The Art of Inheriting Secrets Page 26

  As I started to walk away, he said, “Olivia.”

  I turned, hopeful.

  He smirked. “I’ll leave it and see you in court.”

  “Fine.”

  I walked blindly, but my feet were on the path to Rosemere. I followed it through the forest my mother had painted as such a malevolent place, walking furiously at first, but at some point the exercise kicked in, and I felt the tension drain away.

  There had to be some kind of answer to all of this. Something. The Monet and the Constable were clearly copies, but maybe some of the others were worth something, and they were small enough to transport to London. What if I called Peter to drive me in? It would feel better than sitting around waiting for the sky to fall.

  In the back of my mind, Mrs. Malakar’s face rose, that glance of disdain and knowledge that had seared me. Were they close? He didn’t like to talk about her, which made me wonder. Had she disapproved of his marriage? Or more far more likely, his divorce?

  In my pocket, my phone buzzed with an incoming call. Surprised, I stopped to take it, leaning against an oak tree that had been a sapling when bombs were dropping in the Blitz.

  “Bad news,” Samir said.

  “I bet I already know. Your mother is here.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s not bad news—I’m sure you’re glad to see her.”

  “I will, but it means we have to change our plans this evening.”

  It stung, but I made sure that didn’t show in my voice. “Of course. Do whatever you need to do.”

  “Don’t waste the asparagus. Eat them.”

  “I’m sure I can get some more from Elizabeth. She’s been working on that bed for years. It’s prolific.”

  A little pause fell between us, and I realized we’d rarely spoken on the phone.

  “I’m so sorry to cancel, Olivia,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly. Let me know when you’re free.”

  “Is everything all right? You sound a bit . . . pinched.”

  “It’s not you or your mom. I just had more bad news this morning. Looks like Haver and the caretakers have drained all the accounts.”

  “All of them?”

  “Looks like it.” I toed the earth, scraping away leaves to reveal the rich topsoil below. “So I’m trying to figure out the logistics of the repairs, and Grant won’t back off, and I just . . . maybe I’ll take some of the paintings into London and have them evaluated.”

  “If they’re real, you’ll have no worries at all. Wouldn’t there be someone in your mother’s circle who could give you advice without all that trouble?”

  “Ah. Yes, that’s probably a lot easier. Will you send me the photos you took?”

  “I’ll do it at lunch.”

  “That would be helpful. I’ll send them to my mother’s manager.”

  “Text me if you find out anything. I’ll call you later. After dinner.”

  “Okay.” Overhead, a pair of starlings flew across a sky that was growing cloudy. “I ran into Pavi and your mom at the bakery this morning. Your mother saw the books in my bag.”

  “Pavi told me.”

  I thought about the look on her face. “She’s really not going to like me at all, is she?”

  “It doesn’t matter, Olivia. I’m the one who needs to like you, and I more than like you.”

  “Thanks. I more than like you too.” Straightening, I headed up the hill. “Text me if you need distraction.”

  “Will you sext me if I ask very nicely?”

  “Oh, sure!” I laughed. “What could possibly go wrong?”

  A little pause. “I don’t want to hang up. What are you doing?”

  “Walking through the forest up to Rosemere. It suddenly occurred to me that if the caretakers are gone, their flat is available. I’m going to take a look at it.”

  “But you don’t drive.”

  “Yet. And anyway, the walk to the village is less than a mile. I just need . . . a home. That’s not going to be in Rosemere for a long while, although I did have a flash of what it might be like down the road. Maybe french doors along the back of the kitchen.”

  “I like it.” In the background, I heard thunder. “Argh. Gotta go. Looks like a thunderstorm is on the way. We have to cover the thatch.”

  “Bye!”

  I hung up and started walking back toward the top of hill. A text came in, buzzing against my palm. I feel like I’ve always known you.

  I typed, Me too.

