The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

“Beautiful. We’re going to have them back to do the stable.” She turned smoothly into her drive, and I thought of Samir standing high on the roof that first day.

  Philip waited within, a bibbed apron around his body. “Hello, Olivia!” he said in a hearty way. He had a genial face, which I had not particularly noticed at the garden party. “We’re so happy you’re here tonight! I’m making chicken shawarma.”

  “It smells heavenly,” I said and meant it.

  “Philip is a fantastic cook,” Rebecca said, taking my coat. “It was one of the things that captured me.”

  “You’re a great cook too,” I said. “I wrote an article on venison stew after tasting that one you made.”

  “Really? That’s wonderful! I’m so flattered!”

  We settled in over steamed rice and shawarma and Israeli salad with a beautiful, nuanced white burgundy. It still startled me a little to see the French labels, which were so unusual in California, but of course, French was the local great wine, while Californian was the import.

  As Rebecca poured a generous second helping of the wine for Philip and me, she asked, “So have you come up with a plan for the estate?”

  “A plan?”

  “Will you sell or renovate?” she clarified, taking a sip of water.

  “Still not at all sure, one way or the other. I’ve been doing heaps of research and consulting with various experts, including Mr. Haver, but there are just so many unanswered questions.”

  Philip nodded. “It’s a big decision, but of course, it would be worse if you had an actual tie to the house, if you’d grown up there or something.”

  “If I’d grown up there, it wouldn’t be a wreck, would it?”

  “I suppose not,” he said mildly. “But it is now. I think the feeling is that it would be best left to fall down. These old piles are a terrible drain on estates.”

  The wording was so close to something Haver had said to me that I smiled slightly and used an echoing technique that worked brilliantly in interviews. “A drain?”

  “Oh, yes.” He patted his lips and rested his forearms neatly on the edge of the table, hands in soft fists as he warmed to his topic. “You’ve just no idea how many of my clients have lost everything over a doddering estate. Sentimentality is never a way to move into the future.”

  “You must forgive my husband,” Rebecca said smoothly. “He finds history inconvenient.”

  He laughed lightly. “It’s true. I’m a cretin when it comes to these things. You’re much better about this in America—if it doesn’t work, knock it down!”

  I laughed with him. “It’s true, but even there, we have the historic register, and if something makes it onto that list, woe be unto you.” I scooped up more salad, let the sharp, fresh flavors roll through my mouth. Then, “That’s what everyone’s been saying here. Just as you said, Rebecca, the process for getting things by the committee that oversees listed houses is just grueling.”

  “That was certainly our experience,” Philip said. “Rebecca had her heart set on the old farmhouse authentically restored, so we jumped through the hoops the old battle-ax set for us.” He glanced fondly at his wife, and I thought suddenly of Tony, the strapping thatcher.

  “Philip charmed her, mostly. She didn’t want much to do with me.”

  “I’ve had a couple of conversations with Jocasta Edwards, the Restoration Diva, and I’m hoping that she’ll have some good suggestions.”

  “What?” Rebecca asked. “She’s helping you?”

  “Not yet,” I said honestly, “but I think she might take on the project for her show.”

  “That would be marvelous!” Philip cried. “She has resources you couldn’t hope to access on your own, no matter what your title.”

  Rebecca held her hands in her lap. “But isn’t that a bit crass, putting your whole life on the BBC?”

  “I don’t know about the crass aspect. If there’s any chance at all of saving Rosemere, I need all the help I can get.”

  “But what if they discover terrible family secrets?”

  “That could very well happen. I mean, who runs away from a happy life?”

  She looked at me with a disappointment I couldn’t quite translate. In defense, I said, “Both George and Samir seem to think it’s worth saving. Maybe I do too.”

  “George?” Philip asked.

  “Samir?” Rebecca said at the same moment. “You mean Sam, the thatcher?”

  “Yes,” I said. “And George is the Earl of Marswick.”

  “Oh, oh! Yes, of course,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not sure I’ve ever known his Christian name.”

