Satin Princess(46)

I don’t say it aloud, but I make a promise to myself while I look at Jessa.

I want Marina dead and buried before my child is born.





16





JESSA





Thomas and Margaret excuse themselves after the tour is over, leaving Anton and me alone to enjoy their gorgeous view of the garden.

He’s sitting opposite me, looking out at the pink and white azaleas lining the pathway, but I can tell he’s not really seeing them. He’s lost in his own thoughts. And from the looks of it, they’re not good ones.

“Anton?”

“Hm?”

“Thanks for bringing me here,” I say.

He turns to me, his eyes coming back into focus. “I thought you might like it.”

“Like it? I love it. This is exactly my kind of world. I used to dream about a version of this. Obviously, I wasn’t thinking about England in particular. But I did dream about a big house somewhere far-flung where I could have a garden big enough to feed my family.”

“Have you always wanted a family?”

“Always,” I say without missing a beat.

He doesn’t say anything to that, though I wish he would. He just sinks back in his chair, face half cast in shadow and half in sun.

He looks like he belongs here. Like aristocracy is in his blood. This life, this place—it suits him the same way everything else does.

I wish I looked half as good.

“So… they book out rooms here?” I ask, mostly just to break the silence. “I haven’t seen any other people.”

“No. You won’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I booked out the whole place while we’re here,” he says. “It’s ours for as long as we want it.”

I stare at him in disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Am I ever not?”

“Anton…” I stammer. “That really wasn’t necessary. I’m okay with sharing.”

“I’m not,” he says with whiplash finality.

I chew on my bottom lip, real life creeping into the fantasy world the manor has created. “You seem on edge.”

“I’m fine.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re worried about Marina.”

“Why should I be worried about a walking corpse?” he snarls.

I feel goosebumps on my skin instantly. “Anton… you’re not going to do anything crazy, right?”

“Define ‘crazy.’”

Before I can figure out how to respond to that, Thomas sticks his head in the door. “Any final preferences for dinner tonight, Jessa? Margaret is in the kitchen right now setting the menu.”

“Actually, can I come with you? I’d love to see the kitchen.”

“Of course, my dear. Follow me.”

I glance at Anton and he gives me a curt nod. I follow Thomas out of the sitting room and towards the kitchen.”

It’s just as charming as the rest of the manor. Suave country chic if I ever saw it. The room is all buttery timber and pale blue tile. There’s a deep farmhouse sink and a butcher block island with a gorgeous patina. Pocket doors open onto pantries, larders, a refrigerator hidden behind tasteful paneling.

It’s enough to make me swoon on my feet.

Margaret is standing by the windows with three men and two women, all of whom are dressed in chef’s whites. Something akin to jealousy rises up in me. I’ve been out of my whites for far too long.

“Ah, Jessa, there you are! You wanted to see the kitchens?”

“You’ve got her, darling?” Thomas asks.

“Of course,” Margaret says, waving me in. “You can go see to the chickens, Thomas. Come and meet my staff, Jessa.”

She does a quick rundown of everyone, including a designated pastry chef, who I compliment for the amazing tea and desserts. They welcome me politely and then scatter, each to their own tasks. The sound of knives chopping and pans sizzling is music to my ears. It fills a part of my soul I didn’t know was missing.

“This is pretty jaw-dropping,” I say. “You, this place, all of it. I think the kitchen might be my favorite part, though.”

“I don’t blame you. I love cooking myself,” Margaret tells me with a wink like we’re lifelong friends. “So even though we have a full staff, I come in here once in a while to get my hands dirty. I was just about to wash and dice some potatoes.”

“Need some help?” I ask eagerly.

“Oh, I couldn’t say yes to that! You’re our guest.”

“Really, I’d like to. It’s been a while since I’ve seen the inside of a kitchen. Especially one as lovely as this. Please don’t send me away.”

Margaret laughs. “I can’t ask you to help.”

“You’re not asking. I’m volunteering. In fact, I’m begging.”

She raises her eyebrows with amusement, but then gives me a nod. “Alright then. It’ll be nice to have some company.”

“Yay,” I celebrate as I wash my hands in the cold stone sink next to the counter. “This reminds me of the kind of kitchen that Beatrix Potter might draw in one of her stories.”

“High praise,” Margaret laughs. “I used to read Peter Rabbit to my kids when they were growing up.”