The Art of Inheriting Secrets Read online

  On my desk, my phone rang, a quaint British two-note ring, because I hadn’t set a new tone. Ring-ring. Ring-ring. I wondered with a quickening of my heart if it might be Samir. Who else would call me on this phone?

  But it wasn’t a number I knew. “Hello?”

  “Hello, Lady Shaw,” said a cheery, singsong British voice. “This is Jocasta Edwards. You sent me an email about Rosemere Priory?”

  I sat up straight. “Yes! Hello.”

  “Oh, my dear, I have loved that house since I was a girl. I grew up just outside of Horndon-on-the-Hill, and when I was small, we went to festivals and picnics on the grounds. Rosemere was the very place that gave me my love of old houses. It’s just tragic, what’s happened to it.”

  “Does this mean you might be interested?”

  “Absolutely. I could drive up from London on Tuesday if that would work for you.”

  “Wow. Yes! That would be great. I should warn you that I don’t have all the figures or any real numbers at all. I’m waiting for that from my solicitor.”

  “No matter. Not at this early point. Shall we say one p.m. Tuesday, at the house?”

  I laughed. “Yes. That would be wonderful.”

  “You know that we don’t pay for renovation? We only offer experts and sometimes help scare up a bit of support.”

  “Wonderful. That’s what I need.”

  “Do you get my show in America?”

  “Not that I know of. Someone here told me I should call you.”

  “Hmm. Interesting. All right, darling, I’ll see you in a few days.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye-bye now.”

  I sat with the phone in my lap for a moment, dizzy again at the speed of things. Should I text Samir and tell him? I thought of the chilly stiffness in his car at the end and my own awkwardness.

  No. Better leave it alone.

  I stood and stretched, trying to decide whether to wander out for dinner or stay here and eat pub food. My stomach protested. I wasn’t used to eating such heavy food every day, and it was time to see what else the village had to offer. As I dressed, my grandmother’s face gazed at me from the photo on my desk.

  I was suddenly filled with a sense of outrage. How could my mother have looked at me, wearing her own mother’s face all these years, and not said a word about it? Had she loved her mother? I tugged a sweater over my head. Was my resemblance a blessing, or had she hated it?

  Would it have killed her to have shared the secret with me? Surely she’d realized that I’d be in this situation once she died.

  Or maybe she hadn’t realized it. Maybe she’d believed that someone else would step up or the whole business would just fall into the hands of the government.

  My limp was much improved, though I knew I wouldn’t wear heels for a bit longer. The cobblestone streets were wet, reflecting lights from shop windows and the flats on the floors above them. In one window, I saw a woman washing dishes and wished with a weird force to be her, to be cooking and cleaning up dinner for myself. It had been ages since my life had felt anything like normal—months since my days had taken on a reliable rhythm of walking, research and writing and editing, cooking and eating. I missed everything about that life, but at the moment, it didn’t look as if I’d be returning to it quickly.

  Still, maybe I could create some sort of normality for myself. After I spoke with Jocasta on Tuesday, I’d decide whether to find an apartment for a couple of months or continue to stay in the hotel.

  Several restaurants were open and serving, and I peered into each one curiously, intrigued to see a fairly upscale crowd, judging by the tidy trousers and crisp bobs. They must come from the housing estates Peter had told me about. Maybe the large number of restaurants had risen in response to that population, rather than the other way around. I made a mental note to do some research. Suburbs populated by commuters to the city had a familiar ring—uncovering how it was different from the US might make an interesting slant on an article.

  I came upon Pavi’s restaurant before I knew it. The name, Coriander, was painted in gold on the plate glass window. Within, the lights were appealingly low, the tables with candles in cut-brass holders that cast geometric patterns over white tablecloths. Touches of turquoise picked up the peacock colors—napkins in turquoise wood holders, turquoise handkerchiefs in the vest pockets. Servers wore black trousers and vests over white shirts. Classic.

  I wished, suddenly, that I didn’t have to wait for Tuesday. The aromas drifting from the restaurant were mouthwatering.