  “I can see the earl’s taken you under his wing,” Rebecca said. “But what does Sam have to do with anything?” She seemed genuinely bewildered.

  “He’s been very helpful, actually. He’s the one who suggested Jocasta.”

  “Okay, I’m sorry I’m not following.” Rebecca scowled prettily. “Who is Jocasta?”

  “My fault. She’s the Restoration Diva.”

  “Right, right.” She gave a little laugh and examined her wineglass as if it were to blame for the lapse.

  Philip said, “You mean Samir Malakar, the writer who lives in Saint Ives Cross?”

  “Yes,” I said, more emphatically. “Our families have been connected for over a hundred years, according to Samir’s father.”

  “Is that so?” Rebecca eyed me, then looked at her husband. “Sam is a writer? How did you know that and I didn’t?”

  His eyes shimmered, and I saw the droll set of his mouth before he said lightly, “Because I’m not a snob like my wife.” Taking a sip of wine, he added, “And I’ve read them. At least the first one. Never got around to the second.”

  “I had no idea,” Rebecca said. “He’s very attractive, of course, and I knew he’d come back after uni, but—well.” She shrugged a shoulder. “Anyway.”

  Philip stood and smoothly took our plates. “I’ve dessert, so don’t think you can sneak away.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I said.

  Jocasta brought an architect, a surveyor, and a landscape historian with her when we met the following week. “I have good news,” she said, beaming as we met at the top of the gardens. “We’re a go!”

  I grabbed her hands in my excitement. “Oh my God. That’s great news!”

  “It is. I’m delighted, and if you don’t mind, I’m going to set these good people to work so we’ll know what we’re dealing with. Ian and Diana are going to follow them around and film, and you and I are going to sit down and talk everything out. Have you heard about the funding from America?”

  “Still in process, but I have no doubt the sum will be plenty to get us started.”

  “Good. You should have funds from the estate as well, so I’m confident in our ability to get it all moving. The plan is to air an episode every eight weeks as long as we have good material. We’ll start with our first walk-through two weeks ago and add whatever we get from today, which will air in April. Is that all right?”

  I blinked. I’d imagined filming for ages, then finally, somewhere down the line, a season focused on Rosemere. “That’s fast,” I said.

  “It is,” Jocasta said.

  “In for a penny, in for a pound,” I said with a shrug.

  “That’s the spirit! We’ll film some sort of canned bits today for the credits—all about the house and that—and then one day next week, I’ll bring the hair and makeup team out, and we’ll film the intro with the two of us that will frame the story. Sound good?”

  “Sure.”

  It was a daunting afternoon, in the end. The historian cited so many facts that my head was spinning, and I resolved to get my notes in order when I got back to the hotel. My head was stuffed with generations of history. Centuries of it.

  Dizzying.

  The minute the group drove away, I texted Samir. Jocasta says the project is a go!

  That’s AMAZING. Where are you now?

  Still at Rosemere. She j
ust left.

  I’ve just driven back from TK. Still in work clothes, but will come there. 10 min.

  Find me by conservatory.

  A bank of clouds hung in the distance as I walked back down the hill to the wrecked conservatory. More rain later, but this was April in England. What else should a person expect? On one of the hills, a scattering of white balls littered the velvety green grass, a flock of sheep, and the fields that had been empty upon my arrival now clearly showed a glaze of green. Rapeseed, for canola oil. Rebecca had told me that the fields were beautiful when it bloomed.

  I didn’t yet feel a sense of ownership as I headed down the hill, but something in my heart ached to preserve the land as it was, maybe save the house for generations to come. For my sake? My mother’s? I didn’t know.

  The longer light of late afternoon angled through the broken panes of glass in the conservatory, giving sharp shadows and edgings of gold to the blue glass. The iron framework had oxidized unevenly, coloring the scrollwork and curlicues of the roof with uneven splashes of orange. Somewhere in the distance, a bird cried loudly, a call I thought I should recognize but couldn’t quite pull in—loud and screechy. A little creepy, honestly, as I poked my head into the door of the conservatory.

