Unraveled by Her (7 page)

While I bite my lip to keep my temper in check, she takes a sip of tea, lounges on the couch, and announces, “This, my dear, is where I most firmly suggest that you commence the prologue: In 1650, when my ancestor Lady Veronica Lacely married and gave birth to seven children. Centuries later, one of the descendants of those children, my distant great-uncle, Lord Tremaine, went on to amass a fortune and then commissioned a castle to be built for himself on Long Island, New York.

“And it was at Tremaine Castle that I spent every single summer staying with his son—my godfather—and his family, the Tremaines, and was permitted access to all areas of the castle and grounds, to run wild and explore there to my heart’s content.

“Sadly, just before my seventeenth birthday, my father convinced Lord Tremaine to go into business with him and then defrauded him. Consequently, Lord Tremaine was forced to sell the castle that was his family seat for over eighty years, and where I spent such happy and carefree summers, at a knockdown price.

“The name of the buyer? Robert Hartwell.”

I hate from the bottom of my soul that Georgiana shares a history with Robert, a history with the castle.

A history with the castle . . .

So that’s how she seems to know all about the secret passages that must run under Hartwell Lake and Hartwell Island. Which explains how she was able to go out this morning and come back to the island with her clothes still dry. There’s no way she swam the lake, champion swimmer or not.

Then why did she bring me here by boat?

Obviously because the secret passage that leads to Hartwell Island doesn’t lead to the castle at all but heads out of the estate entirely. So at least I’ve now managed to unearth a small amount of information that might help me come up with a plan to escape the prison I’m in.

No opportunity to focus on that now, though, as Georgiana is in full flowery flow again. “So now you can understand why we saw
And Now My Love.
So that you would fully comprehend my point that the centuries, my family history, and the fascinating fabric of fate destined me to marry Robert and live in the very castle that was once owned by a distant branch of my family. And that, my little cupcake, is the prologue to my autobiography!” she says. I can’t help but grudgingly admit to myself that, much as I loathe her, she has nailed down the prologue as well as I might have done myself.

“I know it’s early days so far, but I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying our work together!” she says, her eyes dancing.

Then she drops her voice, and her mood becomes earnest once more, “Now, for the first and second chapters. As far as Robert is concerned, I firmly believe that if he learns the extent and depth of the dramatic financial deprivation I suffered so early on in life, he will eventually come to understand exactly why my actions toward him were so often motivated by a deep-seated fear of poverty,” she says. I expect her to burst into a soulful rendition of “Sister, Can You Spare a Dime?” any second now.

“You can’t imagine, Miranda, can’t know what it’s like to grow up so pampered, so privileged, with nannies, maids, butlers, gardeners, chauffeurs all at your beck and call, as well as an opulent summer paradise, a fairy-tale American castle like no other, and then, in the blink of an eyelash, everything is gone, you have nothing, and, consequently, you are no one.”

Much as I’m trying to disarm her, I find I can’t quite bring myself to react to her ramblings with the sympathy she clearly craves.

When she realizes that I’m not about to give her that satisfaction, she gives a sigh, then jumps up and declares, “I can hardly wait for tomorrow, when I intend to unveil all my plans for chapter two.”

I sigh with relief; the evening is over.

Once I’m in bed, though, I find it impossible to sleep.

Just relax, Miranda, and remember . . .

Robert naked, his strong, perfectly formed body, his spectacular pecs, his long legs, his broad shoulders. The strength in his big hands as he flexes his fingers, readying himself to spank me, their tenderness when he caresses me, the fire in his kiss, the intensity in his eyes. Image after image courses through my mind, but rather than relax, I am plunged into an agony of pain and regret.

Robert’s favorite poet, Dante, once said, “There is no greater sorrow than to recall happiness in times of misery.” And judging by the degree to which my happy thoughts of my past with Robert torment me, I am forced to concede that he was spot-on.

And then it hits me: What if I never see Robert again? What if I never manage to get out of here? At the thought, I burst into tears. I quickly stuff my fist into my mouth so that I won’t give my captors the satisfaction of knowing the distress I’m in.

When I’ve cried myself out, I fly in the face of Dante’s wisdom and let myself think of Robert again, picturing him in every desirable detail. First, in his dark Armani suit and white shirt, his presence that of a king or a general whom men would gladly and unquestioningly follow into battle. Robert—tall, broad-shouldered, dashing, his piercing emerald eyes, his devil-may-care smile, his confidence, his aura of invincibility. Robert in all his glory, the most glamorous, sexually attractive man I’ve ever met.

And then the memory of his passion, his dominance, his loving consideration for me makes me forget my surroundings, forget my terror, forget everything apart from the throb between my legs.

I thank God that since I met and fell in love with Robert, and he worked his magic on me, I don’t need my vibrator to help me come anymore . . .

And come I do, in an orgasm that is so strong, so powerful, so enhanced by my memories of Robert that afterward I fall into a deep and peaceful sleep after all.

Chapter Six

First thing in the morning, after I’ve just woken up, Georgiana is looming over me, dressed from head to foot in violet, brandishing the tape recorder.

“Oh, Miranda, working with you is such fun!” she says.

