Suspicion (11 page)

A lump rises in my throat as the car sweeps past my favorite childhood surroundings: the lake, the grassy parkland, and of course, the castle-like manor itself. Everything looks the same as when I was here all those years ago, and for a moment it seems impossible that I won’t find my parents or relatives inside.

Alfie drives forward into the Great Courtyard, and I feel a rush of emotion at the sight of the dozen faces waiting for me on the front steps … just like when I was little. As Alfie slows to a stop, a tall, slim young man in a black suit rushes to open my door while his nearly identical counterpart hurries to the trunk to retrieve my suitcases.
Footmen,
I remember.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace,” the footman says, dropping to a bow before helping me out of the car.

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you, Mr. … ?”

“Carter, Your Grace. The pleasure is all mine.”

This “Your Grace” stuff is starting to feel pretty silly. I wonder how long it’ll take for everyone to feel comfortable just calling me Imogen.

The staff remains lined up in perfect form, and for a moment I’m at a loss as to what I’m supposed to do. Are they waiting for me to call out “At ease” or something? But as I approach the front steps, a familiar figure hurries down toward me, his eyes shining as he lowers into a bow.

“Your Grace,” he says softly. “My, has it been a long time.”

I’m speechless as I look at Oscar. He has changed from the dapper butler I remembered into … someone who looks twenty years older, and troubled. He’s grown bald, his face is creased with countless lines, and his eyes have lost their sparkle. It occurs to me now that Oscar is a visual representation of the tragedies that have befallen Rockford Manor. It must have nearly killed him to stand by as he lost the family that he cared for so deeply, and once again I’m overcome with a heart-wrenching sense of regret.

“Oscar,” I whisper. “It’s so good to see you.”

“And you as well, Your Grace. I often wondered when I would see you again.” His eyes fill with emotion. “You’ve grown into such a beautiful young woman. Just like your mother.”

I can feel the tears pricking at the back of my eyes, and I throw my arms around him, like I used to as a little girl. His scent reminds me of my father—a subtle English cologne mixed with the woodsy smell of Rockford Manor—and I hold on tighter before finally letting him go.

“Sorry,” I say with a half smile. “I just … missed you.”

“I missed you too, Your Grace,” he says warmly. “Allow me to reacquaint you with the staff.”

We turn around to face the steps, where eleven pairs of eyes watch us intently.

“You of course know Harry,” Oscar says, nodding to Harry Morgan, who steps forward and bows with a broad smile.

“Wonderful to see you on home turf, Your Grace.”

“You too, Harry.” I grin back at him. “Thanks for getting me here.”

“And the housekeeper, Mrs. Mulgrave.” Oscar directs my attention to the tall, skeletal-looking figure dressed in an ankle-length black skirt and matching blouse. “She’s been at Rockford for more than twenty years now. You probably remember her from before?”

My smile freezes on my face.

“Yes, of course. I remember.”

She’s changed too, but the difference is far more chilling than what I see in Oscar. Maybe it’s because I was so hopelessly intimidated by her as a child, maybe my past feelings are coloring my present view—but as I look at Mrs. Mulgrave now, my blood turns cold. She makes me think of a living corpse, with her skin-and-bones frame and the deadened look in her eyes. What happened to her? She was always a stern, humorless character when I was a child, but I don’t remember ever seeing her like this—like someone only half present among the living.

“Good afternoon, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Mulgrave lowers into a slight curtsy, her mouth setting in a thin line that just barely resembles a smile. She holds out her hand, and it feels cold and limp in mine.

“Good afternoon,” I echo.

“Mrs. Mulgrave will help you manage the day-to-day affairs of the house, and she is indispensable when it comes to planning parties and hosting visitors,” Oscar says.

I glance at Mrs. Mulgrave uncertainly. I can’t picture her in any sort of festive scenario.

“She also manages the household accounts, and will review them with you weekly,” he continues.

I force a smile in her direction. “Great.”

