Temper: Book One of the Taboo Series, page 2
I kept my voice calm, never having been one to throw a tantrum. “I don’t want to sleep in Ruth’s room, please.”
I saw the flash in Grandmother’s eyes at my blatant disrespect for calling my mother by her name. Her lips curled as she cast her eyes to the bed. “This is the way it has been planned and you know how I dislike deviations.” My shoulders squared at the clip in her words.
Her head tilted as though daring me to resist. My gaze fell to the floor in obedience as I bit my tongue.
A woman as petite as myself squeezed past me and laid a suitcase on the bed. More were placed about as she began unpacking my belongings. I shifted my weight, unsure of what to do or what was expected of me.
Grandmother excused herself as a young man stepped forward, carrying in the last of my luggage. I glanced at my own belongings as heat swelled in my chest. I hadn’t packed my own bags and no more than a quarter of my things were there.
I glared after Grandmother, trying to stay calm and conceive excuses for why she would have done it herself. My nails dug into my palms at the thought of her rifling through my closet back home.
“You have a beautiful collection of shoes,” said the small brunette. I inhaled slowly and softened my body language. I looked her over, feeling a prick of familiarity at her voice, soft brown eyes, and short, frizzy curls. “I’m Hannah Sykes, the maid for this part of the house.”
I remembered her name as a common treasure at home. I noticed the puffiness in her eyes, the dark, sleepless circles, and pale pallor of her cheeks. “You knew my mother?” I asked, feeling a reprieve as I focused on someone else’s pain. I hoped to help hers when nothing eased my own.
Soft nostalgia glowed in her eyes. “Yes, Ruth and I were close. She was an incredible help with my son, Hugh.” She gestured to the tall, willowy young man retreating from the room.
He stopped at the door with his back to me and his head down. He wasn’t much older than me. He was thin but his arms were encased in strong muscles. His thick, ebony spirals danced on his head in a loose mohawk as he moved.
His bright blue eyes sparked more memories as he turned to me. His brows were knitted together as his full lips pursed. “Hey, Ivy.”
The deep timbre of his voice was new, but the childhood nickname brought back a flashing vision of bright, dancing flowers and childish laughter.
He watched the memory play across my face- the two of us playing hide and seek in the garden on the estate. The blue of his eyes calmed me as they had when I was a little girl. My lips turned up with a genuine smile but faltered as his eyes narrowed and darted away.
Hannah shuffled around. Her soft voice came from behind me, but I couldn’t tear my eyes from the genuine grief in his face. I felt it in my bones, the way my presence discomforted him.
I tried to recall our last encounter as children. We read in the library on a stormy day. Nothing of consequence surfaced.
“Where do you want me to put these, dear?” Hannah repeated.
“I can put them away myself, thank you.” Disappointment darkened her features as she folded the scraps of fabric back.
She scampered from the room while Hugh hesitated in the doorway. My heart began to surge as I faced him. His lips parted as words formed on his tongue. My veins iced as I waited for the dull words of condolences.
His steps were timid as he neared me, glancing into the hall. Something in his body warmed and relaxed, making me recognize him deeper.
“Are you alright?” he asked with a soft note of genuine concern.
It was the first time anyone questioned my stability and shown sincere care apart from the formalities. I searched the room, avoiding his eyes, as I debated how to answer. “I’ve never been so exhausted.”
His eyes pierced me as though he could read my thoughts. I felt naked beneath that gaze and looked away.
His lips parted as he leaned closer. His jaw tightened as something changed his mind.“Let us know if you need anything, ma’am.”
I lifted a glare of my own at his clipped tone. He turned from me, his steps leaking anger.
✷✴✷
I tried to make myself unpack but didn’t want to admit the move was permanent. I closed my eyes in protest to the lack of control I held over my own life, the demeaning way Grandmother spoke to me, and Hugh’s unsettling behavior.
