The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

“Maybe. I’m still gathering facts.”

  “Never mind. You must come to a proper supper one evening. Next week?”

  “Of course.”

  Rebecca squeezed my arm lightly. “I’ll call you.”

  I nodded.

  “Yes, yes. Nice to see you,” the earl said and nudged me along. I could tell he was tiring.

  “George,” I said, realizing I could use his first name after all, as he’d asked, “I’ll be fine on my own. Wouldn’t you like to sit down for a little while?”

  “Are you tiring of an old man’s company?” He raised one wild, bushy eyebrow. “You want to find yourself a husband at my garden party, do you?”

  I laughed outright and saw by the twinkle in his eye that he was pleased. “No husband for me just now, thanks.”

  “They’ll be after you, though. You’ll see. Be wary.” He paused, leaning on his walking stick. “A beautiful young heiress—it’s a wonder you haven’t made the papers.”

  “As long as it’s not page three, I guess I’m all right,” I said, referring to a now-defunct feature in a major newspaper that had run photos of topless girls every day.

  George laughed loudly, throwing his head back, and I joined in, pleased that I could elicit such a reaction. But after a moment, he started coughing, and I led him to a chair alongside the portico. “Do you want some water?”

  “No, no. Just shaking loose the boring days, that’s all.” He patted my hand. “You’re a delight, Olivia Shaw. Very much like your grandmother. You look like her, of course, but you’ve got her brain and good sense. The estate could use that again. Do you know she tripled the income of Rosemere in the years she ran it?”

  “Really? Everyone says she hated it.”

  “Oh, perhaps she did. It was more England she hated. She wasn’t as free here as she’d been in India, of course. Used to doing things her own way, which is why she didn’t last with a marriage, even when she gave it a try. I’d have married her, if I hadn’t been married myself.” He winked, and then another coughing fit overtook him. Worried, I looked around for a place to get water.

  A woman in her forties joined us, her manner easy, her voice a melodic murmur. “Are you all right, Uncle George?”

  “You can walk me inside in a moment, Claudia, but in the meantime, meet the local heiress, the Countess of Rosemere, Lady Shaw. She’s making me feel eighteen and witty.”

  Claudia was tall like the earl, with dark hair swept away from her face in a rolling twist, her eyes direct. “Is that right? Pleasure to meet you. I’m Claudia Barber. I do my best to look after this rebel. It might be time to go in, mightn’t it?”

  “It might indeed.” He was red-faced with the coughing, and a lock of hair had come loose. However hale he appeared, he was a very old man. He squeezed my hand. “You must come for luncheon next week. I have much to teach you and probably not much time to do it in.”

  “Name the day.” I stood up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “It was wonderful to meet you, truly.”

  “Leave your number with Mr. Tims,” Claudia said. “Very nice to meet you.”

  My obligation done, I turned to leave myself, but as I walked up the steps, a couple waylaid me, introducing themselves as Baron Something and wife. We chitchatted about San Francisco and travel and were joined by another trio, and for the better part of two hours, I was engaged by a dizzying whirl of locals. I did my best to remember something about each of them but failed spectacularly.

  One very tall man in his forties brought me a drink. “Gin and tonic,” he said. “You look parched.”

  “Do I?” I sipped the drink gratefully. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

  “They always get me through these things. Properly spaced, of course.” He offered his hand. “Alexander Barber, the earl’s nephew. You met my sister a bit ago.”

  I accepted the handshake. He had the same dark hair, thick and unruly, and the wiry body of a long-distance swimmer, which I recognized from a high school boyfriend. “Olivia Shaw.”

  He grinned, giving his face a boyish expression. “Yes, I gathered. American, is it? What do you do back there?”

  Not a single person had asked me this, and it brought into focus how divided I felt mentally. “I’m a magazine editor, a food magazine called Egg and Hen.”

  “Is that right? Are you a writer as well?”

  “Yes. Essays, mainly, some reporting. Because I’m over here, we’re considering an issue on British food and traditions.”

