Total pages in book: 75
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69286 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 346(@200wpm)___ 277(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
“Oh, no, not at all. We just have the gardener working at night. He sets the traps for the foxes who attempt to make a play for the chickens in the coop. It can be dangerous if you don’t know where they are.”
“And he does this at night?” I spin on my heel, looking at the older woman. Why would someone want to do that at night? It’s rather strange.
“Yes, he feels it’s better than doing it in the day; that way, we can explore the gardens safely while the sun is up,” Estelle says as she waves her hand in the air as if she thinks it’s as silly as I do.
“I see. And how old is he?” My curiosity piques at the thought of someone wandering alone at night in the shadows, lurking outside my window.
Her gaze snaps to mine at the question, her eyes wide as she regards me. “Oh, he’s not for you, sweet Scarlett. You stay clear of him.”
Her words have me laughing out loud. “I’m not at all interested in a man who works in a garden setting traps, I can assure you of that.” I shake my head with a grin. Knowing that when I get home, I’ll have a multitude of bachelors waiting for me, and it will all be my mother’s doing.
Her brows furrow at my words, but she doesn’t respond. Estelle only offers a curt nod before she heads for the door. Her reaction to me is strange, and I wonder if I’ve offended her by what I said.
“Good night, Miss Bardot. I trust you’ll sleep well,” she greets before walking out of the room, leaving me staring at the empty space. I want to close it, but only moments later, an older gentleman brings my suitcases, and I guess it’s Gray.
“Good evening, Miss. Bardot,” he says, as he pulls the suitcases through the door and sets them down on a stool near the closet.
I watch him for a moment, before enquiring, “You’re Gray?”
“Yes, ma’am.” He nods with a gentlemanly bow.
“Tell me something, Gray.” I turn to face him fully, watching as he straightens to full height. “The gardener who works for Gran. Is there something I should know about him?”
The old man’s eyes widen as he regards me. “I… I think perhaps you should meet him yourself, ma’am,” he tells me, his voice shaking as he speaks, which only sets my curiosity alight.
He doesn’t say anything more, pulling the door shut behind him, leaving me with even more questions than I had before. The house is large, and I’m excited to explore. It’s been a long time since I’ve been here, and with the multitude of rooms, I wonder just what could be hiding within the walls, or more so, outside the walls of Bardot House.
I cast my glance out of the window once more, taking in the darkness, and as a shadow passes across the lawn, my heart leaps against my rib cage, and I can’t drag my gaze away from the large figure.
When he stops, I notice his head twist, eyes landing on me, as if he can see me in the darkness. I can’t make out what he looks like, but he seems more beast than man as he watches me. The whites of his eyes burn through the darkness, and I have to move away from the window, my breath coming in short spurts of nervous air.
There’s something very peculiar about him. About the shadow in the garden, but perhaps it’s my mind playing tricks on me. Sighing, I move to the suitcases and promise to get ready for bed. Exhaustion takes over, and I know tomorrow, in the light of the sun, I’ll be able to explore better.
7
Scarlett
When my eyes open, there’s no sunshine streaming through the window. Instead, I’m met with the dire grayness of clouds hanging heavily in the sky. The house seems more haunted, with the weather turning somber than it would if the golden glow of the day were shimmering inside.
I quickly dress in a skirt with a sweater that warms me. Even though the heating is on, there’s still a chill in the air when I open my bedroom door. The moment I step foot in the kitchen, the chef and Estelle stop speaking and turn to regard me.
“Good morning, sweet Scarlett.” The old lady grins happily. “This is Jean-Pierre; he’s the full-time chef at Bardot House.”
“Nice to meet you,” I tell the older gentleman who’s dressed in a proper chef’s uniform.
His face crinkles when he smiles. “Ma cherie,” he says with a tip of his head before turning his attention back to the stove.
“Are you hungry?” Estelle asks, moving swiftly toward me. “I’ve set out breakfast for you in the dining room. Your grandmother said she’ll be back in a few days. She had business in the city, so she’ll be gone for a little while.”