by Maureen Lang
7
* * *
Thursday came quickly for Rebecca. Between her daily duties overseeing the Hall, writing a new script to accompany the refurbished wardrobe for the women demonstrating a Victorian afternoon tea, and filling out preliminary paperwork for the Featherby, she only had time to transcribe a few letters from Quentin’s forebears.
Tonight his mother was to arrive for dinner. Rebecca had watched Helen dither about what to serve Lady Elise since being informed of the visit two days ago. Should Helen serve shepherd’s pie? Ploughman’s soup was her specialty, but she thought it too provincial and the weather not nearly cold enough. Despite that being her husband’s favorite, William agreed, having been infected by Helen’s distress. The last word Rebecca heard of the main course was something about a traditional London broil or perhaps roast lamb. The only item not in doubt was trifle for dessert. Helen was known throughout the village for them.
Helen had also called in an unusual number of housemaids in the last two days, lending an undercurrent of anxiety that added to Rebecca’s unease. Everywhere she turned someone was scrubbing what already appeared clean, polishing what already gleamed, straightening what already hung properly. Featherby judges couldn’t possibly inspire more angst.
Although Quentin had been home these past few days, Rebecca saw almost nothing of him. That was by her design. She filled her days with work and spent her evenings cloistered in her suite. There was something decidedly different in having Quentin under the same roof. Something she would rather ignore.
Today there was no hiding, despite a stronger wish than ever to do just that. Rebecca had watched Elise Hollinworth from afar for years. Knowing her family’s history of serving the Hollinworths, Rebecca paid attention when the Hollinworth family was in the news. Lady Elise Hollinworth was noted least often, and that seemed intentional. She was, Rebecca had learned, a private person who chose to live in a rather public social circle. Perhaps her parties weren’t much different from other society events, and yet Lady Elise’s held the added challenge of knowing reporters were especially unwanted. She’d once had one arrested for trespassing, while another had been dunked in the pool, camera and all. After that it became a challenge to see what the boldest society reporter could get away with at an Elise Hollinworth party.
Tonight, however, would not pose a problem, with only the two Hollinworths and Rebecca in attendance. The only one on edge tonight would be Rebecca herself; she was quite sure of that. And possibly Helen Risdon over her lamb selection.
Rebecca was ready far too early, dressed in a simple black dress adorned by a single pearl dangling from a braided gold chain. Her hair, looking nearly as black as her dress and set loose down her back, had surprisingly obeyed today, so the curls for the most part stayed out of her line of vision. However she had no intention of going downstairs any sooner than she was expected.
So she went to her office and clicked on her e-mail, seeing a note from Quentin’s American cousin. Rebecca noticed immediately it wasn’t directed to her but rather to Quentin. Perhaps there wasn’t a secret to be heard only by Quentin, after all.
Dear Mr. Hollinworth — or may I call you Quentin, since we’re cousins, after all?
I was so pleased to get your note and very eager to tell you my husband, my daughter, and I will be in Ireland for three months starting next week. We hope to visit you in England by the end of this month.
In your note, you expressed an interest in reading Cosima’s journal. As far as I know, the one my sister has is the original, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Cosima made copies for her other children as well (for the healthy ones at least). I’m attaching our e-file of the text, which my sister and I transcribed.
Once you’ve read that I’ll be happy to talk to you about Royboy and the others in our family and how the genetic condition Cosima called a “curse” survived through these 150 years. From the ancestry report collected by West World, I’m guessing only Mary and Kipp were affected and that your branch of the family was spared. Praise God for that!
Rebecca read that portion again, wondering what it could possibly mean. She noted the attachment and for a moment entirely forgot she was due downstairs any moment. Much as she would like to read it now, she only had time to finish the e-mail.
In any case, I’ll let you and your commercial manager (hello, Rebecca!) know once I arrive in Ireland and have a firm date for my visit to England. It’s very nice, isn’t it, to find someone who shares the same blood but has lived an ocean apart? How small and connected the world seems right now.