  But I would wait for Pavi. Wait for the earl. Wait for my life to get moving again. Instead of Coriander, I chose a French-style bistro, quiet and easy, where the server talked me into the braised rabbit, which arrived exquisitely tender in a gravy of such textured depth that I took out my notebook and scribbled a few notes on what I thought the ingredients might be. Thyme, rosemary, carrots, and parsley. Mushrooms and mustard and shallots.

  Sublime. The company of such perfection eased my loneliness, and I lingered with a second glass of wine and the small sketchbook I’d purchased in Letchworth. My table was tucked in a dark corner by the window, and I sketched my table setting, the glass, the ingredients in my food, then shifted my attention to the locals moving across the square and down the pavements, the stars rising above the round hills beyond. A pair of teenaged lovers wound tightly together beside the ancient stone butter cross in the middle of the square, their figures illuminated by a streetlamp, and from this distance, they could have been from any time—the Restoration, when Charles II had given the house and lands back to my ancestress; the Victorian era; or perhaps the war years of the forties, when bombs had practically annihilated this small island country.

  People had lived and died in this little village for hundreds and hundreds of years. I felt them suddenly, long lines of them reaching back through time, and let my hand capture that emotion in an easy sketch, figures in all manner of dress moving through and around each other, their feet crisscrossing the same paths. The quiet square seemed busy with their ghosts, their stories, and it made me feel peaceful in some arcane way.

  Life had washed me here on this strange errand. Maybe the best thing to do was to just let it show me what it had in mind.

  Early Tuesday morning, I took the sketchbook and pens with me to the hill by the church. It was, at last, a dry, fine morning, the light a pregnant yellow that angled at a long slant from the east, shimmering over the open fields and glazing the grass on the rolling hills. Rosemere Priory was thrown into shadow, but I sketched it too. The lines were awkward and shaky, but the practice gave me the same sense of quiet that it always did. I’d never been able to get comfortable with sitting meditation, but cooking and sketching and walking gave me the same feeling I’d heard others describe. Wordlessness, focusing on the moment, letting go of the crazy voices all vying for attention.

  An email had come from Nancy overnight that she’d had a dozen offers at the open house Sunday, and all we needed now was to pick one—which meant, Let’s go for that big number. It was staggering how much people were willing to pay for that small plot of land. We’d exceeded the $3.5 million she’d predicted by another $300,000, and even after taxes, that was a serious sum.

  Sitting on a low, ancient wall, sketching the graveyard, I let the conflicted emotions over the pending sale move through me, one after the other. I would never sit in my mother’s kitchen again. I would have an amazingly fat bank account, which would help get things moving on Rosemere, if that was what I chose, or help me find a new place to live in San Francisco. Or . . . almost anything, really.

  The one thing that did not appeal to me was to buy the San Francisco apartment with Grant. A year or two ago, that possibility would have been the best I could have asked from the universe. We were happy.

  Except that it had turned out we were not.

  On the way back to the hotel, I popped into Haver’s office. “Good morning, Lady Shaw,” the same secretary said. “I w
as just about to ring you and let you know this was ready.” She handed over a very thick envelope. “Everything you asked for should be there. Just give us a ring if you need clarification or anything at all.” She folded her hands on the desk beatifically, and I realized that she was older than Haver by far.

  “Thank you,” I said, holding the packet close. “Were you also secretary to the previous Mr. Haver?”

  “Yes, for nearly forty years.”

  “So you were here when everyone disappeared or whatever, right?”

  “A sad business, that.”

  “Mmm. I just need to get the order of things straight in my head. My grandmother died, right?”

  “Yes. That must have been 1973.” She paused, frowning. “Maybe ’74.”

  I was born in 1978, in San Francisco, which gave my mother enough time to emigrate, find a husband, and give birth to me. “So who was the earl when Violet died?”

  “Her son, of course. Roger Shaw was the fourteenth Earl of Rosemere.”

  “That’s my mother’s brother. My uncle.”

