“Of course. I didn’t see you downstairs. Didn’t the smoke alarm wake you?” I looked her straight in the eye.
“I’m a very heavy sleeper.” She didn’t glance away. “Slept right through all the commotion.” She wiped her hands on the towel slung over her arm.
But I wasn’t about to be brushed off that easily. “I thought I heard a laugh last night just before I smelled smoke. Was that you?”
“A laugh?” She didn’t look or sound surprised at the question. “Why would you think it was me?”
“It sounded like you.”
“Maybe the little girl was watching television past her bedtime,” she said.
“She was sound asleep. It was two in the morning.”
Brenda shrugged. “You never know with children.”
I decided to take another tack. “What caused the fire?” I asked. “Does anybody know?”
She reached for the fabric softener. “I heard Nico was meditating in his dressing room before bedtime. He must have forgotten about the candle and left it burning. He says he’s taken up meditation lately, to relax.”
It seemed very strange to hear her parroting the official story to me, but then it was no stranger than seeing her still here in the house, pouring fabric softener into the washing machine and shutting its door with a firm hand.
I said nothing. It dawned on me that if she knew I suspected her of starting the fire, she might try to hurt me next.
“When you heard someone laughing, didn’t you open your door to see who it was?” Her question surprised me. Was she trying to catch me off guard?
“No,” I said. “I checked my door to make sure it was locked.”
“You mean you don’t always lock it at night before you go to sleep?” She asked the question casually, but she seemed to watch me closely.
“From now on I will.”
“That’s a very good idea.” Her voice was flat and emotionless. “Even with guards and an alarm system, I always say you can’t be too careful.” At that, she turned and walked away.
On my walk that morning, I revisited the pine grove where Mr. Rathburn and I had walked together two days before. What a long time ago it seemed. I couldn’t sketch or paint; I was too preoccupied trying to understand last night’s bizarre events and Brenda’s continued presence at Thornfield Park. Mr. Rathburn could have had her arrested, or at the very least he could have sent her packing. Instead, he’d done neither. But why? Did she have something on him? Some kind of knowledge she could use to blackmail him? Was he worried she might tell his secrets to the press? If so, what sort of secrets did he have left to tell?
Or could he have some kind of attachment to Brenda? If she were young and attractive that might have made some sense. still, some men like older women. I supposed it was possible that they had been involved once, though it was hard to imagine that drab, flat-footed Brenda had ever been even remotely pretty.
I’m not pretty, I reminded myself. Still, Mr. Rathburn seems to like having me around. I remembered the look in his eyes last night, the warmth of his voice, his enthusiastic hug, and noticed that my heart was racing. Calm down, I admonished myself. Stop imagining things that can’t possibly be true. I turned back toward the house.
That afternoon, I couldn’t concentrate enough to read or draw, and I couldn’t stand the thought of hiding in my bedroom. Instead, I haunted the main wing, reading the inscriptions under the gold and platinum records in the hallway, picking up magazines and putting them back down again, poking my head into the refrigerator even though I was far too agitated to eat. As the day wore on, I grew increasingly eager to see Mr. Rathburn, if only to gauge his attitude toward me. Would he look at me the way he had last night? I was sitting in the breakfast room, staring out the window at the pond, when Lucia walked in.
“You look different,” she said to me. “Flushed. Are you feeling okay? Are you still shaken up about last night?” She took the chair beside me and set down a cup of yogurt and a spoon.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just overtired.”
“Huh” — she stirred her yogurt — “aren’t we all? At least I can have lunch away from my desk today, since Nico’s out of town.”
“He is?”
“Didn’t you know? He went back to New York to tape some more TV appearances. He’ll be on Letterman this week.”
“On the spur of the moment?”
“No, of course not. The Letterman thing has been booked for a while. Sorry I didn’t mention it; it’s just been floating out in the air. I thought you knew.”
“How long will he be gone?”
