Саша Кая – Leonie wants a romance with the Baron (страница 2)

“I raise my glass to you, Baron, and to your wonderful castle!” I declared solemnly, and I truly did raise my glass.

It should be explained here that after that excursion I was head over heels in love with the Baron, even though at the time I still had no idea what kind of person he was, what he looked like, or how old he might be. Since childhood I had known that one day I would marry the master of this castle. In case the master happened to be elderly or already married, I held onto the hope that he would pass on his title to a younger relative, then move to America, open some kind of business there, and live happily ever after, leaving the young couple in blissful solitude. Later, as I grew older, I realized how absurd my fantasies were and invented a new dream: when I married the young Baron, I would turn the castle into a charity center. If living in it proved impossible, I would agree to move into a cozy city apartment with central heating (by that time I had visited enough castles on excursions to know about their inconveniences).

Time went by, I turned twenty, I was well into my higher education, and my monarchist ideas of power were gradually replaced with socialist ones—it was quite possible that I would have forgotten both the castle and its Baron altogether, had the castle not suddenly opened to tourists. I never did meet the Baron to know and love him—both outwardly and inwardly—but the castle… I fell in love with its inner world at first sight. Two years passed, and my reason tells me I am foolish, because I pay money for the tours, which means—to the aristocrats—while I am ever more convinced of the truth of “liberty, equality, and fraternity… and sisterhood.” At the same time, my conscience reproaches my reason for being calculating. Yet my inner voice adds that the art into which aristocrats poured their money is valued even under socialism.

Young people passed by, amused by the strange sight of a girl in a crinoline dress. They began to take pictures of me on their smartphones. At first I smiled, but then they started laughing. So I stuck out my tongue at them in annoyance. They photographed that too.

I imagined that in its better days this place welcomed guests of the highest rank. It was not hard for me to picture how, on a spring afternoon, the Queen’s motorcade kissed the sandy driveway with its tires; how, on a summer morning, elegantly dressed guests and hosts, pinkies raised, sipped tea on the lawn; how, on autumn evenings, warm light filled the windows, broken only by the shadows of figures waltzing at a ball. I had to be a part of that, if only in my nighttime fantasies.

Chapter 4. The Invitation

The guide was once again that same attractive man—in an elegant jacket, with a bow tie and neatly styled hair… He looked as if he were headed to a banquet rather than to meet a group of tourists. He could appeal to anyone—and he knew it. And, wasting no time, he used his charm, flirting with girls who couldn’t care less about the tour itself.

For the fifth time, I ended up in his group. The fifth time—in just two weeks.

“Miss, I’ve seen you here five times already… Maybe it’s time for you to start leading the tours yourself?” he suddenly said and, smiling, flashed his perfectly whitened teeth.

Why is he asking? I’m on vacation, after all. I have every right to be here. Or does he, heaven forbid, think I’m here because of him? …Of course! He thinks I’m chasing after him! What a conceited type!

“Or maybe you’re trying to embellish something?” he added slyly, and I realized he wasn’t just smiling—he was smirking.

I couldn’t reply—the first thought clouded my mind so much I couldn’t focus on anything else. My face turned murderously shy.

Suddenly a lady, at whom the guide had just been trying to make a pass, stepped in for me.

“Come on, John, leave the girl alone! Don’t embarrass her!”

“Oh, not at all,” John spread his hands. “I only meant to offer the young lady a private tour. Including the wine cellar and the attic full of ancient junk—since she should know those aren’t part of the standard program… But if…”

“I’ll go!” I blurted out, surprising even myself with such sudden boldness.

Now it was his turn to freeze. And in the very same instant, I asked myself: why did I just do that? Am I really going to follow this guy through dark cellars and dusty attics?

“Okay, miss. Here’s my card with my phone number. Though… tomorrow at four, I’ll be waiting for you at the main entrance.”

“Four in the morning?” I asked, staring blankly at the card.

“In the evening.”

