by Adele Whitby
EPILOGUE
You go first—”
“No, you—”
“No, you—”
“Shhh,” Shannon whispered to us, one finger at her mouth. “When the music stops, there will be complete silence in the ballroom. The guests mustn’t hear you giggling before your debut.”
Shannon’s gentle advice was all it took for Betsy and me to stop playing around. We stood there as quiet and prim as portraits while Shannon and Nellie circled around us, adjusting the skirts of our ball gowns and fluffing our hair. But when it came to positioning our necklaces so that they caught the light just so, Betsy and I turned to face each other.
“There,” I said, moving her sapphire necklace a little to the left.
“Just right,” she said as she centered the ruby pendant over my heart.
Shannon stood back to examine us both. “Perfect,” she finally said—and just in the nick of time, because the words were barely out of her mouth when the music suddenly stopped.
It had all seemed like fun and games a moment ago, but when I realized that Betsy and I were about to descend the grand staircase into the ballroom, I felt like my heart might stop. Betsy’s eyes were wide as they searched my face; she looked as nervous as me.
“Together,” she mouthed without making a sound, and I nodded with relief.
We paused for a moment at the top of the staircase, glancing at each other out of the corners of our eyes. Seeing my beautiful cousin beside me was all it took to make my nerves fade away. How special it was—how right in every way—to share this moment with her.
Then, arm in arm, we began our descent—just like our great-great-grandmothers had at their birthday ball in Chatswood Manor, more than eighty-five years ago.
Mom walked these steps before her birthday ball, I thought. And Aunt Katie before her, and Great-Aunt Kathy before her . . .
They were waiting for us at the bottom of the steps, of course; first Dad and Mom; then Aunt Beth; then Aunt Katie and Great-Aunt Kathy. Then came Betsy’s cousin Gabrielle, all the way from Paris, and half the lords and ladies of England. Senator Hebert and his wife stood next to the foreman from Vandermeer Steel and his wife, who were followed by all the employees of Vandermeer Steel, including the company’s newest hire: Clara. Shannon and Nellie must’ve run all the way down the back staircase, because they were standing on Clara’s other side, with Hank and David, too. And—yes, there was Mr. O’Brien, standing right behind Aunt Beth. They seemed to be spending a lot of time together these days.
I looked out at the sea of smiling faces. It was a rare and wonderful thing to have everyone who’d ever mattered to me together in the same room at the same time. Never forget this moment, I thought.
It was thirty-seven steps to the ballroom—Betsy and I had counted the day before—and it felt like it took an hour to walk down them all. I think it must’ve gone much faster than that, though, because the next thing I knew, the music had started up again, and one person after another approached to wish us happy birthday. Then came the dancing—hours and hours of dancing!—until Betsy and I were so pink in the face that we had to pause for some refreshment. We stood against the wall, sipping our punch and whispering behind our gloved hands.
“Look!” I said, nudging her with my arm. “They’re dancing again.”
Betsy glanced in the direction of her mother and Mr. O’Brien. She shook her head, but couldn’t help smiling. “That’s the fifth time they’ve danced together tonight,” she said.
“Quite scandalous, don’t you think?” I teased her.
“Do you know what she said to me yesterday?” Betsy asked. “She asked if I’d ever fancy taking a trip to Hollywood!”
I gasped. “Really?”
“I said, ‘Only if Kay can come, too,’ ” Betsy replied.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world!”
“Speaking of missing . . . ,” Betsy said, glancing around the ballroom. “Do you think anyone would notice if we slipped away for a few moments?”
“Now?” I asked. “I guess there’s no time like the present.”
Betsy and I were completely dignified as we left the ballroom. But as soon as we were out of sight, we started to run—and we didn’t stop until we’d reached Great-Great-Grandmother Katherine’s rooms.
“Did anyone see us?” I asked breathlessly.
Betsy shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she replied. “But we’d better be quick about it. If we’re not back in time to cut the cake . . .”
“I know.”
Sitting in the center of Great-Great-Grandmother Katherine’s writing desk was the journal that had belonged to Essie Bridges so long ago—the one that Aunt Beth had found in the secret passageway of Chatswood Manor. I’d hidden the journal in Katherine’s rooms that morning, with something very special tucked inside the cover. I opened it and removed a miniscule piece of paper.
Then I turned to face my cousin.
At the same time, we held up our necklaces.
“I am Kay, and I love my cousin Betsy.”