Looking forward to meeting you,
Dana Martin Walker
Rebecca smiled, though she wasn’t a relation at all. What was it about family, even one so distant, that could create an instant link?
No more stalling; it was time to join Quentin and his mother.
Helen had chosen to serve dinner in the garden room. A hundred years ago it had been an aviary, but the family’s interest in birds must have waned during one war or another, and birds were no longer purchased. A single blue and gold macaw remained, believed to be over fifty years old. Robert Hollinworth had always been its primary caregiver, and when he died the bird had stopped eating for days. Quentin claimed himself a poor substitute for his father, though their voices and stature were similar. It wasn’t long before the bird seemed bonded to Quentin.
Rebecca met Quentin and his mother in the hall just outside the room.
“Mum,” Quentin said, smiling Rebecca’s way and extending a hand to her elbow, “do you recall Rebecca Seabrooke? She’s cleared her schedule and will be joining us this evening.”
Lady Elise was perhaps a hair’s breadth taller than Rebecca. Whereas Rebecca was dark, Lady Elise was light. Her skin, unlike Rebecca’s more olive complexion, was like powdered ivory. Her hair was a mix of blonde and white, impossible to tell if the white was partner to gray or added by design. Features, probably lovely when young, had sharpened with age. Her nose and chin pointed rather downward; her eyes seemed pulled the other direction. With attention to detail Lady Elise was still a distinctive woman, exquisitely dressed in an ice blue suit and expertly made up to take years from her face.
She was politely smiling with a bit of what looked like suspicious caution, mixed with a tinge of curiosity. Even so, it was a smile, and because of that, Rebecca felt sure the older woman had no idea who she was.
“I expected us to dine alone, Quentin, but tell me more about this woman in front of me.”
Rebecca extended her hand, which Elise shook with just the right amount of firmness. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Hollinworth, although I must admit the advantage of knowing a bit about you and your family—at least, the Hollinworth side.”
One brow lifted and Rebecca was reminded of a photograph she’d seen of Lady Elise during a rare visit to a public restaurant. The place had closed within six months, and Elise’s face had encapsulated the reason. Rebecca was left wondering if almost no one liked the food or if Lady Elise had placed the germ of distaste in prospective diners before they’d taken their first bite.
“And how is it you know about the Hollinworths, Miss . . . it is Miss?”
“Yes, but please call me Rebecca. Your husband hired me as the Hall’s commercial manager three years ago, so I’ve become quite familiar with the family’s lineage.”
“How interesting.” She turned her blue gaze on her son, her pulled-up eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re dining with the staff, Quentin?”
He laughed so easily Rebecca would have found some comfort in it if she could feel anything through the tenterhooks jabbing her. “No, we’re dining with Rebecca, who happens to be the daughter of one of Father’s friends.”
That was, of course, another way to put it. Hardly the way Elise would interpret the relationship if she had all of the facts. Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Quentin a moment longer. She hadn’t known he was aware of the friendship between her father and his.
“
So you knew my husband, Rebecca?” Glacial—that was the only word Rebecca could use to describe the tone.
“Yes. Or, rather, no. Not well.”
“And your father is . . . ?”
“James Seabrooke.”
Lady Elise appeared to ponder the name a moment, then shook her head briefly. “No, I don’t believe I’ve met a James Seabrooke, and I assure you I knew all of my husband’s friends. Are you certain your father knew my husband?”
Quentin laughed again. Rebecca wished she could join in, wished she wanted to.
“Father introduced me to James Seabrooke years ago, Mum.”
She wondered if he was deliberately keeping hidden the fact that one member of the Seabrooke family or another had been employed by the Hollinworths for generations.
“Was her father from London?”
Lady Elise eyed Rebecca as she asked the question of her son, as though Rebecca were an exhibit being pondered instead of a dinner guest.
“Yes, James works for the Trust.”