There was a strange absence of life in the mansion. I knew the house was filled with workers but heard no footsteps or voices. I was encased in a coffin full of empty abundance.
Grandmother’s constant glances of distaste made more memories float into my mind like soft-spoken intruders. I recalled her malicious words to Mother, her snide remarks to me about my grades or lack of social skills, and the way she always referred to Father as weak in an ambiguous way.
I could still see Mother’s tight smile as she tried to shield me from Grandmother’s venomous whispers. I relived crawling along the upstairs hall to peer down into the den and seeing Grandmother’s hand flash across Mother’s face. She called Ruth wicked, immoral, and unhealthy. Those were always her favorite names for Ruth.
I wanted nothing more than to curl into a ball in Father’s study with a book in my hands to remove me from time. I craved to hear the sounds of my loved ones moving around me in our steady rhythm. I needed to go back. I wanted to erase the last few weeks and forget the images.
The nostalgia made tears sting again, blinding me as I reached for the bed. I clenched into myself, battling against anger for Father. He loved her more, chose death with her over life with me. He had loved her too much. He couldn’t live on this Earth for one moment, knowing she wasn’t here.
I struggled with my emotions, refusing to spill tears for Ruth’s betrayal. She chose to leave me and in such a cruel way. Her actions seemed to define my worth.
✷✴✷
I woke in the dark, my face swollen and stiff from tears. Someone had pulled a blanket over me, removed my shoes, and placed them neatly by the bed.
Whoever came and showed me kindness in the night must have assumed my tears were from natural mourning. There was no one with whom I could communicate my malicious notions.
My own parents chose not to be present. I couldn’t assume anyone else would care to be. I stood from the bed onto the cold wooden floors, feeling foreign.
I tried to pretend I was at home in my own shower as the hot water scorched the salt from my face. I stepped from the steamy bathroom, disappointed in my lack of imaginative ability and pulled on a simple black dress.
I slipped through the dark house to the library. I felt tiny beneath the high ceilings erected above me as I descended the grand stairs.
I jumped at the last step, startled by a distant clamor. I paused to listen but was answered with silence. I ignored my own paranoia and crept behind the stairs through the thin hallway to the hidden library.
I lit a dim lamp and looked across the massive room and towering shelves. I remembered that room above all others. It seemed larger than the house itself when I was a child.
My feet led me across the lines of familiar titles. My eyes caught the faded colors of a Grimm Brothers’ storybook. It was fitting. My fantasies of a fairytale life were distorted.
I used a shelf to hoist myself within reach of the binding. I carried it to the old, brown leather loveseat and pulled the lamp close. I welcomed the distraction from my own misery as I sunk into some else’s, ignoring the fact that the stories were fiction.
I read through the dismal hours. The stories comforted me. I wasn’t the most unlovable entity created.
A shadow passed over the room and I spun. I looked around with straining eyes as I stood and tiptoed to the door. I was rarely superstitious, but I was sleeping in her room. I was cursing her name. I didn’t want her presence near me, imaginary or not.
I settled back and huffed at myself. Ghosts don’t exist. Stop it.
A slam in the distance made my fingers stumble and the book land on my toes. I cursed as I jumped to my feet and marched to where the sound was coming from.
I stopped in the entry hall and tried to lower the irrational fumes of anger. I looked through the dining room to see a light under the kitchen door and stormed towards it. Whoever frightened me had a face and a body.
I slammed the swinging door open to catch sight of blue eyes glaring at me. His deep, reproachful voice made my body jolt, “How may I help you?”
His aggressive body language made my teeth grind. I tried to keep the strange heat of embarrassment from my face. Weeks ago I would have apologized for crashing into a room occupied by someone else.
I stared into his waiting, contemptuous face as my defenses rose. “You could try being quiet.”
His lips curled in aggravation as he turned his back to me, dismissive and arrogant. “I didn’t realize my job was disrupting your leisure.”
