quiet, which didn’t do justice to a kitchen that should be bustling with chefs and kitchen staff cooking wonderful food.

I couldn’t help fantasizing about seizing a private station for myself and cooking all my anguish away. Even if I knew it would take more than cooking a buffet fit for a king to pacify my soul.

Fresh vegetables were laid out on one of the center islands, ready to be sliced and diced. There was a vegetable knife beside them, Japanese of course, the thin sharp steel shimmering in thelight. I ran a finger over the blade, a humble pleasure coursing through me as I felt the exquisite craftsmanship.

Yes, I decided, I could spend some time in this kitchen. I was sure there’d been no expense spared to get the finest cookware and utensils. It was weird what my current state of mind did for my awareness. Anything that could distract me from my insides twisting into torturous knots became a lifeline, and this kitchen fit the bill.

On another counter was a platter of sandwiches, covered with a glass dome. I supposed that was lunch for the staff. The sandwiches didn’t look terribly appetizing, and I decided I’d rather make something for myself. That was to say I could find my way around and figure out which pantries were behind the many closed doors.

The first door I opened was the dry goods, and one shelf was devoted to the best dry pasta available. I preferred to make my own pasta but, in a pinch, this was a great substitute. I picked out a box of spaghetti. The pasta sauce was going to be whatever fresh products I found elsewhere.

Would it be forward of me to poke around in that lovely herb-and-vegetable garden behind the French doors? I decided it was best to ask Mrs. Sheldon’s permission first.

The next door I opened was the butler’s pantry, where Sophia and a guy about her age were getting hot and heavy between the fine Bone China and Italian table linens.

They were kissing, his hand under her dress and Sophia was definitely not hating whatever he was doing underneath there. I immediately retreated, but not before Sophia caught a glimpse of me.

“Oh God, I’m sorry…mi dispiace,” I stuttered, shutting the door and fleeing back into the kitchen, to the safe space by the uncut vegetables and the unappealing sandwiches. There was a brief, hushed conversation between the lovers in the pantrybefore they stepped into the kitchen. Sophia ironed out her dress, cheeks still flushed.

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