Page 6

"Miss Anderton? I'm Hartwell, the night butler." He spoke with the kind of crisp precision that made my Texas drawl sound like molasses in comparison. "Lady Daphne sends her apologies—she's still at the Royal Opera House Gala and won't return until morning. She's arranged the blue guest suite for you tonight, rather than the staff quarters."
Lady Daphne. I still did a double-take every time someone called her that. In college, she'd just been Daphne—the girl who binged Netflix with me and split pizza at 2 am while complaining about organic chemistry. Nobody had mentioned titles or family crests or the fact that her home had been featured in Architectural Digest.
My phone buzzed with a text from Daphne:
Daphne:OMG SO SORRY! Mother dragged me to this endless opera gala thing. You have NO idea how much I'd rather be with you right now! Hartwell will take care of everything. Please don't hate me! The blue suite has the best view and sheets that cost more than most cars. Sweet dreams! ??
I quickly typed back:
Me:Could never hate you! Enjoy your fancy opera thing. I'll try not to break anything priceless. See you tomorrow! ??
"That's very kind of you, Mr. Hartwell," I said, then immediately worried if I should've called him sir or something. British etiquette was like a minefield designed specifically to confuse loud Americans. "I'm sorry I'm so late. The show ran over, and then I may have taken a scenic route through what I'm pretty sure was actual Hobbiton."
Hartwell's mouth twitched in what might've been amusement. "Lady Daphne thought you might enjoy the blue suite this evening—it has a lovely view of the gardens and fewer... navigational challenges than the staff quarters."
"You're probably right about that. Last week I got lost for forty-five minutes trying to find the kitchen and ended up in what I think was a ballroom. Or maybe it was just a really fancy dining room. Hard to tell when everything's bigger than my entire apartment back home."
Hartwell led me through entrance halls that belonged in a museum. The marble floors were so polished I could see my reflection, distorted and made strange by the patterns in thestone. Portraits lined the walls—centuries of Grosvenors staring down with expressions ranging from benevolent and stern to downright intimidating. They all shared certain features: sharp cheekbones, intelligent eyes, and that particular tilt of the chin that implied complete certainty of their place in the world.
"The manor has been in the Grosvenor family for over four-hundred years," Hartwell explained as we climbed a staircase wide enough to accommodate a truck. "Lady Daphne thought you'd appreciate the history."
"It's incredible," I said, and meant it. "Back home, a building's considered historic if it's older than my grandMother. This place was already ancient when the Mayflower was still just a twinkle in some pilgrim's eye."
We passed suits of armor standing in alcoves like metallic ghosts, tapestries that probably depicted famous battles I'd never heard of, and more portraits than a small museum could display. Every surface gleamed with the kind of care that required a full-time staff. The air itself smelled expensive—lemon oil, polished wood, and centuries of accumulated dignity.
"The blue suite is just down this corridor," Hartwell said, leading me through a hall lined with landscape paintings that looked suspiciously like the actual landscape outside. "Lady Daphne had some essentials brought up earlier, though I'm afraid the manor's size can be somewhat overwhelming for first-time guests."
"Somewhat overwhelming" was like saying the ocean was somewhat wet, but I appreciated his British understatement.
We passed door after door, each one identical to my travel-addled brain. Left turn, right turn, another corridor that looked exactly like the first corridor. By the time Hartwell stopped in front of an ornate door with brass fixtures that probably cost more than my car, I was completely and utterly lost.
He opened the door to reveal a room that made my eyes widen. The blue suite wasn't just a bedroom—it was a small palace. A four-poster bed dominated the space, hung with silk curtains in shades of blue that reminded me of summer skies over Austin. Everything was elegant in a way that made me afraid to touch anything.
"The bathroom is through there, and there's a small sitting area by the windows with views of the rose garden." Hartwell set my bags down with practiced efficiency. "Breakfast is served from seven until ten, though Lady Daphne mentioned you prefer to sleep in after late shows."
"You're very kind, Mr. Hartwell. Thank you for everything."
"Think nothing of it, miss. Welcome to Grosvenor Manor."
He disappeared down the hall with the same silent grace he'd exhibited since my arrival, leaving me alone in enough luxury to house a small family. I stood in the middle of the room, turning slowly to take it all in. The ceiling was painted with some elaborate scene involving cherubs and clouds. The carpet was so thick my feet sank into it. Even the air smelled expensive, like lavender and old money.
My suitcase looked pathetically out of place on the antique luggage rack. I'd packed everything I owned into two bags and a carry-on, and it all looked decidedly shabby in this setting. My clearance-rack clothes would hang in an antique armoire that had probably housed the wardrobes of duchesses and countesses.
The bathroom was marble and gold and larger than my first apartment's living room. The tub could've comfortably fit three people and probably had its own heating system. I caught sight of myself in the mirror and barely recognized the exhausted woman staring back—blonde curls escaping from my ponytail, makeup smudged from the late show, dark circles under eyes that couldn't decide if they wanted to laugh or cry.
I unpacked mechanically, hanging my meager wardrobe in the armoire while fighting off waves of inadequacy. Everything I owned looked wrong against this backdrop of centuries-old elegance. My favorite vintage sundresses, which had seemed so stylish back home, now looked like costume-party rejects. My one pair of decent heels seemed cheap and loud next to the exquisite antique furnishings.
But exhaustion was winning over self-consciousness. Three weeks of American-level anxiety mixed with British politeness had left me running on fumes. The adrenaline from the show had completely faded, replaced by the bone-deep tiredness that came from trying to fit into a world for which I'd never been designed.
I needed water. Maybe some of those fancy crackers British people ate at all hours. The kitchen couldn't be that hard to find, right? Hartwell had given me directions, but they'd involved phrases like, "past the morning room", and "turn left at the Gainsborough," which might as well have been instructions for finding Narnia.
The shadows in the hallways playing tricks on my overtired brain. Every portrait seemed to watch me pass, probably judging my flip-flops and Austin Gardens Network t-shirt. I tried to remember Hartwell's directions, but fatigue was making everything fuzzy around the edges.
Turn left at the... something. Was it the Gainsborough or the Reynolds? And what the hell was a morning room anyway? Did they have afternoon rooms too? Evening rooms? A room for every hour of the day?
I tried three different staircases before admitting I was completely lost. The kitchen could be anywhere in this maze of corridors and rooms that seemed designed to confuse outsiders. My feet were starting to ache, and my eyes felt like they were full of sand.
Maybe I should just go back to my room. Except... where was my room? The hallways all looked the same—dark wood panels, oriental rugs, paintings that might've been priceless or might've been really good reproductions. I'd taken so many turns I couldn't remember if I'd started on the second floor or the third.