“He didn’t say. He’s got some other business to take care of in the city, he said. And be on your guard. Whenever he does get back here, it’ll be sheer chaos. He’s not coming back alone. The rehearsal show has been scheduled for three weeks from today. The whole band’s going to descend on us, some of them with their lady friends. I have to start getting the guesthouse in order.”
“They’ll all be staying here?” I was having trouble taking in so much news at once.
“Nico likes it that way. Before the tour, he likes to do what he calls ‘a little intense male bonding.’ Seems crazy to me. They’ll be in each other’s pockets the whole tour, but by now I guess he knows what he’s doing.” She sighed. “And even if he doesn’t, we’re in the sidecar.”
I hardly knew how I felt about any of this.
“Oh, and when they do get here, you might want to sharpen up your image a little,” Lucia continued. “Wear your best clothes. That photographer’s coming with them. You know, Bianca Ingram? She’s doing a spread on Nico for GQ, and she wants to capture the beast in his natural habitat. Those were her words.”
I thought back to the photo shoot. Had it really been only three days ago? And I tried to remember Bianca Ingram. All I could recall was her elegance, her glossy dark hair, her diaphanous scarf, and her laughter floating into the breakfast room with Mr. Rathburn’s.
“I don’t have much in the way of nice clothes,” I said. “Besides, I’m sure she won’t want to take pictures of me.”
Lucia rolled her eyes. “She’ll be shooting all of us. I doubt you or I will wind up in any of the shots chosen for the article, but you never know. At the very least, Maddy should look her best. She’ll wind up in the spread for sure.”
“Bianca Ingram… That name is familiar.”
“Of course it is. She’s photographed just about everyone on the A-list — politicians, musicians, movie stars, you name it — and some of their glitz must have rubbed off on her. Every other week her face is in People or InStyle. The media like to follow her around and speculate about her love life. She supposedly has a habit of sleeping with her subjects, so it could get interesting around here.”
Why did this news distress me? I said nothing, and Lucia disappeared for a moment, then returned with a bottle of mineral water and two glasses. “Want some?”
The water tasted good; I hadn’t realized how thirsty I was. “Had she photographed Nico before the other day?”
“No, and she’s been after the chance for quite a while now. She was thrilled when he called her to do the tour program. She told Mitch she’s had a crush on Nico since she was a teenager.”
“And will she stay in the guesthouse with the band?”
“Lord, no,” Lucia said. “It’ll be a real boys’ club in there. The guys aren’t as wild as they used to be, but they still like to live it up from time to time. The last thing we’d need is a photographer documenting their every move. She’ll stay in an empty room in Mr. Rathburn’s wing.”
“And how long will the photo shoot last?” I asked. “How long will she be here?”
“You ask so many questions. As long as it takes, I guess.”
* * *
After I put Maddy to bed that night, I let myself into Lucia’s office to use her computer. I’d made up my mind to research Bianca Ingram. I had a vague impression of her glamour, and I wanted to see how reality matched
up with my recollections. As it turned out, my memory had sold her short. Online, I was able to locate more photographs of Bianca Ingram than photographs by her.
“But will they click? Celebrity photographer steps out with leading man” read the caption below a photograph of a laughing Bianca, her white teeth flawless, her long hair sailing behind her as she walked in steep heels down the red carpet, hand in hand with a blond man in a tuxedo. Her low-cut, violet gown emphasized her full breasts and narrow waist; a high slit revealed a long, bare leg. A choker of diamonds circled her throat.
“Despite It All, I’m Lonely” read the headline of an interview in which Bianca spoke of her wish to have a simple life in the country with a husband and some children. “It hasn’t worked out for me yet,” she was quoted as saying, “but I have faith that one day I’ll find what I’m looking for.” The story was accompanied by pictures of Bianca in jeans and a tight black T-shirt, an expensive-looking camera hanging from her neck. Her large dark eyes were fringed with thick lashes.
I searched for and read article after article about Bianca, until my eyes felt dry and gritty. Then I searched online for Mr. Rathburn and clicked on a snapshot of him playing an acoustic guitar — now I recognized it as one of his favorites; I often saw it leaning against his armchair — lips parted and eyes half-closed in what looked like deep pleasure. I studied the image awhile and made myself imagine Bianca Ingram and Mr. Rathburn out together in public, emerging from a limousine to walk the red carpet, two rich, famous, glamorous people who were made for each other — and who were a species apart from someone like me.