  “We’ve a lot more to offer than most of the world believes.”

  “I think so too.” He was a good-looking man, with rugged features and a deep tan on his face. “As it happens, my work is editing and writing, as well. I’m an editor at large for Travel and Adventure. I have a book coming out in the fall on the world’s best treks.”

  “No kidding. That’s great.” The gin trickled into my blood, easing the tension I’d been holding, and I sipped again. “What’s your favorite trek?”

  “Depends. If you want something accessible, not too long, it’s hard to beat the Coast to Coast in England. A little more active—the Langtang trek in the Himalayas. Not too extreme, not terribly crowded, full of cultural treasures.”

  “Ah. I’d probably stick with the first one.”

  A trio of women joined us, introducing themselves to me but clearly interested in talking to Alexander. I lifted a hand in a short wave and extracted myself. The butler called Robert, my driver, and as I waited on the front steps, looking out over the well-tended landscape, I wondered if I might be able to stay here in England. If I might be able to make a place for myself in this new world. Did I want to?

  And even if I stayed, what were the visa requirements? I should really look into that.

  It all seemed more than a little daunting.

  What I hadn’t expected to feel was a sense of obligation, but the earl had planted something that tickled the edges of my sense of identity. Did I belong to this estate, to the family seat? Or did I belong back in San Francisco, in my busy, arty world? At the moment, I had no idea.

  Chapter Ten

  When I returned to the hotel, the pub was bustling, which surprised me considering that it was only four p.m. on a Sunday afternoon. A big sign at the door advertised a Sunday roast with all the trimmings, showing a discolored photo of a plate of roast beef, potatoes, carrots, and yorkshire pudding. It didn’t look the slightest bit appealing, and I felt irritable at the sound of all the voices.

  Even when I got to my room, I could still hear them. Not like the karaoke crowd, but waves of voices and laughing and screechy female commentary. I thought there might be an athletic event of some kind on TV.

  Restless, I changed my clothes back to jeans and a soft long-sleeved T-shirt. My leg ached from all the standing, so I sat with a heating pad I’d picked up at the pharmacy and checked my email.

  The first one was from Grant with the subject line “Are You Ghosting Me?”

  Crap. I’d forgotten to send him my new number. And maybe, honestly, I was subconsciously ghosting him, but that wasn’t fair. I opened up the email.

  I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for days. Is everything all right? Nancy won’t share anything with me about the sale of the house, and I tried to get some information on your mother’s paintings at the gallery, but they wouldn’t share either. I’m at a loss here, Olivia. What the hell is going on with you? Whatever it is, we can talk it out. I love you, and I’m here for you.

  A sense of guilt burned my gut. Whatever was happening, Grant deserved to know.

  If I was honest with myself, I didn’t feel anything over his email. He’d already faded to sepia in my emotions, a lover I’d once cared about.

  No longer.

  Not something I could write in an email. And as I’d learned many, many times, nothing difficult grew easier in the waiting. I made a cup of tea, turned on the fire, calculated that it was early but not hideously so, and dialed his number.

  He picked up immedi
ately. “Olivia! I’ve been worried to death. Is everything okay?”

  “Yes. Yes, I’m sorry, Grant. I’m juggling a lot of tasks right now, and I got a new phone, and I forgot to give you the number.”

  “Forgot?”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  “Did you lose the old one or something? Why did you get a new phone?”

  “There’s just a lot to do here, and it’s going to take a little while. It was cheaper to get a new phone rather than trying to use the old one.”

  “What are you talking about? You can’t stay there! We have to sell your mom’s house. Bill and Joaquin want an answer over this apartment—whether we can buy it or not—so they can put it up for sale. I’ve been out here scrambling, and you’ve been totally out of touch. What the hell is going on? Why can’t I get any info from the gallery or Nancy?” Exasperated, he took a breath, and I saw him in my imagination—slapping one big, paint-stained hand on his leg. “You can’t just be tra-la-la-ing in England right now.”

