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“Hmm, yes, indeed.” He moved around the room, picking up my shoes and socks, fluffing the pillow that I had rested my head on, and peering through the closed drapes on the arched window looking down on the southern lawn. “He’s now sharing a beer with them.”
Barnaby looked my way. I waved it away. “Let him be him. The more he is outside knocking back brewskis as the Americans say, the less he will be in here sniffing the artwork.”
The curtains closed on a soft rustle. “I’m still quite baffled as to why he does that.”
“Americans,” I tossed out as a reply that made Barnaby nod along.
“They are amazing people. So, should I remove the bioptic glasses from the glove compartments in all the vehicles that you drive and place them around the rearview so you see them?”
Damn the man. I had hoped he would forget about that but no, of course not. He was too curious and professional to do such a thing.
“Non, that is not needed. I simply forgot.” There, that should cover my gaffe. He did not need to know that I would have sooner run the entire course of the Watkins Glen Raceway naked than to have let Philip see me with those odd spectacles on my face. Not that I gave a bunch of rotten grapes if he thought I looked less attractive in my driving glasses. The man was a pesky buzzing nuisance. A mosquito with a Queens accent.
“If you wish, sir. Madame would like to know if a light Sunday meal would suit you better since you’re a bit under the weather?” he asked as he moved to my vast closet to sort through what I could wear to dinner. Nothing formal of course. This was not the court of Louis the XIV at Versailles back in the 1600s. But Papa had liked to see his guests looking refined at the evening meal and that, as well as many other precedents set up by my father, had stuck.
“Light food sounds good. Has Mr. Greco had afternoon tea? Perhaps he will be hungrier at seven than I will be given I’ve had tea and treats?” Barnaby said something from the depths of my walk-in closet that I didn’t catch but emerged with a light pink short-sleeved shirt and a pair of beige slacks. I nodded. “Add the dark leather suspenders, and that will suffice nicely.”
“Paired with the Ferragamo brown leather Oxfords?”
“Yes, that will be lovely.” I bit into a madeleine and sighed. No one baked like Madame Lorrie. Each time I had one of her sweet treats, I was a child again, stealing macaroons from the platters at dinner parties and business meals sure that no one had seen me do. Mama always had, but her scolding had been as genteel as she was. She and Papa were sorely missed by their only living child.
“So, has he taken tea?” I asked and got a grunt from Barnaby.
“No, sir, he has not. He said it’s too hot for tea, but it’s the perfect weather for beer.”
“Mm, well, if you can, shout down to him and—”
“I’m sorry, sir. Shout down?” Barnaby asked, his handsome face awash in shock.
“No, not shout. Sorry, my head is still muzzy.” It wasn’t. The pain had subsided nicely. I had just forgotten that proper lords, ladies, and wealthy vintners did not shout. “Call down and ask Mr. Greco to allow the staff to work unhindered by alcohol. Then, if you would, invite him in for tea. Explain that we eat at seven most days. Perhaps he might be too hungry if he skips teatime.”
“I will relay the message, sir,” Barnaby said, laying my evening outfit on the bed, pressing out the shirt with his hands, and then backing out of my room on silent feet.
I sighed, rose, and went to the window to spy. Pulling back the sun-blocking curtain made me wince, but after a moment, my eyes adjusted. A few black spots wavered in front of me. They were constant companions now. Trying my best to ignore the dots, I found Philip and three workers from the gardening staff under the shade of a thick white birch, talking and laughing, drinking cold beers. Where did Philip even find beer here? I wasn’t aware we had any on the grounds, but perhaps Barnaby kept some on-hand for when the Gladiators were here for Sunday brunches. I’d not seen many of the team drinking any beer, but knowing my boutilier, he would have some at hand just in case. Barnaby Fletcher was always a step ahead of me like any good servant should be.