Then she twirls out of the room, gets me some breakfast, and afterward lets me takes a shower (the bathroom door guarded by Tammy, alas); when I’m done, she hands me my Alexander McQueen outfit.

The second I’m dressed, she sits down opposite me, fixes me with a sparkling smile, and says, “Yes, I am so enjoying working on my autobiography with you, Miranda . . .” After a pregnant pause, she continues, “But I know I should relish the experience so much more if I could be certain that once you begin interviewing me in earnest, we won’t encounter any untoward intrusions at any point in the process.”

“Intrusions?” I say, still half-asleep and unable to grasp what she means.

“My husband galloping in on his white horse and attempting to rescue you,” she says.

“But that letter you made me write . . .” I say, my heart palpitating with a combination of joy and terror.

“That letter was intended to sound the perfect death knell to your little romance with my husband, but thinking back to the cryptic way in which you signed it, my instincts tell me that you may, after all, have found a way to signal Robert. In which case . . .”

Her words hang in the air.

When in doubt, don’t react.

To distract her from this line of questioning, I ask her, “Shall we start the interviews now?”

All of a sudden she brightens and I thank my lucky stars that any suspicions she may have are temporarily banished from her mind. “You know, as a child, I always had waist-length blonde hair and wore little black velvet dresses with pink ribbons on them, so adorable,” she says, while I try hard not to wince.

“I’m sure that when Robert sees what a sweet and adorable child I was, that will make him fall in love with me even more. So do let’s have pictures in the book!” she gushes, and I gulp.

“Of course, Georgiana, we’ll definitely do that,” I say, and for a second I find myself actually contemplating the glamorous photo insert the autobiography will have.

She’s driving you insane! This is never going to become an actual book.

But to lull her into a false sense of security, I have to maintain the fairy tale that it is destined to be one, so I spend the rest of the day interviewing her about her childhood, her teens, and her time at the Swiss finishing school where she first met Gigi and Tamara.

When she first said that the evil Tamara Hatch was at finishing school with her, I struggled hard to mask my surprise, but today she explains that, although Tamara was much older than the average student, and came from a particularly impoverished background, she was able to attend the school after her father had won the lottery, and paid a premium for her admission.

“But as soon as she graduated from Les Orchidées, Tammy found her true vocation in life, and the die was cast,” Georgiana says, and I’m about to ask her what she means when the mausoleum door opens and Tamara appears on the threshold, with Pluto in tow.

I switch off the tape recorder just before Pluto races over to me and jumps straight into my lap.

Tamara lunges at me, but Georgiana intercepts her. “Let me make you a cup of tea, dear,” she says.

I push Pluto off my lap as gently as possible, and he scampers over to the other side of the room. Tamara flops on the couch, kicks her shoes off, and says, “So what have you told her so far, Georgie?”

“Just about to tell her about how Simon Watford, the Les Orchidées school governor, saw me in the end-of-the-year play, announced that I was a born actress sure to one day become a Hollywood star, and offered to pay my way through drama school. Which is how I became an actress, Miranda—and a mother.”

A mother! Georgiana is a mother! When did she have her baby? Where is the child now? And why didn’t Robert tell me about it?

I’m about to put all those questions to her, but she steams on. “Chapter three will cover my drama-school triumph, in particular, my tour de force performances as Lady Macbeth and Ophelia, all of which Robert is unaware.”

Lady Macbeth and Ophelia? A murderess and a madwoman? I’m sure Robert will conclude that the casting is apt. If, of course, he ever reads her autobiography. Maybe someday we can laugh about it together.

In fact that’s what’s saving me from cracking up entirely, imprisoned here as I am: picturing my reunion with Robert, telling him about my experiences with Georgiana, and then laughing about them together.

“In chapter four, I plan to cover what happened next: Simon Watford and the rape,” she says, and wipes the laughter right out of my mind.

“He raped you, Georgiana?” I say, shocked to the core.

Her eyes fill with tears, and she nods.

“And I need Robert to know not just that I was raped but the truth of it, the horror of it,” she says.

“Did he hurt you, Georgiana?” I say.

She takes a deep breath, then meets my eyes squarely.

“In every conceivable way. I just hope that when you write about that harrowing time in my life, you will do so in such a dramatic and heartfelt way that Robert will fully understand and empathize with the wrong that was done me,” she says, her eyes still brimming over with emotion.

“Would you like to tell me more about it?” I say, flying in the face of the interviewer’s cardinal rule—never ask a question to which the interviewee can answer yes or no—simply because I feel so sorry for her.

“Just that it made me hate men,” she says.

“Robert?”

“The only exception—and I want him to read my book and know it,” she says. I wish to God that I hadn’t asked her.

For what seems an eternity, she closes her eyes and doesn’t say a word.

Then she leaves the living room, still in silence.

After a few minutes, she glides back in again, takes both my hands in hers, and opens her eyes very wide, and to my amazement I see that they are no longer blue but are violet once more.

“I’ve arrived at a momentous decision,” she declares. “I no longer wish to waste another second on submitting to interviews pertaining to the distant past anymore. I want to focus on telling you the true story of how I first met Robert,” she says, and my heart sinks.

“Because of the man who called himself William Masters?” I volunteer, out of shock, and for want of anything else to say.