  “Well, it turns out I can. I’m here.” His tone, his bossiness, hardened what I’d realized only the past few weeks. There was no point to continuing the charade any longer. “Grant, I don’t know how to say this except straight out. You can’t access information because I told them I don’t want them to communicate with anyone but me.” I took a breath. “I don’t want to be with you anymore.”

  A deep hush greeted my words. Then, “Oh, sweetheart, you’re just grieving your mom. It makes life look stupid, makes everything look ridiculous, but we’re a team, me and you.”

  “Are we, Grant? We weren’t much of a team when I spent nine days in the hospital and you breezed in for an hour a day, maybe, if I was lucky. We weren’t a team when I ended up going to my frail mother’s house to stay instead of coming home because you couldn’t be bothered to get things ready for me at our apartment.”

  “That’s not fair! I was finishing work for an exhibit when all of that happened. You know that! I was doing my best.”

  “No. Your best would have been being there for me,” I said without rancor. “I nearly died, Grant. I could have.”

  “I know. I let you down. I was scared.”

  “And how do you think I felt?”

  “I’m sorry. I love you, Olivia. You know I do.” He was silent for a moment, but I didn’t have anything to place in the silence. “Look, maybe this isn’t grief, but don’t they say you shouldn’t make any major decisions for a year after a big death? Why don’t we just wait until you get home, talk it all out then?”

  For one cold, terrifying moment, I wondered if he was right. Was I only reacting to everything that had happened?

  But again I thought of my loneliness at the hospital, my sense of being marooned at my mother’s house, and shook my head. “We were broken before the accident. I just didn’t want to give up the life we had. I didn’t want to admit it, but it’s over.”

  “Wait! What about the apartment? All your things?”

  “I don’t care. I want my mom’s paintings, but there’s nothing else there that I can’t do without.”

  “You’re serious.”

  “Yeah, I am. I’m sorry.”

  “This is just crazy. Olivia, we’ve been together for eight years! Eight!”

  “I know. Better now than after we get married.”

  “But we’ve worked so hard to get to this point, where things might get a little easier. Your mom’s house, the apartment. You love this life. You’ll regret giving it up once you get over all this drama.”

  “Drama? My mother is dead, Grant.”

  “You know what I mean. The situation is making you question everything, but you love me, love our life. You know you do!”

  “I did. Now I don’t.” I donned my magazine voice, clear and direct. “I’m breaking up with you, and it’s not negotiable. Let’s just be adults about this, can we?”

  “Oh, now that you’ll have your mom’s house money, you’re going to walk away, right? After all that—”

  “Not going to listen to this,” I said. “I want my mother’s paintings. You can call the gallery.”

  “I’m keeping those paintings. They’ll be my settlement, since you’re going to cut me out of the house.”

  “Grant! Can we please not do this? It’s my mother’s work. It doesn’t belong to you.”

  “Well, I guess you’ll have to take me to court.”

  “Court? That escalated pretty fast.”

  “This happened pretty fast. We’ve lived together six years. What we’ve collected together will be ruled common property.”

  “That’s ridiculous. Grant—”

  “I don’t want to talk any longer,” he said and hung up.

  Stunned, I stared at the phone for a long moment, then started to punch the redial button and halted.

  My breath was coming in hard pants, and I stood up to relieve the anger surging through me. What a jerk! I would get the paintings back, of course. No one would award him such personal property—but it infuriated me that he would make such a claim. I needed to call my mother’s agent and find out what the legalities were. What if he tried to sell the paintings? It made me feel vaguely panicky.

  On the upside, I realized that I was deeply relieved that I hadn’t told him anything about the rest of it: the manor, the estate, my title.

  I was also relieved to be free of him. Until I had spoken the words this afternoon, I hadn’t realized how furious I was over his desertion, how betrayed I’d felt, lying in that hospital bed. I rubbed my knee, feeling echoes of that deep, painful loneliness.

  What had taken me so long?