  As I mounted the hill, seeing the great house looming over everything and the ruins of the conservatory in the distance, it occurred to me that I was setting myself up for the world’s most devastating broken heart. It was idiotic to fling myself into this with such abandon when I knew better. Things always seemed amazing at the start. That chemical flare, that heady obsession.

  But what could I possibly do? A vision of his profile, that strong nose and the goatee, rose in my mind. The sound of his sigh wafted down my spine. I flashed on his hand moving over my belly, the brush of his hair across my shoulder.

  Good God. I was lost, lost in him, in us, and I hoped no one would lead the way out for at least a little while longer.

  Chapter Twenty

  At one point, Haver had given me a ring of keys, some of which were labeled and some not. When I arrived at the carriage house, I peeked in at the progress they’d made on the space I’d claimed, and it was barely started—which was good if I changed my mind.

  The caretaker’s flat had a fine modern lock on the door, and I found a correspondingly shiny key for it. It opened on the first try.

  The rooms were empty, down to bare wooden floors, which confirmed that they would not be hurrying back anytime soon to make things right.

  But the space was wonderful—five big rooms with polished wood floors and exposed beams. The sitting room faced a large hearth, and new windows had been installed, three of them, side by side, to let in the light. The bathroom was modern, with a proper English bathtub, and what I presumed was a bedroom had a wardrobe that must have been built five hundred years before. I opened it. Empty.

  The kitchen was the killer. It had been recently updated, as recently as three or four years, I guessed by the finishes. The AGA, which I’d looked up out of curiosity after admiring the one in the main house, was a $16,000 appliance, and this one was in British racing green, a color I knew because a friend had a MINI Cooper. Tiny lights hung down over a generous granite counter furnished with stools.

  Beautiful. At least they’d had good taste, all weathered wood and natural finishes and the open beams. Yes, this would be a great flat for now. Maybe for a long time. I could knock out the walls between the other two bedrooms and live in more space than I’d ever had in my life. Again, I caressed the AGA. What would it be like to cook on it?

  “Okay, Mom,” I said aloud. “This is not so terrible.”

  But I still had to figure out how to pay for everything. Maybe I should talk to the earl again, get his advice on what to do about Grant.

  In the meantime, I had to figure out what my mother wanted me to find. When I got back to my flat, I’d go through the photos Samir had forwarded to see if I could piece anything together. Today, however, it was time to deal with my fear of Rosemere. I would go to my mother’s room and see if I could find any clues. The construction workers were there still, banging around. Their noise would help.

  And really, it was just time to begin to actually own this house, become her caretaker in truth. What kind of caretaker couldn’t even walk through the place without a friend?

  Before I left the carriage house flat, I shot photos from every angle. It would need furniture.

  Definitely a dog.

  Thunder rumbled distantly as I walked across the stretch of grass between the carriage house and the main house. I let myself in the back door and walked through the kitchen with determination. This room never bothered me. I loved the light and the open spaces and the potential it offered.

  From the k
itchen I marched through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room, which was so much more appealing now that the vines had been cut away from the windows. The walls still showed mildew and grime, but it was possible to see how it would all look later. The parlor was the same—the mullioned windows filled the entire wall, with window seats and picturesque views of the fields. It was easy to imagine a dozen ways to make the room appealing and interesting.

  As I moved into the stairway hall, I could hear construction workers barking orders and the banging of tools. All very reassuring, but my feet still halted at the bottom of the staircase. In the darkening day, the colors of the abbey window were muted, and I almost felt as if they judged me. A cold draft poured from the damaged north wing, and I looked up, wondering if it was a ghost I felt or just the approaching storm.

  A sudden noise behind me made me whirl, and there was the black-and-white cat, his long fur a bit scruffy but not terrible. “Meow,” he said.

  “Are you going to talk to me today?” I didn’t move for fear he would run away. “I didn’t bring anything to eat, but I do keep meaning to do that. What do you like?”

  He sauntered toward me, as if he were a house cat and not a feral stray at all, and rubbed against my legs. “Wow. Thanks.” I let him circle my ankles for a minute. “Would it be all right if I pet you?”