“I am Betsy, and I love my cousin Kay.”
Click-click-whirrrrrrrr.
When the hidden door in the back of each necklace popped open, Betsy and I peeked inside. It was getting a little crowded in there with all the letters—A P-A-R-T O-F Y-O-U F-O-R-E-V-E-R—and the two messages our mothers had added before we were born:
cousin of my blood
sister of my heart
But there was still enough room for one more secret.
I handed the piece of paper to Betsy and watched her unfold it. “Well?” I asked anxiously. “Is it all right?”
For a moment, she didn’t speak. Then Betsy looked up at me, all smiles. “It’s better than all right!” she cried. “It’s perfect!”
I beamed at her. “We can tear it right down the middle—”
Betsy clapped her hand over my drawing. “No, I’d hate to rip it—”
“It’s fine. I’ll make another. Come on, Betsy. You know we have to. One half for your necklace and one half for mine.”
“If you insist—but I can’t watch!”
I folded the paper in half and made a neat tear right down the center of the Chatswood-Vandermeer family tree I’d drawn. “There! All done,” I told her.
Betsy uncovered her eyes. “Oh, good,” she said in relief. “It’s not ruined.”
“Not at all,” I said.
Then Betsy tucked the Vandermeer half of the family tree inside her necklace, while I hid the Chatswood side in mine. Together, we pressed the tiny door closed; then we pulled our necklaces apart.
The Katherine necklace didn’t feel any heavier with the Chatswood branch of the family tree hidden inside it, which made perfect sense to me. All those names I’d written in my tiniest handwriting—from Elizabeth to Eliza to Liz to Beth to Betsy—were my family as much as Katherine and Kathy and Katie and Kate were. Their stories already lived within my heart. I would always carry their strength and love with me, through good times and bad, no matter what.
And that was no secret.
I stared into the pot as the water began to boil, melting the knob of butter into a shiny yellow slick. “Now?” I asked anxiously. “Should I add the flour now?”
Across the kitchen Mama was whisking egg whites at a furious pace. “Is the butter melted, Camille?” she called.
“Almost,” I replied. “Almost . . . yes!”
“Good. Now add the flour all at once and stir as hard as you can. Mind the stove now. I don’t want you to burn yourself again.”
“All at once?” I repeated.
“Yes, just pour it in and begin stirring. Don’t stop until it’s come together in a thick dough.”
“Yes, Mama.”
I bit my tongue as I reached for the flour; Mama had helped me measure just the right amount. All at once, I reminded myself. Then I poured the flour into the pot. But I must’ve poured it a bit too fast, because a huge cloud of the stuff rose into the air!
“Oh!” I cried, rubbing my powdery face. “Ah-ah-ahhhh-choo!”
The scullery maids started to giggle—and who could blame them? My shenanigans at the stove were a constant source of entertainment for the entire kitchen staff. But I knew that they didn’t mean any harm by their laughter. After all, I’m sure I made a funny picture, now that my dark, chestnut-brown hair was as white as a powdered wig!
“Are you all right, Camille?” Mama said. “Keep stirring!”
“Yes, Mama, I’m fine,” I replied as I tried not to sneeze again. I focused all my attention on stirring, stirring, stirring the gooey mix in the pot. Mama was a fine pastry chef who had been trained by her father, the famous chef Alistair Beaudin, who was known throughout all of France for his delicious desserts. The Beaudin family method for making light, delicate profiteroles was a carefully guarded secret, and just one of the reasons why Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette Rousseau had been so eager to hire Mama when she finished her apprenticeship. Mama had been just as eager to accept their offer of employment, since she and my father, the groundskeeper at Rousseau Manor, were engaged to be married. Monsieur Henri used to joke about what a perfect match it was, bringing together two sweethearts and satisfying his sweet tooth at the same time. But he had stopped making that joke after Papa died.
Mama and I still missed Papa terribly, but Monsieur Henri and Madame Colette had done everything in their power to ease our pain. Since they had no children, the Rousseaus had dedicated their ample time and fortune to helping others, including Mama and me. Just after Papa’s death, the Rousseaus had promised that they would always take care of us, no matter what. And in keeping that promise, they had earned our loyalty—for life. It was a privilege to work at Rousseau Manor, one of the grandest homes in all of France. The manor, and the estate it sat on, had been in the Rousseau family for generations. Ever since my tenth birthday almost two years ago, Mama had been trying her best to train me in the pastry arts so that I, too, could carry on the Beaudin family tradition. But despite my heritage, I was a disaster in the kitchen! Somehow, though, Mama had limitless patience with me. And if she wouldn’t give up, then I wouldn’t, either.