“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Elise asked, then stepped into the garden room. Bright and airy, the room was decorated in snowy white, which seemed the perfect accompaniment to Lady Elise’s frosty blue suit. A pristine, padded wicker couch with matching wicker table and chairs gave the room an outdoor look, especially overlooking the rose garden. Upon their entry the macaw let out a screech. “I don’t know why Helen told us to come in here with that awful bird. I’ve always detested that thing.”
Quentin approached the huge gilt cage that housed the macaw, reaching inside to take a nut from its bowl to hand-feed it. “How can you say that, Mum? Father loved him, and he loved Father.” Quentin grinned. “You could even say he’s been a member of the family longer than either of us.”
“I’m well aware of how long that bird has been around. However, when I married your father, there was nothing in the vows about tending to that creature.” Lady Elise neared the table next to the windows. It was spread with spotless linen, adorned with nineteenth-century Wedgwood, eighteenth-century silverware, and fresh white orchids. “Does she expect us to eat the entire meal in here? I won’t have it, Quentin.”
“Oh, come now, Mum, it’ll be fine. You can see the roses from here, and I know you like them. Would you care for some iced tea?” Quentin walked toward the tea trolley set off to the side. “I believe Helen said it’s orange mint. How about you, Rebecca?”
She accepted the offer immediately. Elise declined.
“So tell me, Rebecca,” Elise said, “why are you working as a commercial manager out here in the country? You should be in London, where all the other young people live.”
“I like it here,” Rebecca said, hating the meek tone but unable to take it back and replace it with something more robust. She cleared her throat and made another attempt. “I’m interested in history, and I like working with others to preserve it.” Better, though still not herself.
Elise neared the table, the tip of one long finger grazing an orchid petal. “Some things are worthy to be preserved, although you must admit there is a plethora of Victorian homes available to schools and tourists. We don’t really need this hall on a public list.” She picked up a knife and inspected it, then replaced it. “Do you know, if the aristocracy isn’t concerned enough to have families—and large ones—the English aristocracy will die that much sooner?”
Rebecca nodded. Only life titles had been given since the 1960s—none that would be passed on through the generations. One might attribute it to any number of things: politics, a goal for universal democracy, simple modernized thinking. Somehow Rebecca didn’t think Elise would find any of those arguments compelling.
Rebecca slid her thumb along the cool glass in her hand, avoiding eye contact with either Lady Elise or Quentin.
“Since you are the commercial manager for this estate,” Elise said, “how is the market for selling such a place as this?”
The glass nearly slipped from her hands. Elise wanted not simply to close the Hall to visitors—she wanted to sell it? It might not be home to her anymore, but it once was, when her boys were young. When her husband was alive, he spent much of the year here. The same home had housed Hollinworths, and Hamiltons before them, for two hundred years. Rebecca could think of nothing to say.
“Mum is daring me to sell or donate the place to the Trust,” Quentin said, pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “But if you knew her better, you would see the ploy behind the suggestion. She wants the Hall to be either home or museum, not both. She’s archaically old-fashioned. I intend to keep things as they are, at least for the time being.”
A wave of relief rushed through Rebecca, one that had nothing to do with whether or not she kept a job she loved. If Lady Elise was so old-fashioned, couldn’t she see history would lose a vital connection with today if it were owned by anyone else, even the Trust?
“Drafty in the winter, hot in the summer,” Elise said. “And since it’s open to the public on more days than ever, it’s hardly a home and certainly no place to raise children.”
“Why not? At least they’d have a thorough education on the running of a Victorian estate. Thanks to Rebecca, who made sure it won a Sandford Award and has just been nominated for a Featherby as well.”
“How nice,” said Elise, staring out one of the mullioned windows. “Sounds as if the Trust would be happy to have this place.”
So much for an offer of thanks for Rebecca’s part in distinguishing the Hall with educational awards.
