Charlock's Secret

by Leah Moyes

  “Yes, sir.”

  “With a private tutor?”

  “Um, actually no, just my parents.” Even as I said the words, I felt disdain creep in. He continued to shuffle papers without the smallest acknowledgment in my direction.

  I rubbed my sweaty palms underneath the desk as the silence grew by the minute. Despite the warmth of the southwestern spring air that filtered through my open window, an unexplainable chill developed.

  Should I speak? Is there a specific protocol on this? It wasn’t like I’d never interviewed before, but somehow, he made this the most uncomfortable one yet.

  I waited.

  Mr. Gilford scribbled extensively on the papers before him, though little had been covered up to this point. I wrinkled my nose. Everything about him reeked arrogance. His perfectly tailored black suit topped off with a deep crimson tie and matching handkerchief slightly exposed from the left chest pocket, gold cufflinks, and what appeared to be the most attractive gold watch on his left wrist. Even the way his dark hair fell barely above his freshly starched collar in a flawless trim and clean shave, it all spelled money.

  I guessed him to be around thirty, give or take a couple of years, although, I never claimed to be a good judge of age. I concluded my observation with substantial proof that he was relatively handsome. Yet, if Mr. Gilford knew his attractive appearance drew attention, he never let on. His expression remained indifferent and unmoved.

  “I see you received a Bachelor of Arts Degree at . . . Arizona State University.” His face suddenly met mine for the first time. Instantly, a flush of heat swelled my cheeks. He caught me studying him.

  “Uh, um, yes—” I barely got the words out. His emerald green eyes bore through me like a dowel.

  “Um, yes?” His response suggested condescension.

  “Yes.” I recovered. “I graduated last May 2009.”

  “No master’s degree or doctorate? Is that correct?”

  Of course, it’s correct. Don’t you think I would’ve put that on my resume? I bit my tongue and refrained from saying what I wanted to this egotistical jerk.

  “No, sir, I do not.” I shifted my eyes to Pauline.

  She grinned incessantly. I smiled in response. She reminded me of my crazy Aunt Susan, eccentric and audacious. Pauline sported an olive-green sleeveless blouse, a peach-colored scarf tied in a loose knot around her neck, topped off with a 1960s beehive hairstyle with a headband to match. Her encouraging nod and subsequent wink instantly put me at ease.

  Coming from the chaos of a working-class family from the inner city, I knew there was nothing elegant or romantic about my upbringing. My fascination with European history developed my sophomore year in college and was driven more from irritation over disproportionate sexism than an illogical fantasy about an imaginary Mr. Darcy.

  “The manor, constructed in 1771, only transitioned into a museum twenty years ago.” Mr. Gilford continued.

  “Yes, I read that online.” Confidence surged from my preparation. “I understand the extraordinary art collection is unparalleled.” I felt smug in my research until he spoke over me.

  “Yet, your curatorial experience entails only one summer internship at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City?”

  “The Museum is world-renowned for its works of art.” My lip curled.

  “Have you seen the Louvre, National Gallery, Uffizi—”

  I cut him off, or he would have likely listed all the museums studied but never seen. “No, sir, I have never been to Europe.”

  His eyes grew wide before he glanced down. I peeked at my watch. It’s only been ten minutes? I wanted to fake an internet disruption and disconnect.

  Mr. Gilford combed through my background, inch by inch, to what seemed like the last ten years of my life. Of course, that took me back to 14 years old. I tried to convince my potential employer, at that age, I was more interested in Michael Jackson than Michelangelo. Pauline sniggered in response, but other than that she remained silent. Mr. Chill didn’t even smirk.

  “One more question, Miss Shelton.” He hesitated for another one of his long uneasy pauses.

  “Yes?” I interrupted again. One thing New Yorkers willingly admit to, is a lack of patience.

  “Uh…” Mr. Chill’s perfect forehead creased. “I can’t seem to locate a reason for the six-month hiatus following your graduation last May, to your current employment in October. Can you elaborate?” Mr. Gilford’s green eyes speared heavily through the screen, brimming with intimidation.

  I choked. Perspiration built on my upper lip. What do I say? I practiced a dozen different answers in preparation for this very question, but they all vanished. My eyes blurred, and the monitor shrank. I want this to be over. I no longer cared if he hired me or not.

  “Something personal came up,” I mumbled.

  Scratch, scratch, scratch. The pencil moved rapidly back and forth. I imagined the large “X” canceling my name. Someone of his lofty caliber could not afford an employee with a suspicious background. Heaven forbid he must tolerate a scandal!

  The interview ended abruptly, with no fanfare, and no praise. He simply thanked me for my time and disconnected. I sat at the computer for roughly an hour afterward, trying to categorize the event. Its equivalency matched the time my wisdom teeth were pulled. It had to be done, agonizingly painful and thankfully over.

  I did get an unsympathetic “I told you so” from Kelly, who reminded me, those job printouts were meant to be a joke.