  Filled with a restless, half-furious, half-buoyant exuberance, I tugged on a sweater and a hat and headed out into the still-sunny afternoon. The sun hung high enough over the hills that I would have a solid couple of hours of daylight yet. The tip toward summer felt hopeful after the long dark winter, and I set out down the high street.

  The foot traffic surprised me. When I had first started traveling to England, largely for work, it had been impossible to find anything open on a Sunday at all, and nothing after five p.m. on weekdays either. Few shops were open today, but the cafés and restaurants nearly all were. I wandered by each one to read the menus and peer inside. I wanted a good walk first, but maybe I’d have supper out tonight. At Coriander, I paused, but it was closed, the tables neatly set for next time. The card in the window informed me that the restaurant was closed Sunday and Monday. Sensible.

  Wandering on, I looped up around the church and looked for a path that might lead to Rosemere, as Samir had said. I found one that meandered through a field, past a small pond, and along a bank of tall bushes I thought might be rhododendrons. I followed it all the way around; crossed a stream over a tiny, ancient bridge; and paused to admire a thicket that was so still it might have been medieval. The path leading out only led me upward to the top of the village. I paused and looked back, wondering where I’d missed the switch, but clearly I’d gone the wrong direction entirely. In the distance, Rosemere stood in mute beauty, flaws hidden at such a distance.

  For one moment, I imagined how she could look with light streaming in clean windows, the hallway and stairs brought to life again with feet running up and down and the voices of humans ringing through the rooms.

  I walked the rest of the way to the top of the hill and found myself in a grassy clearing that offered views of the wood and a small lake—that must be the “mere” in “Rosemere”—and the quaint tumble of the village with roads leading into the central square from all directions. They would have been tracks, once upon a time, roads worn into the earth by farmer’s carts and the hooves of animals.

  Again that sense of history and endless time struck me. I stood here on this hill, and how many had stood here before me? How many would after me?

  It almost made me dizzy. Made me feel both too small and oddly comforted. My life mattered, but in a way, it was just a blip.

  Sweating lightly, buoyed by
the fresh air and exercise, I wandered back down the lane. It was lined with a mishmash of houses, here a couple of old cottages with thatched roofs, there a narrow Victorian, three stories high, next door to a modern cube with the utilitarian tone of the fifties, and then a couple of ordinary cottages, no thatch. No matter what the style, the front gardens burst with the offerings of spring—tulips in a dizzying array of varieties, red and pink and variegated; spills of hyacinth; a spectacular dogwood tree. A stout woman bent over at the waist plucking weeds, singing breathily.

  I wondered what would be blooming in the gardens at Rosemere Priory. I’d never had a chance to garden seriously. Would I even like it? My mother had been passionate, but that didn’t mean it would suit me.

  A man came around the side of a cottage with a wheelbarrow full of seedlings. For a moment, I could not place him out of context—not until he looked up, and an expression of pure, unsullied cheeriness crossed his face. “Olivia! Have you come to see me?”

  Samir, wearing gardening gloves on his big hands, his hair even more out of control than usual, dirt all over his jeans. “No, I mean, I might have but—I didn’t know. I was out for a walk.” I paused to admire the garden, which burst with the tulips and daffodils and hyacinths that grew in other gardens but boasted many more as well—something that trailed and another with soft little leaves and bright trumpet flowers. “Is this yours?”

  “Yeah.” He rested his knuckles on his hip as he looked over his shoulder. “I must admit I didn’t plant it, but I’m sworn to maintain it under the terms of my lease. Beautiful, isn’t it?”

  I nodded. “Lucky you.”

  “Want a cup of tea? Coffee?” He inclined his head toward the door. His jaw showed a Sunday brush of whiskers around the glossy goatee, and the angle of neck to throat caught me somewhere in my ribs. I wanted to see how he lived. To sit with him.

  “Yes,” I said and let myself in the gate. Slightly flustered, I pointed to the plants along the fence. “What are those?”

  “Primroses.”

  “They’re so friendly.”

  He grinned. “They are. And tulips are a bit haughty. They think they’re better than everyone else.”