  “Yes.” Her phone rang—ring-ring! Ring-ring!—and she held up a finger to me while she answered it.

  I waited while she explained something to a person on the other end, and when she set the handset back in the cradle, I asked, “Where did he go?”

  “To India, as far as I know—that’s where we’ve always sent the money, but he’s disappeared now too.”

  “Disappeared?”

  “No one has been retrieving the money for quite some time.”

  “India? Why would he go there?”

  “How should I know? He was born there, and some people . . . well, they don’t adjust, do they?”

  “What do you mean?”

  The phone rang again. Mrs. Wells said, “I’m sorry, dear; this phone will keep ringing. Why don’t you read the materials, and then we can talk some more, all right?” She picked up the phone without giving me a chance to answer. Dismissed, I headed back.

  When I got back to my hotel, there was a package on my neatly made bed, a box that turned out to have a stack of my mother’s sketchbooks. Madeline Reed, my mother’s manager, had written,

  There are many boxes of these. I tried to find some of the earliest ones, as per your request, but they are not all dated. I’m judging by style and sophistication—these look like they might have been done by a younger artist. Let me know what you need. Do be aware that they are quite valuable.

  Best, Madeline

  The books, all kinds and sizes, were inside. The one on top was square, about ten by ten inches. I flipped open the brown cardboard cover, and there was my mother in the lines of a bird, drawn in dark pencil. The wings were outstretched, falling off the page, and yes, it was without the polish and flair of her later work, but there was still an air of confidence to the shapes of the feathers, the single curved line of the beak, the tilt of the head.

  It was so her, already. I wondered how old she’d been when she had drawn this, and I imagined her in the forest, back propped against a tree trunk, sketching. Looking through the page to that day, I longed to be able to travel in time, just to glimpse her for a minute.

  What would my mother tell me about all of this? Whom should I trust? What should I do?

  Despite her art, she’d been a fiercely practical woman. What she’d want me to do right this minute was to stop gazing backward and dig into the paperwork Haver, more likely Mrs. Wells, had assembled.

  That’s what I did. I was not the most adroit banking person, but I was able to figure out most of what I needed for the moment—particularly the income and rents, which were, as the earl had predicted, quite substantial. I’d need advisors—multiple advisors, no doubt—but the estate was essentially a large business with several arms, and my task was to become CEO of the concern.

  Daunting. But not impossible. With a quiet sense of confidence, I opened my laptop and began making lists. Things I needed to understand. Advisors I’d have to consult. Where I was strong. Where I was weak.

  It was a start.

  Chapter Seven

  The meeting with the Restoration Diva was set for 1:00 p.m. I took the opportunity to walk up the path behind the church to the estate. It wound through the woods, thick and hearty, ripe with the scents of leaves and earth and cool damp. Tiny flowers bloomed in protected spots, and what I thought might be bluebells lay thick in the patches of sunlight. Birds twittered and called, a plethora of them, many calls I had never heard before. Blue jays rocketed overhead, trumpeting my presence, and doves cooed, and some persistent sparrow whistled and sang and whistled again.

  I thought of the way my mother had painted the forest, with malevolent eyes looking out from every turn, but try as I might, I could sense nothing threatening here now.

  The trail ended near the kitchen door, which made sense if villagers had walked to the manor over time. I walked around to the front, but Jocasta wasn’t there, so I ambled to the back and toward the gardens. The weather was gorgeous—still and warming under a cloudless sky—and from the top of the hill, I admired the tumble of cottages, the fields now showing a glaze of green. I walked along the edge of the terraced portion of the gardens toward the ruins of the abbey, which I hadn’t yet seen. As I rounded a curve of hedge, it came abruptly into view, gray and somehow sorrowful, most of it in ruins. Only the back wall and most of the southern side still stood, and the window area gaped where the stained glass for the stairs had been taken. A stand of pines sheltered the fallen north side.

  A small fist of people worked an orderly garden to one side. This must be the medicinal garden, originally planted by the monks of the abbey. As I approached the group, I called out, “Hello!”