I stared at his back and watched the muscles beneath the thin t-shirt as he continued to work. I waited for a witty response to come to my tongue. I recalled the shadow in the library. “Were you spying on me?”
He dropped the knife to the counter with an indignant laugh and turned from the bell-peppers he was dissecting. I tried not to wince at the sudden flash of his movements and obvious annoyance.
I didn’t understand any of it. I knew I was being unreasonable but had yet to do anything to promote his vivid anger. I didn’t even understand why I cared. He was no one to me, an old friend I hadn’t known for years.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes, making his skin seem transparent. He swayed in agitation and I recognized the glowering irritation from fatigue. I pushed at the empathy, impatient with my own tumbling thoughts.
“I have no interest in spying on you. I saw the light and checked to make sure it wasn’t been left on by accident.” He crossed his arms and leaned against the counter.
Heat spread across my face as satisfaction glinted in his eyes. I bit my tongue, wishing I could find a biting response. My wit failed me as I withered beneath his ridiculing glare. “Why are you so rude?”
He attempted to appear nonchalant as he shrugged though his jaw burned scarlet. He turned away, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
I couldn’t help but roll my eyes at his petulance. I spun away, slamming back through the doors as I fumed.
✷✴✷
I sat with Grandmother in her office as we called my former tutor to homeschool me again, not hearing the negotiations of payment.
Grandfather passed me in the hall, his face lined with grief. He asked me to join him on the pond for a lazy afternoon as an afterthought. I shook my head and backed away from the suggestion in fear, never having learned to swim. I avoided bodies of water for my own safety.
I sat for dinner after an exhausting day of feigning normal grief. I thanked the servant who laid the plate in front of me filled with rosemary-roasted vegetables and, to my disappointment, seared mignon.
I picked through the meal and found pieces of red bell peppers among the potatoes and green beans. My face flushed, reminded of the encounter with Hugh.
I glanced at Grandfather as he dug into his food. His dark green eyes took in his red steak with greed as his orange and white hair shook with the vigor of cutting into his meat.
“What’s wrong?” I cringed at Grandmother’s impatient voice. I swallowed against the uneasiness at the thought of displeasing her.
I looked at the carcass on my plate. “I don’t eat meat.”
She lifted a brow, her dignified way of rolling her eyes. “Ruth told me when you decided to become a vegetarian. I assumed it was a phase.” My lips pressed together as I held down my retort.
I frowned at the plate but ate the vegetables. Grandmother’s dismissive attitude towards my life choices made me realize I would have to tell the main chef myself about my aversion to meat. I wasn’t afraid of conflict though never intentionally sought it out.
Grandmother’s face was filled with amusement through the entire meal. The moment she excused herself and turned from the room Grandfather leaned over. “I’ve been waiting for her to leave. You’re not going to eat that?”
“Help yourself.”
I pushed the plate towards him, grateful for the scent to be out from under my face. I stood and dragged myself to the swinging kitchen doors. I tried to remain inconspicuous as I peeked into the room for someone to speak with, praying it wouldn’t be him.
Chapter 3-Vanilla
Hugh looked away from the conversation with his mother. I hesitated, wanting to turn back. I could see the weariness in his expression as he stared.
“Yes?” His polite tone surprised me.
Hannah smiled in my direction as she excused herself. Her expressions always seemed so sincere compared to his forced manners and sarcastic tongue.
I stepped into the room, trying to appear confident and poised. “I need to have a word with the head chef.”
He pulled away from the counter. His swift movements startled me as he closed the distance between us. He glowered down at me in response. I wanted to remark that he was too young and inexperienced for the title but felt it best not to anger him when I needed his cooperation.
It was our first time being so close. Even in my stilettos, I reached below his throat. I couldn’t tell if he was trying to intimidate me or not, but I refused to acknowledge the strange twist in my gut.
I stared up into those sarcastic, laughing blue eyes. I kept my tone calm and polite, a gift I gained through years of stepping on eggshells to never disrupt my environment. “I’m a vegetarian. Please do not plate dead animal for me.”