  With great gold eyes, he looked up and mewed.

  I bent down and stroked him, and his back rose up against it. “You’re friendly. Do you want to help me with this scary thing I have to do?”

  As if he knew what that thing was, he started up the stairs. Halfway, he paused and looked back.

  “I’m coming.” I followed him up the stairs, aware of the house around me, rustling in its stillness. At the landing, I stopped and looked back down, looked up and toward the gallery, feeling it. Time. Lives. Generations. I imagined the first Earl of Rosemere standing here, full of pride at his accomplishment, and then the woman who had championed her cause with King Charles, meaning I could, all these years later, inherit. I made a mental note to find her name and remember it. I imagined Christmases in the 1690s and balls in the Georgian years, days of mourning and days of birth and ordinary days in between. Breakfasts changing styles, dinner parties, servants, pets.

  It calmed me. All of them belonged to me in one way or another.

  My mother’s room and Violet’s room were at completely opposite ends of the house, my mother in the southwest corner, Violet in the northeast, along opposite hallways. I made myself walk the corridor down to Violet’s room and take a peek inside. The sight of it nearly empty gave me a sad jolt—as if she, my grandmother, had been suddenly buried. For a moment, I stood there, looking at the empty walls. The cat joined me, poking his head in, and then sauntered away, disinterested.

  I made my way over to the other wing, and on this side of the house the voices of the construction crew were muted. This hallway contained the worst damage on this floor—the bedroom that had been on fire and the bathroom with a collapsed ceiling. I headed to the room at the back and opened the door, noticing anew that it was very plain in comparison to some of the others.

  But of course my mother had taken her things with her, or at least some of them. I opened the wardrobe doors, which were less complaining now that we’d had a few dry days in a row. The tatters of rotted clothing still hung there, and I found moth-eaten handkerchiefs when I opened a drawer. I opened all the drawers, methodically, looking for anything she might have left for me. The bureau had been impossible to open the last time I was here, but when I tried it this time, the drawers were sticky but actually did open. Nothing.

  Damn. I looked round the room. The bed was neatly made, and I suddenly realized that it was not a tattered bit of fabric, as it should have been. It was old but not rotted. Crossing the room, I tugged the coverlet back. Placed precisely in the middle was a postcard of the Golden Gate Bridge shimmering beneath a rainbow.

  My heart squeezed, hard. With a hand that trembled, I picked it up and turned it over.

  On the back, my mother had written in her spidery hand, “Brava, darling! Never forget that there is gold at the end of the rainbow.”

  I scowled. Did she mean there was gold in the West Menlo Park house? Had she hidden something there too?

  “Gah!” I cried aloud, and the cat jumped off the bed and ran away. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” Carrying the postcard with me, I followed him out. “Kitty, kitty! Come on. Where’d you go?”

  But he was nowhere to be seen. Feeling guilty, I turned back to the room and looked around carefully. Was there something I was missing? Could she have hidden something somewhere else in here?

  I suddenly thought of Samir knocking the back of the wardrobe to check for a passage to Narnia. Maybe there was a false back or I’d missed something in there. I opened the wardrobe again and tried to shove the clothes aside. When I couldn’t really get to the back, I grabbed a big armload of clothes and deposited them on the bed. For one moment, I stared at the skirts, the beading, the rotted silk, and imagined my mother wearing them. One red evening gown peeked out of the pile, and I pulled it out. The neckline was plunging, cut close, and it would have been magnificent on her.

  It also didn’t appear to be ruined. I set it aside for the moment. Maybe I needed to check the clothes from Violet’s room too. Maybe not all of them were rotten. I had no hope whatsoever of wearing my mother’s clothes, but everyone said my grandmother had been built more like me. That would be a strange thrill. Smoothing a palm over the red dress, I wondered about Pavi, who was built delicately. Maybe she’d be able to fit into some of these vintage pieces. This dress would look amazing on her.