  I caught my breath, drawn forward by wonder into the ruined landscape of a plant extravaganza. Vines and shrubs grew wild, and some of them were covered with flowers I didn’t recognize. Within, it was warmer than outside, and a breeze whistled through a giant gap near the roof. My footsteps alerted a pair of pigeons, who flew out of their hidden nest to pump with muscular wings toward that giant hole, cooing in protest.

  I took out my phone and started shooting photos of the panes of glass and the oxidized iron and the crazy growth of plants. Some of the trunks of the vines were as thick as my arm. I recognized bright-magenta geraniums in one corner and a spill of white petunias.

  Everywhere I’d been feeling my mother at Rosemere, but here I felt my grandmother. And as if to conjure her fully, a peacock suddenly trotted into the space from nowhere, as if he were a ghost. His bright black eyes fastened on me with curiosity and no fear, and I remembered that they were bold creatures, sometimes aggressive. This one seemed only curious as he strode toward me, blue head and neck shimmering in the strange watery light, his jeweled tail feathers swishing behind him like the train of a gown. “Hello, bird,” I said.

  He walked a wide half circle around me, made a low gargling noise, then disappeared through an opening beneath a long table. I laughed. Of course that had been the bird call I hadn’t quite recognized—the call of a peacock.

  Such Indian birds. Had my grandmother brought them home with her? And what else was in her untouched bedroom? Journals, letters, accounts?

  Add it to the list, I told myself.

  “Hello?” Samir’s voice came through the door. “Olivia, are you there?”

  “In the conservatory,” I said. “I’m coming out.”

  He waited at the end of the walk and pointed as I emerged. “Did you see the peacock?”

  “He was just inside, like he owned the joint.”

  “He probably does. I’ve heard there is a flock of them in the woods, but I’ve never seen one. Seems very auspicious, doesn’t it?”

  I smiled. “A party of peacocks.”

  “Is that the name for a group of them?” He looked down at me, and the heavy black curls fell forward. As ever, he flung them back with one hand, impatiently. I wondered why he didn’t cut it all off if it so bothered him, but I hoped he never would.

  “Yes.”

  “One of my favorites is a congregation of alligators.”

  “A murder of crows,” I said.

  “Too easy. Everyone knows that one.”

  “Oh, well, I see, sir. Surprise me, then.”

  He narrowed his eyes in thought. “A parliament of owls.” In his accent, it sounded noble and elegant, the soft swallowed r, lingering l.

  “Nice.” The party of peacocks had just popped into my mind. Now I had to really think about it. “A cauldron of bats.”

  He held up a hand to high-five me. “Good one.” When our palms slapped and dropped, he said, “So you’re staying then. In England, that is.”

  “For a while, anyway.”

  The slightest smile touched his lips. “Good.”

  “We’ll see. It might be the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

  “I don’t think so. I have faith in you.” Looking back over his shoulder toward the house, he gestured across the landscape. “Imagine what it could be like if Rosemere was grand again.”

  For a moment, I could see it, the rooms bustling, filled with light and rare, lovely things. “I hope so.” I pointed down the hill. “Do you want to see the garden?”

  “I don’t mean to be too personal, but I can’t help noticing that you’re rather limping. We can save it for another day, eh? Let me give you a ride home.” He glanced toward the densely gathering clouds. “Fancy a little Indian food?”

  “Hmmm. Do you know a good place?”

  He grinned. “C’mon. You can tell us all about it over supper.”

  I almost, almost reached out to take his hand. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. And yet . . . no. I had to keep reminding myself that he was seven years younger than me. I’d broken up with my fiancé of eight years only a couple of weeks ago. My mother had died. My life was insane.

  And yet he felt like the calm in the center of a storm. “Let’s go this way first—to the stables. I’m going to make one of these over into a flat for myself.”