I stirred and stirred until my arm began to ache. Then, like magic, it happened: the sticky flour and buttery water combined to make a smooth, shiny dough.
“Mama!” I cried. “I did it! I did it!”
“Well done, Camille!” she said proudly from across the kitchen, and even the scullery maids began to applaud. I beamed with pleasure.
“Now what?” I asked.
“Let it rest for a few minutes to cool,” Mama told me. “Then you can add the eggs, one at a time. Twelve ought to do it. Remember to beat well after each addition, Camille. And don’t add them too soon, or else the heat from the dough will cook them.”
“I won’t,” I promised her. Then I ducked into the pantry for the eggs I’d gathered that morning. Since spring had arrived, the hens had been laying even more eggs than usual; I’d already collected two large baskets and it wasn’t even noon! I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Mrs. Plourde, the cook, decided to make a quiche for luncheon.
I held out my apron skirt to make a pouch for the eggs as I counted them, one by one. As I gently placed each egg in my apron skirt, I heard a sharp voice say my name. My heart sank. I knew who it was right away: Bernadette, the head housemaid, and one of the most powerful servants at Rousseau Manor. Bernadette was quick to find fault, especially with me. She was always displeased with how I folded the napkins or scoured the pans. Even my thick hair, which resisted all my efforts to stay in a tidy plait, seemed to offend her.
“Camille!” she barked again. “What are you doing?”
“I was—”
“Dawdling, most likely,” she spoke over me with a contemptuous sniff. “As if there wasn’t enough work to be done around here.”
“But—”
“No excuses,” Bernadette said as she grabbed hold of my elbow and escorted me back to the kitchen. “Now, show me your task, or I’ll send you off to polish the silver.”
“I’m making dough for the profiteroles,” I tried to explain as I carefully placed the eggs in a bowl. “There’s croquembouche on the menu tonight.”
“Croquembouche?” Bernadette asked. She raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “And your mother trusted you with the profiteroles?”
I nodded miserably. It was no secret that croquembouche, a tall tower made of airy profiteroles filled with creamy custard and held in place by a sticky caramel sauce, was one of the most challenging desserts to make. Even I had to wonder what Mama was thinking when she asked for my help.
“Then you’d best get on with it,” said Bernadette. She folded her bony arms across her chest, and I could tell that she intended to watch every single thing I did.
What if the dough is still too hot? I worried. I snuck a glance around the kitchen, but Mama must have stepped out.
“Get on with it, I said,” Bernadette snapped.
Adele Whitby wishes she lived in a grand manor home with hidden rooms and tucked-away nooks and crannies, but instead she lives in the next best thing—a condo in Florida with her husband and their two dogs, Molly and Mack. When she’s not busy writing, you can usually find her reading and relaxing on the beach under a big umbrella. She loves getting lost in a good story, especially one set in a faraway place and time.
Look for more Secrets of the Manor books at your favorite store!
Simon Spotlight
Simon & Schuster
New York
Meet the author, watch videos, and get extras at
KIDS.SimonandSchuster.com
authors.simonandschuster.com/Adele-Whitby
WE HOPE YOU LOVED READING THIS EBOOK!
We have SO many more books for kids in the in-beTWEEN age that we’d love to share with you! Sign up for our IN THE MIDDLE books newsletter and you’ll receive news about other great books, exclusive excerpts, games, author interviews, and more!
CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP
or visit us online to sign up at
eBookNews.SimonandSchuster.com/middle
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
SIMON SPOTLIGHT
An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division
1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020
www.SimonandSchuster.com
This Simon Spotlight paperback edition January 2015
Copyright © 2015 by Simon and Schuster, Inc. Text by Ellie O’Ryan.
Illustrations by Jaime Zollars. All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. SIMON SPOTLIGHT and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Jacket design by Laura Roode
Jacket illustrations by Jaime Zollars
Jacket illustrations copyright © 2015 by Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Designed by Laura Roode. The text of this book was set in Adobe Caslon Pro.
ISBN 978-1-4814-2756-2 (hc)
ISBN 978-1-4814-2755-5 (pbk)
ISBN 978-1-4814-2757-9 (eBook)
Library of Congress Control Number 2014935642