Page 17 of Eternal Craving

“This is forgiveness.” I pointed to where the house had stood. “This is retribution. The House of Velde will overshadow the House of Bastillion.”

“Exactly how much did you inherit?”

“Why?”

He stared at the ruins of the mansion. “It just goes to prove that people often do things out of character.”

“Do you mean him or me?”

Miguel raised his arms up in exasperation.

I leaned against the gate. “We start rebuilding tomorrow.”

“Much responsibly comes with such a position.”

“So does power.”

He shook his head, and then pulled out a loaf of bread, handing me a piece. “We break bread together for the last time.”

“It will never be that way between us.”

He shrugged. “May I suggest a new barn? The horses deserve better.”

“Once the house is rebuilt, you’ll sleep inside.”

Miguel jumped over the gate. “Look up.”

I followed his gaze skyward, seeing a million twinkling stars.

“That’s my view,’ he said. “Now why would I want to stare up at a ceiling?”

Chapter Nine

The house of Velde rose up out of the ashes.

Taking the advice of Señor Teofilo, I hired British architect Harold Ferring to design the new house. Ferring’s reputation preceded him, and the fact that his services were affordable convinced me I’d made the best choice. Local men worked tirelessly to rebuild under Ferring’s watchful eye.

Teofilo inferred that Ferring’s reason for leaving England was an unfortunate one but assured me that he would complete the work in a timely manner. He had, after all, designed the grandest of all country homes for Richard III, the king’s newly built Wensleydale estate in Yorkshire. Ferring liked to drink and, not wanting to imbibe alone, he persuaded me to partake with him.

During those long evenings, when I encouraged him to talk and listened quietly, he regaled me with the most fascinating tales. I discovered that Ferring had completed his royal appointment, fulfilling his duty by designing the finest home in the north of England. When he failed to receive payment, he mentioned the matter to the king’s executive secretary, and itwasn’t taken well. His continued demands for payment resulted in him receiving threats.

Miguel kept his distance from the man he called, “The wayward Englishman.”

I insisted that no part of the original manor be replicated. My vision for the house went askew as the structure manifested. The façade had appeared relatively simple on paper, though when it materialized, the house possessed an aura of supremacy.

We easily went over the budget I’d initially set, but the work continued inside the towering walls. The downstairs rooms were deliberately spacious with high ceilings and low hung chandeliers, wondrously invoking a gracious atmosphere. The bedrooms were twenty in number.

Ferring stocked the wine cellar and at times he would disappear for hours, sampling the vintages. He outlined what would become two secret rooms, one behind the bookshelf in my office and the other constructed beneath the four-poster bed in the front master bedroom. I tried to convince him that secret rooms were unnecessary, but to placate his emphatic insistence, I finally relented.

For the library, I purchased a considerable collection of books, many of them written in several languages. I took pleasure in placing them in order along the tall shelves. The task took me longer than expected, as I tended to become lost in each book I opened.

With the work almost complete, and having received payment, Ferring disappeared. I felt relieved that I could take over and make the finishing touches on my own without Ferring’s eccentric influence. My taste was inclined toward a simpler style, and with him gone, I could decorate modestly.

I felt little guilt in how this fortune had come to me. I’d paid for it dearly with my blood, sweat and grief, my youth havingbeen torn apart. It was not given to me – it was wrenched from the jaws of a cruel world. And so I did not shrink from it.

I surrendered to this fate, this brilliantly forged inheritance, with a quiet, burning pride. For I had spun something rare from the wreckage. I had taken the horror, the ruin, and made it beautiful.

Made it mine.