“And now Mrs. Findlay, our esteemed cook.” Oscar nods to the stout fifty-something woman with graying blond hair.

“It’s an honor to serve you, Your Grace,” she says in an Irish accent, dropping into a curtsy and giving me a kind smile.

“Oh, I remember you well, Mrs. Findlay, especially—” I stop midsentence, not wanting to recall her treacle tart or any of the other treats she used to make for me and Lucia before everything changed.

“Mrs. Findlay prepares a full breakfast, dinner, and afternoon tea every day, plus lunch on the weekends,” Oscar says, filling the awkward pause. “Whenever you host guests or parties, she’ll create the menus with you.”

Just then, I notice Mrs. Mulgrave giving the younger woman beside her a slight push in my direction.

“This is my daughter, Maisie. She will be your maid.”

“Maisie?”
I can’t help blurting out in astonishment.

I didn’t expect her to be so … pretty
.
She wears a plain black tee with black pants, but the simple clothing and lack of makeup only to enhance her looks. She has heavy-lidded deep brown eyes, clear skin with the hint of a tan, the kind of plush pink lips that housewives in my New York hometown would pay good money for, and long brown hair highlighted with strands of gold. Her only adornments are a thick wristwatch and a plain pendant hanging on a chain around her neck.

I feel a pang of sympathy as I look from mother to daughter. If Maisie’s luck had been different—if she’d been born to parents like the Marinos—she could have had the world at her feet, instead of being shut up in a house working as a maid.

“Maisie, it’s really nice to see you again. I have a feeling we’ll be good friends,” I say warmly.

A peculiar expression crosses her face, a vaguely familiar look I feel I’ve seen before. Though she’s still smiling, her eyes cloud over, and I wonder if I said something wrong. Did I come across as patronizing? Or maybe … maybe she remembers the last time I visited, and the way Lucia and I ignored her. Maybe she never liked me to begin with.

But I don’t have time to analyze her reaction any further as Oscar continues the round of introductions. I meet Mrs. Findlay’s kitchen assistant, Katie, and two other housemaids, Betsy and Elena, who are tasked with the upkeep of the public rooms open to tour groups and guests. And then I come face to face with someone I remember all too well.

“Max,” I say, my throat dry.

He smiles gruffly, and I am momentarily transported to that day in the Shadow Garden seven years ago, when he handed me the seeds that sprouted at my touch. I wonder if he ever thinks about that afternoon, or if the memory was lost in the wake of the fire.

“Your Grace,” Max says, taking off his cap as he bows. “I’m ever so pleased you’re back.”

“Thank you, Max. I’m glad to see you too.”

“Well!” Oscar claps his hands together purposefully. “I imagine you must be hungry. Mrs. Findlay has prepared a welcome lunch for you, if you’d like to eat shortly. Carter will bring your suitcases up to your rooms.”

“I can unpack for you,” Maisie offers.

“Oh, no, thank you,” I say hastily. “I mean … you don’t have to do that.”

Oscar gives a signal to the staff, which sends them dispersing in different directions. Carter and the second footman, Benjamin, lug my suitcases up the stairs and through the front doors, while Mrs. Mulgrave, Mrs. Findlay, Maisie, and the other maids all walk in steady formation to the back of the house. Alfie hops back into the Aston Martin, Max disappears into the gardens, and soon Oscar and I are the only ones left.

“Welcome back to Rockford Manor, Your Grace,” Oscar says, before opening the front doors.

“Holy—”

I bite down on my lip to keep from letting an expletive fly in front of Oscar. I forgot how overwhelming and magnificent the Marble Hall is. In the years I’ve been away the gigantic foyer must have shrunk in my mind, but now I stand dwarfed by the seventy-foot-high ceiling, gaping at the stone carvings, classical paintings, towering potted palms, vases bursting with flowers, and white marble sculptures surrounding me.

