“Right.” Clare dropped her spoon into her bowl. She knew she had to eat, but her mouth had turned dust dry. For the first time, she imagined what might happen if the snow didn’t let up. If deep winter had arrived early and the roads remained choked until spring, they would be trapped in Winterbourne. She couldn’t picture spending four months there cut off from the rest of the world.
There’s probably nothing to worry about. Like Dorran said, the weather around here is unpredictable. But it’s not like it will hurt to be prepared in case of a worst-case scenario either.
Clare swallowed. “I can help. With the garden, or the cooking, or repairing the house. Whatever you need.”
He blinked. “Thank you. But you should rest. At least for a while longer.”
“I’m feeling a lot better today.” That was the truth. The stiffness and the pains persisted, but she no longer felt as though she were about to collapse.
“I’m glad to hear it.” He rose and carried his empty bowl to the sink. “I’ll help you with your hair. Finish eating while I heat some water.”
Clare had been used to Beth washing her hair when she was a young teen, on the occasions when she tried to do something fancy with it. And the hairdressers washed it before cutting it. But letting Dorran run his fingers over her scalp was a strange experience.
He had her lean back in one of the kitchen chairs and draped a towel around her neck while he balanced a washbowl behind her. Traces of dried blood had matted her hair, but unlike Beth and the hairdressers, he was incredibly careful as he untangled it. He worked through the knots slowly, alternately using shampoo and conditioner from glass bottles. His thick eyebrows were pulled together in concentration, but otherwise, he looked serene.
The experience was far too intimate for Clare. Desperate for a distraction, she started a conversation. “This really is inside the Banksy Forest, isn’t it?”
“The estate? Yes.”
“I can’t believe I never knew it was here. It must be old.”
“Very old.”
“Older than the forest?”
“The same age. My family owns the forest.”
“Oh!” Pieces were starting to fall into place. “Does that mean they planted it?”
“Correct. Several hundred years ago. This and many other forests.” He scooped up a cupful of warm water and poured it over her hair, his other hand smoothing the suds out. Then the comb returned to a stubborn patch just above her temple.
Clare shuffled a little higher in her seat. She was still trying to get used to being touched by someone she barely knew. “Why did they plant them?”
“It was our business. We grew wood. It made our family wealthy.”
She tried to glimpse his face again, but his head was down as he tried to ease grime out of the tangle without hurting her. “Why didn’t they cut this one down?”
“Because the head of the family died unexpectedly. In her grief, his widow had a house built where no one could disturb her—inside one of the forests.”
Clare eyed the kitchen. “She must have been very rich. I had no idea wood growing could be so profitable.”
“It wasn’t our only business, but it was our mainstay. Under good leadership, wealth tends to cascade. Unfortunately, since the house was built, good leadership has been rare in our family. The estates—and the businesses—were passed down through generations and gradually sold as expenses exceeded income. Now we have almost nothing left. This estate. The Gould estate. And this forest.”
He sounded sad. Clare pulled the fur coat around herself a little more tightly. “Still, it’s more than a lot of people have, right?”
“True.” Dorran’s inflection didn’t change, but as the word hung between them, Clare sensed there was something more he was stopping himself from saying.
She lifted her eyebrows. “But?”
“I worry about the future.” The words came out carefully, as though he didn’t like to say them. “If we sold this building and lived modestly, we would have nothing to worry about. But my mother insists on holding this house and maintaining our traditions. Sixty full-time staff are not cheap. Repairing and maintaining a building this old and large is not cheap. We have money, but it flows out rapidly, and nothing comes in to replace it. By the time my mother is dead, I suspect we will be bankrupt.”
Clare tried to imagine how that must feel—to come from a family of historical significance, to live a life of decadence, but to know you would inherit none of it. Winterbourne Hall was massive and clean, but she doubted it would be easy to sell. Banksy Forest wasn’t a prime location. There were no beautiful views to attract luxury vacationers, and the snow made the place unlivable for nearly four months every year. The building, for all of the care that had gone into maintaining it, wasn’t modern enough to attract a fair price.
Dorran’s fingers caught on a snag, and Clare swallowed a gasp. He pulled back, sounding alarmed. “Forgive me.”
“It’s fine.” She laughed. “You don’t have to worry so much. You’re doing a good job.”
After a moment, his hands returned, moving more carefully.
“What about you?” Clare tried again to see his face. His dark eyes met hers then glanced away. “What will you do if your mother is spending all of her money?”
“Truthfully, I do not yet know. I would like to work. I would like to be responsible for something. But that is not an option as long as I live here.”
“Why don’t you leave?”
He closed his eyes. The muscles in his jaw twitched. Before she could identify the emotions he was trying to conceal, he opened his eyes and his features returned to neutral. He dipped the comb into the water before answering. “I cannot.”
His tone made it clear he didn’t want to continue that line of conversation, but Clare was too curious to stop. “Why not?”
“The world is not particularly welcoming to someone like me.”
“Someone like you?”
He poured fresh water over her hair, holding one hand across her forehead to keep it from running into her eyes. “Strange.”
“What? You’re not strange.”
“You are being kind. I know what I am.”
Clare bit her lip. She wanted to argue, but he was odd. She hadn’t been able to get a read on him at first, and it had terrified her. She had preferred to chance the snow than spend the night in his house. But that had been before she’d talked to him.
She thought she was starting to understand Dorran. He wasn’t strange in a bad way. He was just stilted and uncertain. He buried his discomfort under formality. And he was sad. That was what bothered her the most. He tried to hide it, but it slipped out occasionally, hidden in his expressions and movements. The tilt of his eyes. The way his smiles never seemed truly uninhibited. How methodical he made every motion. It seemed as though all of the life had been crushed out of him somehow.
He gently nudged her to sit upright and used the towel to squeeze the moisture out of her hair. Clare wanted to say something else, to find a way to tell him that he wasn’t too strange for the world and that he didn’t need to spend the rest of his life hiding in his secluded mansion. But she couldn’t find the right words.
“I think I fixed it well enough.” The towel dabbed across her forehead, catching the last drips. “No hair dryers, I’m afraid, but we can sit you beside the fire to dry it.”
“Thanks.” She touched her hair, relieved to finally feel clean again.
Dorran tipped the dirty water down the sink and left the towels in the empty basin. “Before you return to your room, would you mind taking a detour? I would like to show you something.”