Page 3 of Firethorne
Who employs someone they’ve never met?
But when all was said and done, what choice did I have? I had to go with him. I couldn’t let him go alone, he meant too much to me, and he was adamant about taking the job.
I stared blankly at the dark fields and stormy night skies that rolled past as we sat on the train. Rain hammered against the window, rivulets racing across the glass that broke into smaller branches, crawling and spiking like roots of a watery plant that eventually withered and died in front of my eyes. I placed my fingertip on the cold glass and began to trace the fractured lines, all the while wondering why, with everything we’d been through lately, I hadn’t shed a single tear.
Not one.
Had I really become hardened to this life?
“I’m sorry you had to leave home and university,” my father said quietly, probably picking up on my seemingly well-hidden reluctance. Or at least, I’d thought it was well-hidden. “But I know, in time, we’ll come to see it was for the best. I’m your father and I need to take care of you. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day. We have to grab them with both hands. Seize the day.”
My father went on about how lucky we were to get a second chance at life. He didn’t see the irony in his words. I hadn’t even had a first chance. But I let him speak as I stared blindly out of the window, watching the spidery, watery veins as the train carriage swayed us back and forth like it was trying to rock some sense into this crazy situation we found ourselves in.
“They’re well respected, you know,” he continued. “They’ll make excellent employers. We’re lucky to get a foot in. Just think about all the doors this could open for you, Maya.”
I hummed in response, but I was reserving judgement until I’d actually met these people, even though my father seemed to think they were the best thing since sliced bread.
“Apparently,” my father went on, drumming his fingers on the table to try and expel some of his nervous energy. “The estate is the largest in the county. It dates back to the Victorian era. It was originally built in eighteen thirty-four. And it’s a grade-two listed building.”
“Really?” I replied, my voice flat, emotionless, but responding all the same. “That sounds exciting.”
“There’s eighteen bedrooms,” he added proudly.
Slowly, I turned to face him. The lights from the carriage gave his ragged, hope-filled face a gentle, ethereal glow, and I smiled wryly. “Great. I’ll enjoy cleaning those every day.”
He blanched at my cutting remark.
“It might start out as cleaning, but who knows where it’ll lead? The Firethorne family have a lot of businesses in their portfolio. A lot of influence. Firethorne could be the stepping stone to something much greater for you, Maya.”
Firethorne.
The name of the house that my father and I were going to live and work at for the foreseeable future.
It was also the name of the family who owned it.
A name that I was starting to realise held significance for people around here, and maybe not in a positive way.
The train we were on was practically empty. Only one other man was sitting in our carriage on the opposite side to us, just a little way down, with his head stuck in a newspaper. A stranger dressed in a black suit and tie, looking weary, like he was on hisway home after a gruelling day at the office. But when my father mentioned the name Firethorne, I noticed how he reacted.
Startled.
Then apprehension.
Followed by revulsion.
He turned his nose up like the carriage had suddenly been filled with a bad smell, and he furrowed his brow, shaking the newspaper in his hands as he cleared his throat, doing a terrible job of looking unaffected.
Then, slowly, he lifted his gaze from his paper and pinned me with a stare that sent chills of ice darting through my veins. A warning stare, like he’d gut me right here, right now for being associated with that family. I held his gaze, refusing to show an ounce of fear, and eventually, he relented, dipping his head to refocus on his reading. But he kept the scowl on his face.
His throat bobbed as he swallowed, and I half expected him to mutter something under his breath, but he didn’t. He just buried his head in his paper, pretending he wasn’t eavesdropping on what my father was saying.
But he was.
And that didn’t sit right with me, because I didn’t trust this man. His presence set me on edge. He pretended to read, but his jaw was clenched, and his demeanour was guarded and hostile as he sat upright in his seat, noting every word my father said. He obviously knew a lot more about the Firethornes than we did, judging by the visceral effect their name had on him.
“Mr Firethorne is one of the most respected and accomplished men in the county,” my father announced, oblivious to the man across the aisle from us, and I found myself blocking him out, focusing on our fellow passenger; beads of sweat glistened on his brow as his jaw ticked with irritation. He began folding his newspaper and fidgeting in his seat impatiently as my father went on with his diatribe of praise.
Then the man stood up, his eyes fixed straight ahead as he focused on the exit, grabbing the handrails to steady himself because the train was still moving, and we were miles away from the next stop.