Contemplation danced across his features. A new conclusion began to form in his mind. “Do you eat dairy? Eggs? Honey?” I nodded. “Seafood? Fish?”
“Sometimes. I feel guilty about it. I know the dairy industry is cruel and fish-,” I stopped myself, knowing he wouldn’t care about my opinion. “I eat salmon on occasion,” I amended.
He cocked his head. The expression made me feel as though I was being inspected. I stood firm, never letting my eyes waver from his.
“Alright,” he said before turning away. I let out a sigh of relief. He glanced back, smirking at my confusion. “What? I like a challenge.” His eyes filled with a blue electricity that flashed his thoughts.
I narrowed mine, feeling the double meaning and threat in his words. I swallowed as his eyes lingered down my legs. He tried to hide a tiny smile as he turned away.
A ridiculous twitter of nervousness began in my belly. I slipped from the kitchen for the second time that day, my head steaming with confusion and embarrassment.
I kept my mind busy, avoiding sleep. In the darkness, my emotions threatened to wreak havoc. I ignored the exhaustion and the pain of repressed grief in my heart.
I kept my distance from everyone over the next couple of weeks and they did the same. The air was thick with silence in the presence of my grandparents. I ate meals, met with my tutor, and studied. Life became a system of mundane rituals but the privacy contented me.
Emotions emitted from Hugh the few times I passed him in the massive house. There were signs of sadness, irritation, and at one point complete frustration. Suspicion blossomed as the sightings of him started to grow more frequent.
I tried not to pay him attention. He was undeniably intriguing in the way he moved while picking apples from the small grove by the empty stables, weeding the decay from the vegetable garden, or his expressions when he read beneath the hot sun at the edge of the pond.
There were times I would look out my window to see the garden that terrified me. The winding walls of flora seemed threatening with memories that would sting.
He always brought a distraction from the anxiety. I would catch sight of coming from the hidden path of the garden or swimming laps in the glistening pool, his movements fluid and the shape of him mesmerizing. I would close the curtains, feeling foolish.
He never did try to speak to me. I would pass the dining room to see him appearing from the kitchen. I would pour over my studies in the library to glance up at the sensation of eyes on my back. His long, graceful legs would carry him across the room for a particular, sought out volume.
When we would pass in the hall his eyes would bore into mine as if he were whispering secrets about me to himself. I ignored him even as the strange encounters made my lips twitch into a smile as heat climbed my face.
He became the mythical ghost- always there but out of reach and disappearing around a corner the moment I turned back to catch a private glimpse.
The limited socialization I received was in the form of Hannah. She would tiptoe through the house while keeping everything pristine. I knew she tried to be discreet with her work and often managed to complete her tasks when I was away from Ruth’s room. I’d return to a made bed, the floors swept and cleaned, and a fresh pink lily in a vase on the windowsill.
There were days where I never left Ruth’s room, stuck in thoughts that made me miss her. I was incapable of sacrificing myself to conversations at those times. On one of those particular days, I sat the vanity while trying to sketch my thoughts into something tangible. The door opened and I turned as Hannah glided across the room to refill my bathroom closet with clean towels.
She smiled as she stepped towards me, peering over my shoulder. “What are you drawing?”
Her quiet tone and sweet demeanor were so different from her son’s. I turned the book for her to see the skeleton of my sketch. I struggled to capture the library from a child’s point of view- when life was simple, bright, and wondrous.
Understanding shone in her sad eyes. “You knew my mother well?” I asked, unsure why after so much time and passings I felt compelled to ask about Ruth.
Her head tilted as she enjoyed sweet memories of Mother. “She was my best friend. I see so much of her in you, Olivia.”
I wanted to deny the accusation but didn’t want to hurt the kindest person in the mansion. She hesitated, hoping I would ask more, but there was nothing else I wanted to know. I was in a house full of people who knew Ruth but few of them knew Father.
