Secret Garden. Cathryn Parry
be back in a moment,” the man said.
“Who are you?” Colin asked him.
“I’m the MacDowalls’ butler. You may call me Paul.”
Also surreal. Had Colin wandered onto the set of Downton Abbey? Rhiannon’s parents hadn’t had a butler the last time he’d been here.
“Ah, will you please take these to Rhiannon?” Colin handed Paul the rose bouquet. The letter, too, just in case she wasn’t inclined to see him.
Paul was gone for five minutes. Colin knew, because there was a clock on the wall and it ticked, loudly. He stood and walked out of the holding area and into the great room with its tall ceilings, about thirty feet high, and the stone fireplace with the baronial swords and shields on display. That display had been Colin’s favorite part of the castle. His gaze moved to the staircase where he and Rhiannon had once hidden. The staircase had been completely rerouted now, and their hiding place was gone.
Paul’s throat cleared. Colin turned.
“I’m sorry, but Rhiannon isn’t seeing anyone today.”
“Did she take my letter?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do you know if she read it?”
“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t say.” Paul took a step and then paused, waiting for Colin to follow him to the door, but Colin stood rooted.
“If you’ll allow me to lead you out.” Paul tilted his head, signaling the end of Colin’s visit.
But it bothered him that Rhiannon was avoiding him. Something was wrong. “Will she be coming to my father’s funeral?” he asked Paul. “Or maybe her parents or brother?” What was his name? “Malcolm,” Colin said, remembering.
Paul frowned, but Colin didn’t move. He needed to know. “The funeral is on Sunday,” Colin said stubbornly. He didn’t know what time, though. Now he wished he’d asked his grandmother.
It made him feel terrible, still.
“Excuse me while I check for you,” Paul murmured.
Colin waited, for twenty-two minutes this time. He exchanged text messages with Mack—his friend had set up a tee time for them at a nearby course, at Colin’s request—to pass the time. When Paul at last returned to the small anteroom where Colin sat on the couch, watching the birds flit outside, he carried a tray with a formal tea service. Pot, teacup, bone china, the works.
Colin stared. He’d expected none of this. Rhiannon’s family had always been more formal than his, but this was just excessive. He’d spent a good portion of his childhood living in a trailer, eating off mismatched plates and drinking out of jelly glasses.
He stood while Paul set down the tray. There was only one cup.
“Mr. MacDowall will be arriving shortly to speak with you,” Paul said.
“Rhiannon’s father is coming?”
“No, sir. Mr. Malcolm MacDowall.”
Rhiannon’s brother? Colin just felt confused. “Why did you call him?”
“Because you asked about him, sir. And since he is at his company’s Byrne Glennie facility today, and is therefore available locally, he has decided to stop by and speak with you.”
Colin sat, his hand on his forehead. All he’d wanted was to apologize to Rhiannon. He had the feeling he was missing something important.
Paul poured tea into a cup. “Cream or sugar?”
Colin shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t drink tea.” When had this gotten so complicated?
“Try this, sir.” Paul used a pair of silver tongs to drop a sugar cube into the cup and then added a small amount of cream from a tiny pitcher. He passed Colin the delicate cup and saucer, but Colin just stared at him. He didn’t dare touch the damn thing. What if he dropped it?
Paul cleared his throat, then placed the cup and saucer back on the tray. Straightening, he said formally, “Mr. MacDowall requested that I serve you tea, as it will be another ten minutes before he arrives.” He turned to leave.
“Wait,” Colin said.
Paul turned, his brow raised. Honestly, Colin just hadn’t wanted to be left waiting again.
“Ah... Malcolm...he’s the CEO of Sage Family Products now?” The major body-care corporation that his mother had talked about. The one that gave endorsements to professional athletes.
“No, he’s the president,” Paul explained patiently. “Mr. John Sage, Rhiannon’s uncle, is the CEO.”
* * *
RHIANNON SAT ON the stairs, observing Colin and Paul. Ironically, she’d curled up near the spot where she and Colin had peeked through a lattice screen. The staircase had been renovated with modern railings, and now a restored tapestry concealed her from view. But there was one threadbare place in the material that she could peer through.
She’d never expected Colin to return, or to ask to see her. She’d thought she’d scared him away. Part of her had hoped that he would stay away; that would be for the best, after all.
But then she’d been informed by the guard observing the cameras that Colin was approaching the castle. And now, watching him in person...
She put her hand to her lips, filled with amusement by his sweet but bumbling reaction to Paul’s stiff formality. Her family hadn’t used the services of a butler all those years ago, and it seemed that Colin wasn’t sure about how to react to this foreign ritual. But he was gamely trying to put himself in Paul’s good graces.
And what about the funeral he mentioned? She hadn’t been aware of anything happening to his father. Then again, she hadn’t spoken to Jessie in a few weeks. Jamie, either. She’d been wrapped up in finishing her painting.
“Poor Colin,” she murmured. It must be terrible.
She was answered with a peeved meow. The cat in her arms had followed along behind her, more dog than catlike in his behavior. She’d been petting him when Paul arrived with the tea cart.
Now the cat struggled; he knew that the tinkling of china meant fresh cream, and Colin the cat lived for fresh cream. But she normally didn’t let him have much, because he tended to get gassy. Rhiannon stood, intent on sneaking off, carrying her cat back to her painting studio with her, but he jumped down with a loud thud.
“Colin,” she whispered at him.
Colin veered from her and darted off on his short legs as best he could—admittedly, not quickly these days—down the staircase, across the tartan carpeting and toward his namesake.
Rhiannon groaned and covered her head. Below her, Colin the cat sat by Colin the human’s feet. The cat posed in a regal position and begged for cream with his most entitled meow.
“Colin, stop that!” Paul scolded.
“Excuse me?” Colin the human said.
“Colin,” Paul said to the cat, and he bent to pick him up. “You know you don’t belong here,” he admonished her pet in a singsong voice.
“Wait a minute,” Colin said. “Did you just call that cat by my name?”
“No,” Paul said stiffly, drawing himself up. “You share a name with Rhiannon’s cat.”
“Rhiannon’s cat?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Here, pretty baby.” Colin patted his lap, and her cat obliged, jumping up on him. Again, as best he could, given his age. The little devil would attempt anything to poach cream.
“How old is he?” Colin asked