  I headed back to the wardrobe and shoved the rest of the clothing aside so that I could see the back and the floor. Both appeared to be utterly without feature, but I knocked on them anyway, feeling a bit foolish.

  Until the back gave way, just slightly. Startled, I pushed it, but it stuck partway, and I couldn’t get a grip on the edge to pull it toward me. Stymied, I looked around for a tool. If anyone had used wire coat hangers, I could have taken one apart, but they would probably all have fainted over the idea.

  This room was bare, but maybe something had been left behind in Violet’s room. Leaving my bag, I crossed the hallway, circled behind the landing, and made my way back to Violet’s room. As I opened the door, a gust of cold, rain-soaked air blew through the window, and the curtains fluttered up in their tatters.

  I froze for a moment. If anyone would haunt the place, Violet would be a candidate. Maybe she had liked her things where they were—

  Don’t be absurd. I heard the words in my mother’s no-nonsense voice. The window was broken. And, anyway, ghosts didn’t exist.

  I entered the room and looked around, poking through the debris on the floor for anything I might be able to use to pry away the back of the wardrobe. Amid the scraps of paper and dust and unrecognizable junk, I found a thumbtack. Perfect.

  On my way out, I kicked the rest of the debris, just looking for anything that might be better, and my toe sent something sailing across the room to ping off the edge of the door. I picked it up—a single, delicate silver circlet, carved lightly and set with tiny red stones I thought might be garnets.

  Nandini. She, too, probably haunted the place. Or maybe she haunted the town itself, looking for her lost daughter. The idea gave me a shiver. What a lot of sad stories had played out here.

  Maybe in this generation, I could change that. I slipped the bracelet over my hand as a promise to myself and went back to my mother’s room.

  But when I pried open the back of the wardrobe, nothing was there. Deflated, I closed the door, and only then did I become aware of the sound of rain pattering against the windows. Time for me to get back, then. Maybe I could hitch a ride with one of the construction crew.

  Pondering the puzzle of the key and how to find the answer my mother meant me to find, I walked down the passageway and suddenly saw the cat at the other end,
poking his head around the door. “Meow!” he said and dashed away from the door, deeper into the room.

  “You stinker,” I said and hurried down the hall. “Are you playing chase with me?”

  I pushed open the door—and halted as a wave of foul air slammed into me, so noxious I reared back and covered my nose. The floor was rotted here and burned in places, and the cat perched on the end of the bed, which had also been burned.

  A wave of intense sadness moved through me. Some of the other rooms had been ruined by time, the ballroom worst of all, but this was the only one that truly felt malevolent. I backed away, my nose still covered, wondering how such an old, old fire could have left such an odor.

  Suddenly, I became aware of the silence left behind when the construction halted, and I turned and dashed down the hall, then down the stairs, rushing around the rooms, and through the back door—to see the last of the trucks trundling down the hill toward Saint Ives.

  Great.

  I was about to call Peter when a horn honked, and I saw Pavi at the wheel of her van. Her mother was in the passenger seat. “Need a ride back to town?” Pavi called through the open window.

  “Please!” I dashed through the rain to clamber into the back of the van, sitting on the floor next to a box full of asparagus. “Thank you. I was just about to call Peter.”

  “Peter Jenkins?” Pavi said. “He’s such a nice man. You remember him, Ma?”

  “Of course,” she said. No more, no less.

  I picked up a handful of asparagus from a box on the floor. “They’re gorgeous. What are you going to do with them?”

  “I’m not quite sure.” The van bumped down the hill. “Countess, you need to fix your road.”

  “It’s terrible, right?” I smelled the earthy green scent of the asparagus and put them back in the box, thinking I might steam mine and serve them with soft eggs and toast made from the bread I’d picked up at the bakery this morning.

  Then, because I had to make conversation somehow, I asked, “Did you have a pleasant journey over, Mrs. Malakar?”

  “It’s never particularly nice,” she said. “It was as expected.”