You idiot, I berated myself. What on earth had I been thinking? I’d been living in a fantasyland for the past few days. No, if I was completely honest with myself, I hadn’t been my usual, sensible self since I’d met Mr. Rathburn and he had spoken to me with interest and kindness.
He’s pleasant to his employees; he lets them call him by his first name, I reminded myself. Just because he talks to you doesn’t mean he thinks of you as an equal. He’s being a good boss, nothing more.
Back in my room, I took down the sketch I had done of Mr. Rathburn, crumpled it up, and threw it into my wastepaper basket. Then I made myself look unflinchingly into the mirror behind my door. Not only is Bianca Ingram beautiful; she’s worldly and successful. And you’re a nobody, I silently told myself. No boy has ever shown the slightest bit of interest in you, and now, just because Mr. Rathburn is kind to you, you think he could have feelings for you? When he could have Bianca Ingram — or any other woman?
I promised myself that from that moment on, whenever I yearned for Mr. Rathburn or thought of him with the slightest bit of hope, I would find the closest mirror and stare down my own reflection — dull brown hair, overlarge forehead, ordinary green eyes with sparse lashes, stubborn chin, flat chest, and narrow hips — until reason trumped fantasy.
CHAPTER 9
A week passed with no word from Mr. Rathburn. A pall settled over the estate, as though nothing interesting could possibly happen while he was gone. On the night of his second day away, I sat by myself in Maddy’s playroom to watch him trading quips with David Letterman on late-night TV. On the third day, several cartons arrived special delivery. It was Mr. Rathburn’s new CD. An exultant Lucia handed out copies to the staff. “These will be in stores by midnight tomorrow,” she said. “Doesn’t he look fantastic?” The cover featured Nico all in black, seated on a low stone wall, staring moodily into the distance, acoustic guitar in hand.
That day while Maddy took her after-lunch quiet time, I stretched out on my bed, headphones on, listening to the new CD for clues, for insight into the personality that had written the words and music. Mr. Rathburn’s voice, which once had struck me as abrasive, now sounded expressive and full of character, and I realized with some surprise that I had grown to like his music. I went back and borrowed his earlier albums and noticed wit and wordplay I’d been deaf to before. A few listens later, I was hooked. His songs played in my head as I pushed Maddy on her swing, as I spread peanut butter on bread for her sandwich, as I tried to fall asleep at night. I hadn’t meant to become a fan, but there it was.
Throughout the day and especially at bedtime, Maddy would ask when her father would be back, and of course I had no answer to give her. Then, when he had been gone eight days, Lucia received a call. “They’ll be here in less than twenty-four hours,” she complained to me. “You’d think Nico would have given me more notice. Walter is going to have conniptions. Is Lonnie still a vegan? These trendy people. Remind me to call his personal assistant this afternoon.”
I wanted to ask all kinds of questions, to get a sense of the personalities that would soon descend on Thornfield Park, but Lucia didn’t have a moment to spare as she pushed to get the guesthouse ready for its occupants. First she made a long to-do list. “Am I forgetting anything?” she kept asking. “Jane, can you help me out? I need you to make some phone calls.” That day I pitched in by booking a waitstaff for the next night’s dinner and polishing silverware. I picked the garden’s most splendid sunflowers and arranged them in an enormous vase in the entryway. I drove into town to pick up Mr. Rathburn’s dry cleaning.
