Page 2 of House of Royals

“May I help you with your bags?” he offers.

“Uh, sure,” I say uncomfortably, indicating for him to take the one on the porch. He grabs it and turns back into the house.

He walks in, easy as day and night, like his surroundings are no big deal. But the second I step foot inside, I freeze in awkwardness.

Because standing just inside is a row of people.

“Welcome, Miss Ryan,” a few of them mutter.

But the greeting is cold and uncomfortable.

Because when they say it, not a one of them looks me in the eye.

“Miss Ryan,” the man who greeted me says. “This is the staff. Katina, the house cook,” he says, indicating a plump woman with brilliant red hair. “Angelica and Beth, the housekeepers. Juan, Dave, and Antonio, our grounds men. And Kellog, our handyman.”

I struggle for words. I wasn’t expecting any of them. “Uh, hello.”

Still none of them look at me. The man beside me gives a nod and they disburse without a word.

The breath leaks between my lips slow and heavy now that they aren’t all standing here. And finally my eyes are free to take in the scene before me.

With absolute wonder.

The entryway is grand and spacious. A double staircase splits at the bottom and reconnects at the top of the next floor. A giant, crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. High windows let in the late afternoon sunlight. Paintings hang from the walls. The marble floor shines with a high luster. Crown molding, gold leafing, and sculpted detail are thrown everywhere around me.

Saying the place is beautiful would be an understatement. This house is grand, ornate, and way too rich for my blood.

And somehow, it’s all mine.

“Miss Ryan?” the man calls from down the hall. I didn’t even realize he’d walked away. “After we drop your bags off, I can show you around, if you’d like.”

“Okay,” I answer breathily. With one last look around, I follow him down the hall that branches off to our right.

More paintings line the dark hallway, illuminated dimly with smaller versions of the chandelier in the entryway. Down four doors we go before the man opens one and we step in.

“This is only a guest bedroom, but until you decide which room you’d like to claim as yours permanently, I thought you’d be comfortable here.”

“Thank you,” I say, setting my suitcase next to its sister on the floor. “I’m sorry, remind me of your name again?”

“Rath,” he says as I meet his eyes. They’re dark, possibly even black, except when the light catches them just right. He’s certainly some kind of African-American, but I’d guess he had a mix of something else in his DNA, too. Native American, maybe? Small lines next to his eyes make me wonder how old he is. Late thirties? Early forties? Neatly trimmed, curly hair hugs his head. He’s strong, fit, and looks ready for anything.

“Rath,” I repeat, recalling the name from the will. Silently, I wonder about this man having the condensed version of my father’s last name as hisonlyclaimed name. But it would be rude to ask about that.

“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, when I show my lack of intelligent conversation.

“You, too,” I recover. “I’m sorry. This has all just been such a whirlwind and I’m feeling a little…”

“It’s perfectly all right if you’re feeling overwhelmed,” Rath says as we exit the guest bedroom and walk back out into the hall. “You’re going through a drastic life change. You’ve moved over a thousand miles from your home. Trust me, where you’ve just come from is a completely different world from which you’ve arrived.”

It’s true. Everything here is different. The landscape. The feel of the air. The way people talk. Everything.

“So,” Rath says as we walk back into the grand entry room. “A little bit of history on the house. It was built in 1799, making it the forth oldest home still standing in Silent Bend. The man who built it emigrated from England. He and his brother both bought mass amounts of land and established cotton plantations. The Estate continued as a plantation for 86 years, but was then shut down and landscaped and eventually transformed into what it is today.”

Rath walks back into the grand entryway and stops under the chandelier. “It was brought here from Bohemia,” he says as he looks up at it. Light dances off its surface, casting rainbows and shoots of brilliance in all directions. “The thing is nearly four hundred years old and priceless. Despite all the grandeur you see around you, this is the heart and crown of the Estate.”

“It’s beautiful,” I say as I look up at it. And it is. I realize as I look closer that it doesn’t have any light fixtures inside, it is simply the way the light comes through the windows that makes it appear to be glowing.

“The staircases themselves took the carpenters and welders ten months to construct,” Rath continues. They are indeed ornate and beautiful. The iron twists and curls, much like the gates leading into the property. Flowers, thorns, and tiny ravens are woven throughout the masterpiece. “Here on the main floor there are eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms. Upstairs there are six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and the master suite. You are, of course, welcome to claim any you choose.”

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