Soon Helen and her husband came in with trays, a full five-course dinner beneath rounded silver domes. Quentin led his mother to the table, where the three of them took their seats.
“Just a moment,” Elise said once the dinner was served and the husband and wife headed for the door. They both turned expectantly.
“Yes, ma’am?” Helen asked. “Can I get you anything else?”
“No.” Her narrow gaze could have pierced steel. “Was it your idea or my son’s to serve our dinner in here?”
“It was mine, Mum,” said Quentin before Helen could answer. “I want the bird to know I’m home, so I’ve been having my meals in here.”
One brow rose over Lady Elise’s eyes in what looked like exasperated acceptance.
“Anything else, ma’am?” Helen’s back, as well as her tone, seemed a bit stiffer than it had before.
Good for her. At least she isn’t cowering.
Elise turned back to the table, effectively discharging them from the room. Rebecca caught the grin Quentin sent Helen’s way, a simple gesture that softened the board she had made of her shoulders.
“There is a bit of other news,” Quentin said as they began eating.
Rebecca paused before taking up her fork. Evidently there was no blessing to be said over this meal. Silently, quickly, she sent up a word of thanks.
“Other news?” Elise asked. “What news have you given me already that this should qualify as ‘other’?”
“About the Featherby, Mum,” said Quentin. Amazingly, his tone was light, forgiving.
“Oh, that,” she murmured dismissively. “What other news, then?”
“We’ve heard from an American branch of the family. Direct descendants of Cosima and Peter Hamilton.”
She waved a hand in front of her face at the names. “We? Whom do you mean when you say ‘we’ve’ heard?”
“The e-mail first went to the Hall’s business address,” Rebecca said, “but it was for the Hollinworth family: you and Quentin.”
Elise’s fork stopped midway as she scrutinized Rebecca. “Strangers are trying to contact my son through the Hall? Yet another reason to sell off this place and remove ourselves from being such easy targets.”
“But they’re authentically related, Mum. They’ve traced their family back to ours. Well, Father’s line anyway. I’ll be eager to meet them.”
“Meet them? Why? Are you planning a trip to the US?”
“No, they’re actually coming he
re. I assume they’ll want to see the Hall, since this was where Cosima and Peter Hamilton lived and reared their children.”
“Surely you’re not having perfect strangers come here, Quentin?”
“No, not exactly strangers.”
“The whole idea is positively frightening. Americans, no less.”
“They have a journal,” Rebecca offered quietly, thinking even that probably wouldn’t change Elise’s mind. But Rebecca was in this with Quentin and didn’t want him fighting alone. “A journal belonging to Quentin’s great-great-great-grandmother.”
“I’m sure they do.” Her tone indicated she didn’t believe a word.
“Have you checked your e-mail today, Quentin?” Rebecca asked. A slight shift in the topic might ease the tension. “Dana sent the text of Cosima’s journal.”
He shook his head, smiling. “No, not yet. I’ll look for it tonight. So you’ve seen it?”
“Only that it was attached. I didn’t have time to open it.”
“This is all so fascinating,” Elise cut in, “but I assume you both know you could be fooled by a family of con artists wanting heaven knows what.”
“Clever con artists, if so,” Quentin said, winking Rebecca’s way.
Maybe Rebecca was beginning to adjust to Elise’s abrasive personality. Or maybe that wink, like the grin he’d aimed Helen’s way, was enough to abolish whatever discomfort Rebecca still felt. She smiled.
“They’ve offered quite an extensive pedigree,” she told Elise. Even her voice sounded like her own again. “I don’t really see how it could be false. I’ve verified what I could with public records, birth and marriage certificates. It all appears legitimate.”
Elise eyed Rebecca. “How resourceful of you.”
“Besides, they don’t want anything, Mum. Just to see the Hall, and they can do that by making an appointment for a tour anyway. And something else. When we heard about the journal, Rebecca and I looked through the vault and found letters from Cosima and Peter’s generation that we’d like to share with these cousins of mine.”