Memoir of a Trapped Housewife

Chapter Fourteen {The Search Begins}

Chapter Fourteen

The Search Begins

Entering the main floors of the estate once Mr. Harricort freed me from the confines of Mr. Cyrus's dark hovel, I was greeted by Christie's radiant light. She ran to me as if I were an old friend just back from the war. Raising her arms as a means of demonstrating her desire to be held, she turned the corners of her lips skywards. In turn, a smile jumped onto my lips, evicting the contemplative frown of before, and I swooped her into my arms.

"Mrs. Choco where have you been?" she asked, eyes wide and shining. Her cheeks were flushed with roses.

"I work for Mr. Cyrus from six to twelve now. So I'll be at the nursery later than usual."

"I knew you were coming," she whispered like a faithful promise. "You promised me that you would never leave."

"I did," I said, the sturdy organ in my chest rising its number of beats.

McMillans' always kept their promises a voice from within ominously reminded. I swallowed the nasty boulder forming in the center of my throat.

Christie chattered about the parts of the day I missed as I carried her back to the nursery. I wrapped my attention round' her endearing tales, awkwardly reminded of the time I used to blather in the like to mama. Those were the utopian days. I was a growing bloom barely sown, happy-go-lucky, and eagerly coaxing open my oyster enclosing a world of opportunity. Mama was my private shaft of sunshine on Earth. My father was gruffly comedic, the man who was blind to the shades of melanin people those days rarely seemed to forget. He was faithful, the knight who protected and provided for the family like a good father should. The dark storms of Matthew McMillan were light years away then.

We were safe then.

In the nursery I fell into a nightmare. Mrs. Cecilia was planted on a chaise, softly reading Clyde a story in her genteel, finishing school accent. A lifted whisper mottled with tones of professor English was a good way to call it. Admittedly, the two built a charming picture, and made it hard to believe that under this woman's exterior dwelled a relentless, heartless, monstrous dragon clawing at the walls, slashing those in the way.

I recalled the letter, not forgetting how she hired a wanted killer to bash off all those that stood in her way to the crown. To her, they were the tufts of pesky grass due to be cruelly mowed. Even as her hand gently brushed the gilded curly-swirls of her son, I wondered if she felt any true affection for the boy. With Christie I had come to learn that Mrs. Cecilia suffered no such sympathy. Rather, she saw the helpless one as a threat, as something in the way.

But why would she think Christie was in the way?

"Don't you have a new occupation, Berna?" Mrs. Cecilia turned to me, malice hidden in all but her stunning, royal gaze. "Is it necessary that you visit? Your presence is wrecking my good mood."

"I apologize ma'am," I said. "Mr. Cyrus hasn't ended my position here in the nursery. I just won't be here as long."

As I set Christie down Mrs. Cecilia's eyes narrowed.

"Oh."

Christie ran to her vermillion miniature house where a troupe of little dolls lived. An acclaimed Parisian man of the arts had made the dark, flappy shingles and white-ridged shutters for the windows--everything down to the cute creaky door. Large as five truck-stocking apple crates, it took a good swath of space in the room. I'd seen the inside of it and knew it was as intimately decorated as the Blackstone house itself. Baby porcelain dishes, tables, chairs and chaises, beds, curtains, linens, couches and even a baby crib littered the dozens of rooms.