While I did not consider myself a hermit, I stood in awe of how open Philip was with people. All people. Maybe I was standoffish a bit in public and making new friends was difficult for me. Naturally reserved since I was a child and then being diagnosed with JMD at a young age, I did tend to keep most people at arm’s length. Dating was…difficult. Most men were quite interested at first. I was not a troll that I knew. I had inherited my mother’s prettiness and my father’s money—that was a compelling duo that turned male heads—but when those men found out that I was, eventually, going to be losing my sight bit by bit, they took to wing like pheasants flushed by a spaniel. Many people had no clue how to react to those with disabilities. Some overcompensated. Many stared and gaped, and not just children, sadly. Then there were some who feigned understanding and then fled as soon as the check arrived, never to be heard from again.
My heart had been flayed enough over the years. It was easier to stay at the chalet, work tirelessly, attend the few chosen fundraisers that I chaired, or go watch my local hockey team from the owner’s box. Romance was not for me, it seemed. I did not want a man to coddle me or fear what was to come. I wanted a partner, a lover, and someone who could make me laugh. Laughter was important. Keeping my spirits up was not always easy. So a jovial man would be such a blessing, in bed and out of it.
A sharp knock on my door ripped me from my contemplation of things that would never happen. Barnaby entered with Philip on his heels. My man did not look pleased, but Philip appeared to be chipper.
“Hey, Henry. Glad to see you feel better,” Philip called out as he moved around Barnaby, who was standing stiffly just inside the doorway. “Barney here said you wanted to have tea with me. I was starving! Oh man, look at all them cookies. That looks great. Did you know that one of the gardeners has a sister who bakes? Yep, she owns her own muffin shop in San Diego. I got an order placed for my birthday party, but when they come, you got to tell Aunt Mona you ordered them or she’ll chase me around the yard with a wooden spoon. My aunt owns a bakery too, and hand to the baby Jesus, her bomboloni are the best in Queens. Maybe the whole of New York, and I mean upstate too, and over to Erie. That’s one of the great lakes. Did you know that there are five of them? I wasn’t sure if you knew being French and all, but there are. My teacher in elementary school taught us a trick to remember them in case you ever get asked. Just remember HOMES. That’s Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie, and Superior. How clever is that? And easy, which makes it more confusing as to why Cousin Lou could never get that trick. ?Course, Lou did have that run-in with a dumpster door in the fifth grade and lost part of his thoughts for a few months. He’s fine now, but every time he sees a dumpster, he freaks out. Oh wow, these ain’t cookies at all! They’re like little sponge cakes. You got any sugar for the tea, Barney?”
“I’ll go get some sugar,” Barnaby replied, easing out of the room as Philip flopped down in the other seat across from me.
“He’s a funny guy. Man, these chairs are dainty. Don’t you got more rustic seats?” he enquired while pouring tea into a fine bone China cup. Sitting back, I had to simply drink in the sight of this hockey player from Flushing wearing a yellow tee, cut-off denim shorts, and no shoes—seems he lost his well-worn sandals somewhere—having afternoon tea.
“I could have Barnaby bring in one of the Adirondack chairs from the patio,” I offered, not expecting him to agree.
“Oh nice! I’ll go get it. Barney has enough to worry about what with being all proper and what not.” He bolted to the slider, threw it open, and within a second, he came back inside with my favorite outdoor chair. “Shit, this door is skinny. I think with some pivoting, we’ll get it.”
He started shouting pivot for some bizarre reason until the chair wiggled through the doorway. He moved it closer, placed it down, pushed aside one of Papa’s lovely Victorian armchairs, and then shoved it up to the table. With a smile and a huff, he dropped his tight ass into it and sat back to chew on another madeleine.
“Is that sun making your head hurt?” he asked after devouring his second bit of sweet.
“No, it’s fine. Thank you for your concern.” The sun had shifted subtly enough to not be shining directly into my face. “So, I thought you might like something light to carry you over to dinner? We eat at seven here as Papa liked.”
“That was nice of you to think of me.” He hit me with a look that made me feel awkward. “You’re an okay sort, Henry.”
