Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,36

a gentleman at Biltmore had disturbed him.

They sat in silence for a long time. She could feel Braeden’s warmth beside her, his breathing, and the beating of his heart. She could smell the faint scent of wool, leather, and horses on him. Regardless of what the two of them being in the carriage together might or might not really mean, for the moment, it brought her a wonderful sense of peace, a sense that she belonged, and that, despite everything that was going on, she was exactly where she was meant to be. It didn’t make any sense to her, or even seem possible, but there was no denying that that was how she felt.

“I need to ask you to do me a favor,” she said quietly.

“All right,” he said.

“Please don’t tell anyone about me and my father. He really needs his job. He loves Biltmore.”

Braeden nodded his head. “I understand. I won’t tell anyone, I swear.”

“Thank you,” she said, relieved.

It felt like she could trust Braeden. And his reputation among the kitchen staff for being a loner who preferred to spend time with his animal friends rather than human beings seemed totally unfair to her now.

As Braeden fell asleep, his breathing became slow and steady.

Remaining very still, Serafina turned to gaze upon him. She passed her eyes over his smooth, pale complexion. He was so clean. And his clothing fit so well. His woolen jacket must’ve been made just for him. Even the buttons had been wrought with his very own initials, BV, etched upon every one. Mr. and Mrs. Vanderbilt must have commissioned those buttons, she thought. Did that mean they loved and cherished Braeden? Or was it just so that he would fit into their elegant society?

Her pa had told her the story of Mr. Vanderbilt while they were washing up after supper one night in the workshop. Like many well-off gentlemen in society, George Vanderbilt used his inheritance to build a home. But he didn’t build it in New York City like all the others. He built it in the remote wilds of western North Carolina, set deep in the densely forested mountains, miles and miles from the nearest town. The ladies and gentlemen of elite New York society thought this was extremely eccentric behavior. Why would such a highly educated man born and raised in the civilized luxury of New York City want to live in the wilderness of such a dark and forested place?

Biltmore Estate took years to build, but when it was finally finished and everyone saw what George Vanderbilt had done, they understood his dream. He had constructed the largest, most magnificent home in America, surrounded by a working, self-sustaining estate and the gentle beauty of the Blue Ridge Mountains. He married a few years later. And everyone who was fortunate enough to earn an invitation came to the city of Asheville to visit George and Edith Vanderbilt. They were the rich, the famous, and the powerful: senators, governors, great industrialists, leaders of foreign countries, favored musicians, talented writers, artists, and intellectuals of all kinds. And it was beneath this glittering world that her pa had raised her.

She looked at Braeden, and she remembered when he came to Biltmore two years before. The servants spoke of the tragedy in hushed tones. Mr. Vanderbilt’s ten-year-old nephew was coming to live at Biltmore because his family had died in a house fire in New York. No one knew how it started, perhaps an oil lamp or a spark from the cook fire in the kitchen, but the house caught on fire in the middle of the night. Gidean woke Braeden in a smoke-filled bedroom, pulled at his arm with his teeth, and dragged him from his bed. With the walls and ceiling ablaze around them, they stumbled out of the burning house, choking and exhausted. They barely escaped with their lives. Gidean had saved him. It was only then that Braeden discovered that his mother, father, brothers, and sisters were all dead. His entire family had been consumed by the fire. It made Serafina shudder to think about it. She couldn’t stand the thought of losing her pa. How sad and lost Braeden must have felt to lose his whole family.

She had heard the servants talk about how hundreds of ladies and gentlemen, servants, and folk of every ilk came out for the funeral. Four black horses pulled the black carriage stacked with eight coffins, as a little boy walked alongside, holding his uncle’s