“Rebecca.” Grace touched her arm.
She looked away. “Sorry. What was next?”
They finished the tour: the sitting room, the laundry room, the guest bedrooms upstairs that were never used, the linen cupboard organized so precisely it looked like it had been done by a machine.
By the time they came back downstairs, it was almost noon. They sat together at the small kitchen table, and Grace poured 2 cups of tea. Outside the kitchen window, the garden sat in the bright midday sun, very green and very still.
“He is a good man,” Grace said, wrapping both hands around her cup. “I want you to know that before I leave. He can seem cold at first, all that quiet, all that control, but he is fair. He has never raised his voice at me. Not once in 5 years.” She looked at Rebecca. “Some people you work for and they make you feel small. He does not make you feel small.”
Rebecca nodded slowly. “What does he do in the evenings?” she asked.
“Reads. Sometimes watches the news, but only for 30 minutes, then he turns it off. On Fridays, he sometimes has a glass of whiskey in the sitting room.” Grace smiled. “He talks to himself sometimes when he’s in the study. Very quietly. I don’t think he knows he does it.”