A Tormented Man

Four months before I was suffocating. After spending hours in the backseat of the car, with the heater on full blast while the driver exceeded the speed limit at every opportunity, the air was so hot I could barely breathe. I rolled down the window to fill my lungs with fresh air and the smell of rain. "She's going to get pneumonia," the driver said sternly. They were the first words he'd spoken since picking her up at Heathrow Airport. "I needed some fresh air," I replied apologetically. He snorted and muttered something under his breath, and I turned to the window with a smile. The rugged hills cast a black shadow over the lonely road, surrounded by a desolate moor and shrouded in a thick, wet fog. Cornwall was beautiful, like a dreamscape. I was at the end of the world, which was exactly what I'd wanted. In the twilight, the black silhouette of a rock stood out like a ghostly castle against the sun that dyed the sea red. I could almost hear the clash of swords and the roar of distant battles between Celts and Saxons. "Penryth Hall, miss," the driver's gruff voice was barely audible over the wind and rain. "Up ahead." Penryth Hall? I looked back at the distant rock and saw that it was indeed a castle, illuminated by a few scattered lights reflecting off the scarlet sea. As we approached, I could see the walls and battlements. It seemed uninhabited, or perhaps inhabited by vampires and ghosts. In that place had left the sun and roses of California. I blinked several times and leaned back in my seat, trying to stop my hands from shaking. The rain masked the smell of rotting leaves, rotting fish, and ocean salt. –For the love of God, miss, if you've had enough rain, I'm going to close the window. The driver pressed a button and my window closed, depriving me of fresh air. With a lump in my throat, I looked down at the book still open in my lap. It wasn't easy to read in such dim light, so I closed it and put it in my bag. I'd already read it twice on the flight from Los Angeles. Private duty nursing: How to care for a patient at home without losing professionalism or giving in to their advances. Not much had been published about therapeutic care for a tycoon living in his own residence. The best I could find was a worn and faded book published in 1959, or rather, a reissue from 1910. But I was sure it could be of some use. For the twentieth time, I wondered what my new boss would be like. Old and frail? And why exactly did he want my services, if I was ten thousand miles away? The employment office in Los Angeles had given me very few details. "A British tycoon," the interviewer had told me. "Injured in a car accident two months ago. He can barely walk. He wants you." "Why me? Does he know me?" My voice trembled. "Or my stepsister?" –The request comes from a London agency. Apparently, they don't trust therapists in England. I let out an incredulous laugh. –In none? "That's all the information I'm authorized to provide you, aside from the salary issue. The salary is very high, but you'll have to sign a confidentiality agreement and live at your residence indefinitely." Three weeks ago, I wouldn't have even considered accepting a job like that. But so many things had changed since then. Everything I'd always relied on was falling apart. The Range Rover accelerated to cover the last stretch. We passed under an iron fence shaped like sea serpents and hanging vines and the vehicle stopped in a courtyard. High gray stone walls enclosed the space under the persistent rain.