“But the museum is closed tomorrow.”

“Not for me. I’ll be waiting.”

“You know… I’m actually a student,” I began hurriedly, trying to excuse my impulsiveness by making it sound like all of this was strictly “for work,” but he cut me off:

“Classes tomorrow?”

“No. I’m, you see… writing my thesis… on a topic… well, related to this. And from that perspective, I’m very interested in digging around the cellars… taking a look at the cellars, attics, and everything else up there.”

Chapter 5. The Day Before

My mother works at a travel agency. After classes at the university, which is nearby, I always drop in to see her. If the director happens to be sitting at the desk opposite my mother, I pretend to be a client. The director, as you can imagine, considers me a regular but terribly unprofitable visitor: I waste her time with questions, never buy anything, yet constantly praise her employee. I usually say to her, as if in passing, “Your young employee explains everything so clearly—she’s a true professional!”

And if the director ever dares hint that I shouldn’t come around “just like that” anymore—I’ll write in the complaint book all the things that have been simmering inside my mother for years.

“It’s as hot and stuffy as the jungle. And my brother’s flying in from Africa tomorrow. From Tunisia. And what’s there? The Sahara,” my mother said—not to get an answer, but to test me once again, and, should I not know, to supply the answer herself and add to my store of knowledge.

“He’ll bring us some camels,” I replied without looking up from the newspaper.

In truth, there was nothing of interest in the newspaper. I was thinking about the fact that in just a few hours I would be going on a private tour of the castle halls. Until this very morning, you could have called me one hundred percent my mother’s daughter—from the tips of my hair to the tips of my nails. But that morning I decided: I wouldn’t tell her where I was going tonight. I looked at her smile—the very one she likes to say exists because of me and only for me… and I couldn’t believe that some stranger occupied my thoughts more than the person thanks to whom I live and rejoice.

“Who’s going to win today’s match?” my mother asked.

I answered:

“Mmm?”

She repeated the question, and I suggested:

“Ask the Japanese or the Australians. For them it’s already tomorrow—they’ll definitely know.”

My mother, more than anyone, sensed that I was hiding something. She was about to ask, smiling… but the phone rang. It was her brother from Tunisia.

“How’s the weather over there?… Oh, here it’s hot, not a cloud in the sky! Today I came out in just a shirt… Of course, I brought a coat, but I’m not wearing it now… Yes, yes, it’s so warm you don’t even notice you’re back from vacation.”

By lunchtime the rain had started, a thunderstorm broke out. No surprise—it was late May. Neither my mother nor I, of course, had an umbrella. She wouldn’t let me step outside until I agreed to pull plastic bags over my head and shoes. Bags made of plant-based material—we care about the environment.

The streets of London remained lively: crowds of locals and tourists, freshly dressed in light summer dresses, shorts, and sleeveless shirts. Like us, they hadn’t thought to bring umbrellas.

Amid this colorful mass, I once again thought of my long-standing, faint but persistent desire—to stand out from the faceless crowd. Perhaps very soon…

Chapter 6. The Acquaintance

The main door of the castle was always opened by the butler. At the sound of the bell – deafening, like a gong calling warriors to battle (installed at the insistence of the tourist agency that ran tours here) – the elderly man began his ritual: unlocking every bolt and latch.

One day, having completed this entire ceremony, he found two figures on the doorstep: a young man and a young woman. The girl was dripping wet from the rain. The young man – dry, with an umbrella in his hand, which, apparently, he had not cared to share with her. The girl was me, Leonie Smith.

– “You’ve come to Lord Montgomery, Baron George Gérard Étienne?”

– “We’ve come to George,” replied the guide John, as if all those names belonged to different people and he had just picked the one he wanted.

– “Who else would you come to… The place is as empty as a sinking ship,” the old man muttered under his breath, clearly convinced we could not hear him.

– “I’m from the tour company. My name is John Stevenson. I think he’ll agree to see us once he learns the reason is very important… Confidential, in fact.”