I step back to gaze at the main entrance archway with King George I’s coat of arms carved into the center, framed by imposing Corinthian columns. A balcony lies beneath the arch, and I envision an orchestra stationed there, playing for guests as they saunter through the Marble Hall below. I look up and find that even the ceiling is a work of art, covered in its entirety by a painted scene that would have been at home in the Louvre. This place is completely over the top.

“There you are. Come along, Imogen darling.”

My head snaps up at the sound of Mum’s voice. I stumble forward, eyes searching desperately for her, even though I know deep down that she won’t be found. My heartbeat picks up speed, the adrenaline of longing flooding my insides—and from out of nowhere, a gust of wind swirls around my body, nearly hurtling me off my feet with its force.

“What was that?” I cry out.

Oscar hurries to close the windows.

“Awfully strange, our English weather. I don’t think I’ve seen a breeze quite like that before.”

It’s only a breeze, just like he said,
I tell myself, taking a deep breath.
I didn’t … do anything.

The sound of a dog’s high-pitched bark is a welcome distraction. I glance down to find a tiny gray-and-white furball at my feet, looking up at me with big brown eyes.

“Teddy, over here!” Oscar orders.

The dog scampers in his direction and I follow.

“What kind of dog is he?” I ask, bending down so Teddy can sniff my hand.

“Teddy’s a shih tzu,” Oscar replies. “He was Lucia’s dog, so he’s been a little out of sorts since …”

The weight in my chest returns as I look upon the ownerless dog. I find myself on the verge of tears yet again.

“How would you like a tour of the first floor before lunch?” Oscar suggests, his welcoming smile lightening the mood. “I imagine you might have forgotten your way around, after all this time.”

I blink away the moisture behind my eyes.

“A tour would be great. Thanks, Oscar.”

I follow him through a long red-carpeted corridor, lined with white marble busts of past dukes and duchesses. The corridor grows more ornamented as we approach the first drawing room, with gilded glass cases displaying fine china from past generations of Rockfords. I stop to glance at them before stepping into the Blue Drawing Room.

“I don’t remember this,” I murmur, looking around in awe.

“Rockford children don’t normally spend time in the formal rooms, with the exception of the library, and of course, the dining room for Christmas dinner,” Oscar says. “So I suppose you wouldn’t remember the Blue Drawing Room. This is one of the spaces you will use for entertaining guests.”

I try to imagine hanging out with Lauren and Zoey in here, watching our favorite shows while noshing on junk food, but I can’t picture anything so casual taking place in this grandiose room. Especially considering there isn’t exactly a TV or a couch for vegging out. The room is instead filled with dainty chairs upholstered in blue silk and decorative mahogany tables, with an elaborate Persian carpet spread underneath. Artwork fills every inch of wall space, and Oscar points out the different pieces to me now.

“That’s the third duke in the painting above the fireplace, while this portrait on the south wall depicts his wife and baby,” he explains. “And of course, the two paintings on the north wall are of the first duchess.”

I nod, catching my reflection in the pier glass mirror hanging above a gold Louis XVI clock. I look small and younger than my age, overwhelmed by my surroundings.

“Now, on to the Red Drawing Room,” Oscar says, leading the way through dark wooden doors bordered by massive marble casing.

“We really needed a second one of these?” I joke.

Oscar grins. “I suppose having only one drawing room was considered rather paltry back in the day.”

I follow him into a high-ceilinged room upholstered in crimson damask and decorated with bronze sculptures and potted palms. A massive crystal-and-gold chandelier sparkles from the ceiling, sending a glittery ray of light over the matching red chairs, ottomans, and—finally!—a couch, although it looks far more formal than comfy.

The Red Drawing Room is just as rich in art as the Blue, and Oscar proudly points out portraits of my ancestors painted by John Singer Sargent and Giovanni Boldini—names I know from my junior year art history class.

“And now to the dining room,” Oscar announces. “Only holiday and state meals are eaten here; the rest of the time you’ll eat in your private dining suite upstairs.”

“What are ‘state meals’?” I ask.

“That’s when you host one of the royals, a titled member of the British peerage, or a member of Parliament,” he says nonchalantly.