  “You don’t want to live in the house?” His grin said he knew I wouldn’t.

  I shuddered for effect. “Jocasta suggested that I make over the kitchen and live there, but oh my God, can you imagine?”

  He inclined his head. “What are you afraid of?”

  “I don’t know—everything.” I widened my eyes. “It’s creepy as it is. Would you spend the night there?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe. It likely wouldn’t bother me.”

  “Oh, I double dare you. How many ghosts live in that place?”

  “They’re all your relatives, though, aren’t they?”

  “But I’ve never met them and would rather not make their acquaintances unless they have actual living bodies.”

  He laughed, and I felt a hundred feet tall.

  As I opened the door to the flat, again I thought of a dog by the fire and meals at a big wooden table, and again it felt exactly right. “It’s going to take a couple of months, but I think this is it.”

  “It’s fantastic. A little isolated, though, isn’t it?”

  “No, all the farmers are right down the road. Rebecca’s five minutes away.”

  “Rebecca.”

  “What?”

  “She’s a sly one. I don’t trust her.”

  “I had dinner with them last week.”

  “No doubt there was gossip and gin.”

  It was my turn to laugh. “Chicken shawarma and white burgundy, actually, and her husband has read your book.”

  “Mmm. You were talking about me?”

  “Well, sort of.” Turning my back to him, I wandered toward the far window and peered out. “Just to defend the idea that the house might be worth saving.”

  “It is worth saving.” He came up beside me. “I would guess Rebecca doesn’t think so.”

  “I don’t know. They both seemed to think it was a white elephant.”

  “They want the title, I’d guess. If you give up, they can swoop in and become the earl and the countess.” He tapped a wall, looked at the ceiling. “That ceiling will need replacing.”

  “Why don’t you like her?”

  “I dunno. Don’t mind me. Probably more class baggage I’m carting around.”

  “But you’re my friend.”

  “Yeah.” The calm eyes rested on my face, and I would have sworn they touched my lips, my neck. “That’s because you look like Kate Winslet.”<
br />
  I laughed. “Yeah, right.” Suddenly, maybe because I’d seen Titanic with my mom, I was seized by a thought that hadn’t gelled before. “Wait.” I stopped, utterly still, as the truth washed over me.

  “What is it?”

  “I’ve been thinking about this all wrong.” I shook my head. “My mother had to have known that once she died, all of this would come out. I thought she’d been hiding it and I just accidentally found out, but she knew better than that. She knew that I’d find all the paperwork in her office and contact Haver.”

  Samir nodded. “That does make a lot more sense.”

  “So what am I supposed to be figuring out? Is it some kind of a test?”

  “Would she do that?”

  I bit my lip, thinking. “She might. She liked hiding things in plain sight. In her paintings.” I thought of her in her studio and a key on the back of an easel, hanging there with a note that read “Happy Birthday.”

  “It’s a treasure hunt,” I said. “Of course. She loved them. Set them up for my birthday and Christmas and sometimes just an ordinary day. Sometimes they were really hard.”

  “I love her for that,” Samir said. “She sounds like someone I would like.”

  “You would have liked her. She had a very dry wit and a taste for the absurd. I miss her so much it’s like there should be a new word for it, something besides lonely or grieving or—”

  His hand, warm and steady, fell on my shoulder.

  I swallowed, blinked away the ready sudden emotion, and brushed hair out of my face. “If it is a treasure hunt, I don’t know the first clue. I’ll have to figure out what that is.”

  “You found the first clue already, though, didn’t you?”

  “Did I?”

  “You’re here, so you came to the place she wanted you to find.”

  “Of course.” I looked through the window to the manor. “I wonder where the next one is. In the house?”

  “Maybe.” His hand fell away, leaving a cold spot where it had been.

  “I just need more information of all kinds.” I paused, frowning. “There are a lot of missing details, and they’re all a big jumble at the moment. Until I understand what she was thinking, I can’t unravel it.”

  “We should make lists, a chart, maybe. If you want help, that is.”