Lucia’s nervous energy proved contagious. Unable to fall asleep that night, I restlessly reviewed the contents of my closet. Lucia had told me that I should dress my best, but what did that mean for an on-duty nanny? Other than my denim skirts and oxford blouses, I had a peach-colored sundress I’d worn to a wedding a couple of summers before, but surely it was too nice to wear while I chased Maddy from room to room and sat with her on the floor. And at the back of the closet, half-forgotten, hung the clothes I’d worn to my parents’ funeral — a simple black skirt and a white, scoop-necked shirt. A wave of sadness washed over me when I pulled the hanger out into the light, but I told myself that they were just clothes. Unlike the rest of my wardrobe, they looked almost new. With my pearl earrings and black ballerina flats, they would have to do. Earlier I had laid out a designer ensemble for Maddy — a black pleated skirt and a red plaid blouse, one of the few nonpink outfits in her extensive wardrobe. I hoped she wouldn’t balk at the color.
Just before I shut off the light, I made myself look once again in the mirror to face my flaws. Still, despite my efforts to keep my expectations realistic, I was happy that I would see Mr. Rathburn tomorrow, no matter the circumstances.
The next morning, Thornfield Park went into a frenzy. I had thought the entire house was already pristine and well arranged, but it seemed I had been wrong. Amber and Linda ran from room to room, dusting, polishing silver candlestick holders, laying out fresh linens, and arranging bouquets of gladiolas from the garden. Midmorning, the cook arrived in the kitchen with a jumble of shopping bags. I helped him put the groceries away. After that, I pacified Lucia by listening as she enumerated the many tasks she still had to complete by dinnertime. Throughout the day, I noticed that only one employee was not pitching in on the whirlwind effort: Brenda. I saw her when she came into the kitchen to fix a ham sandwich that she promptly carried back upstairs; otherwise, she kept to herself. Nobody but me seemed to notice or care.
That afternoon, Maddy was far too excited to nap, and I worried she would be overtired and cranky by the time her father arrived. I watched her practice her routine from dance class over and over again; she wanted to put on a show for her father’s friends. I hoped he would give her a chance to perform, even though I would rather have stayed in the playroom, out of the way until the visitors left.
When Maddy tired of dancing, she and I played game after game of Chutes and Ladders. I could still hear cleaning noises all around us. I was trying to teach her checkers — a game I thought she might be too young for but one she immediately took to — when I heard Amber and Linda in the hallway. As usual, they were gossiping, too excited to care who could hear them.
“I tell you, they’re engaged,” I heard Amber say somewhat shrilly. “I saw it in Tattletale.”
“Tattletale!” Linda
sounded scornful. “I can’t believe you even read that rag. Wouldn’t we be the first to know if he’d gotten engaged? Besides, he’s only known her a few weeks.”
“That doesn’t mean anything. People jump into marriage all the time.”
“And regret it. I hope you’re wrong. That’s all I can say.”
“That’s just ’cause you’re warm for his form,” Amber said. “Don’t tell me you’re not. At the very least, they’re an item. You saw the photo in Celeb World.”
“I might have,” Linda said. By the sound of it, they were standing right outside the playroom door. I wished I could cover Maddy’s ears or distract her with a toy, but it was too late. I could see she was listening intently. Linda continued. “One photo doesn’t prove anything.”
“Come on,” Amber said. “The two of them at a restaurant, feeding each other? They looked pretty damn intimate to me.”
“I suppose.” Linda’s voice sounded fainter; soon the two of them would turn the corner and be out of earshot. “It’s not like he hasn’t dated before. I’ve lost count of the women.”
“There’s something different about her.”
“You think so?” Linda sounded incredulous.
“For one thing, she’s not an airhead. She’s one smart cookie,” Amber replied. “The article said she speaks three languages and has a master’s degree in art.”
“I hope he gets a good prenup.” Linda sniffed, and with that, they were gone.
Maddy looked up at me, her eyes large. “What’s a prenup?” And then, when I didn’t answer, “Were they talking about Daddy?”
“Maybe, but I wouldn’t worry about it. I think they’re letting their imaginations run away with them. Those magazines report all sorts of crazy things that aren’t true.”
“Why doesn’t somebody punish the magazines for lying?” she asked me. It struck me as a sensible question.
“Maybe somebody will.” For Maddy’s sake as much as mine, I hoped the gossip magazines were wrong. “Here, help me put the games away, and we’ll go find your new crayons. The big box.”