  A rotund woman wearing sensible slacks and a big garden hat to shade her pale complexion straightened. She held a trowel in her hand and didn’t speak. Some of the others looked over but kept working.

  It was a little unnerving to be regarded so silently, but I tried to channel friendliness and openness. She no doubt knew who I was, and despite Samir’s claim that witches tended the medicinal gardens, Rebecca had told me it was the local garden. The woman still had not spoken by the time I reached the boxwood border. “Hello,” I said again, more pointedly. “You must be part of the Saint Ives Cross garden club—is that right? I’m Olivia Shaw.” It hung there, and I hardly knew how to go on. I glanced over my shoulder. “I seem to have inherited this house.”

  “Yes, yes.” She slapped dirt from her gloves and dipped her head backward to see me more clearly from under the brim of her hat. Her spectacles glinted. “Yes, we’ve been hearing all about you. I’m Hortense Stonebridge, president of the garden club.”

  “Ah.” The formidable Hortense. She had that no-nonsense air so many women of a certain age in England carried with them. Her face was barely lined, but something in the softness of her chin made me guess her age to be more than seventy. “Of course. Mrs. Stonebridge. How nice to meet you. I understand the club has been taking care of the garden here for a long time.”

  “Yes.” She took off her hat, revealing a thick pelt of silver hair I could imagine she was quite vain about. “What you may not know is that I’m also the conservation officer for the local authority, and if you intend to make any changes whatsoever to the house, you’ll need permission. Rosemere Priory is the prize of the county, you know. We are very protective.”

  “Yes, I’ve been getting an education in listed buildings.” I crossed my arms nervously, looked over my shoulder. Wondered if it would be better or worse to let on that the Restoration Diva herself was about to appear. “I’m not sure at all yet what I’ll do. It depends on what the consultants say.”

  “Mmm.” Her mouth pinched, exaggerating the faint stain of lipstick in the vertical lines around her lips. “Well, we shall see. I hate to see it a ruin.”

  “So do I.”

  Her blue eyes, pale with age, rested with some hostility on my face. “You look like your grandmother.”

  �
��I have been hearing that. Did you know her?”

  “I did.” She fisted a hand on her waist and looked away. Clear enough.

  “Would you tell me about the garden? I’m going to meet someone, but she isn’t here yet.”

  Another woman, softer looking and somewhat younger, wearing a dotted red blouse, leapt up. “Oh, I’ll show you, Lady Shaw!”

  Mrs. Stonebridge nodded. “I’ve got to get back for a meeting.” She dipped her head. “Good day. I’m sure we’ll meet again soon.”

  “Good to meet you,” I said and gave her my most dazzling smile.

  The other woman introduced herself as Ann Chop, and she gave me a tour. It was a very medieval garden, with yarrow and rue, chamomile and gillyflower, all arranged into tidy geometric shapes by the low-growing boxwood.

  “These are not the original plants, I assume.”

  She said, “Goodness no. They’ve been replanted many times, but we work from a set of maps the monks made in 1298.”

  I gaped at her. “1298? That’s incredible!”

  “It’s quite wonderful. We only have copies at the garden club, of course, but the originals are in the Shrewsbury Museum. They have a lovely collection of medieval garden materials, if you’re interested.”

  “Thank you. I might have a few other things to study before I can get to that, but I appreciate it.”

  She smiled. “I’m sure.”

  A toot on a horn made us both turn, and up the back road came a cheery red Land Rover, shiny new, with a woman behind the wheel. I waved, certain it must be Jocasta Edwards, and she waved a hand out the window. When she stopped and climbed out, Ann squeaked. “Is that the Restoration Diva?”

  “I think it is.”

  “Do you mind if I meet her? Is she coming to look at the house? Oooh, she’s quite tall in person, isn’t she?”

  At least six feet, I calculated as she came forward, a cameraman at her heels. Her dark hair swung neatly at her shoulders, a rich mink shade, and her clothes were country appropriate but expensive: a simple blouse, a split skirt, and tall boots with low heels. She looked ready to take the dogs out for a ramble.