  Chapter Three

  As I lifted my head from my hands, my eyes followed the trail of dust kicked up by the taxi as it sped farther away from the manor. It’s too late for me to turn back now. I repeated the sentence three times before my amplified breath calmed to a controlled sigh. My fingers went instinctively to the silver chain around my neck and the ring that centered it. I squeezed it and closed my eyes, refusing passage to any tears. Unusual waves of strength enveloped me, and when my eyes opened again, the gasp from my lips was genuine.

  Glancing around, the stillness of the moment held me captive. The rolling green hills, dirt roads lined with wildflowers, and a pure, untouched backdrop made it seem like the twenty-first century never made it to this part of the world. Exactly how I imagined or hoped England would be. Scanning the countryside, a peace washed over me. A unique familiarity that assured me I was right where I needed to be. It was the very tranquility I desired, to calm my angry heart.

  When I left New York for Arizona, I couldn’t have picked two places more opposite. New York was crowded, vibrant, and fast-paced. Arizona was not. It took nearly a year to wrap my head around the idea of open land—miles and miles of dirt and cacti. Somehow, I grew to love it, and neither New York nor Arizona matched England. A place I almost didn’t make it to.

  Two weeks following my Skype interview, long enough for me to put the whole miserable affair behind me, I received a fax at the studio with an offer of employment at the Gilford Estate. I laughed out loud. “Oh, Kelly is good!” Scanning the paper, I complimented her. “This document actually appeared authentic.” I called Kelly’s bluff and dialed the number on the official-looking letterhead. I fully expected it to be the British version of 1-800-uraloser.

  “Charlock Manor, Pauline speaking.”

  “Oh—” I choked. My fingers melted to the phone. I couldn’t hang up, sure that she could sense it was me. Scrambling to regain composure, I chastised myself silently. Why didn’t I call Kelly first! “Um . . . yes, um, Ms. Campbell?”

  “Aye.”

  “This is Kat Shelton.”

  “Guid mornin, deary,” she exclaimed warmly with a wonderful accent hidden from me previously. “Ye received the dale?”

  “Uh, d—dale?” I stuttered.

  “Dale, ye know, dale . . . offer.”

  “Oh, yes, deal. Yes, thank you, I did. So, the fax, um, came through a bit fuzzy,” I improvised. “I wanted to confirm the contact number and, well, I—I guess this is it.” My stammer confirmed my idiocy.<
br />
  “Aye, Mr. Gilford ‘tis satisfied with whit ye hae to offer and hopes to hae a reply in a wee.”

  “Satisfied?” I murmured low enough for her to miss my sarcasm. I must’ve been the only applicant. They must be desperate or I’m missing something. “Ms. Campbell?”

  “Pauline, lassie.”

  “Pauline.” I stole a deep breath, scrambling to pull my thoughts together.

  “Is it—” I paused, but even as the words sat on the tip of my tongue, I knew they sounded ridiculous.

  “Whit love?”

  “Is Charlock Manor haunted?”

  Her chortle began as a giggle and grew from there. Instantly, I regretted asking.

  “Oh my, ‘tis a guidun.” When I didn’t laugh in return, she composed herself. “Naw, deary.”

  “Then why, me—” I stopped myself and redirected. “May I ask you a personal question? You don’t have to answer it if you don’t want to.”

  “Aye.”

  “Why are you leaving the job?”

  She was quiet for a few seconds. “A hae been the keeper of the Gilford hoose for o’vr twenty years. A hae enjoyed ‘tis greatly, ‘tis . . . maist och, but a’m aff to Scotland, ma hame, tae care for me auld faither. A do hope ye consider the position, lassie, ‘tis seems tae fit ye.”

  Fit ye? The only words I seemed to understand, but jobs don’t fit the applicant—applicants fit the job.

  “Okay . . . ” I shook my head, more confused than before the conversation began. “Well, thank you. Either way, I’ll notify you as soon as possible.”

  “Braw deary.” And she hung up.

  Needless to say, my arrival in England came less than thirty days after my acceptance.

  It had not been a simple decision. Torn in a hundred different directions that week, my heart and mind took a beating. All of it was self-inflicted, but painful just the same. In my uncertainty, I involved those whose opinions mattered in my life. Once polled, they unanimously leaned towards the continental leap. All except my mom. She watched me spiral into unknown depths where no person should endure. She did what moms do best—love and worry and pray that the grueling worst was behind me. Only now that this bizarre idea carried some weight, her biggest concern was that no one would be there for me, no one to catch me if I fell. I will literally be alone.

  Her concerns were foremost on my mind as I hesitated in the framework of the vast entryway. My gaze followed the curve of the stone arch, sure that many who passed through, rarely saw the intricate detail the way I did at this very moment. Good or bad, the next step seemed to be the most difficult to take.

  In an instant, darkness crept across the wall. Significant shadows replaced a disappearing sun as black rain clouds swallowed the beautiful clear day. If I lingered much longer, I’d have more to worry about than dirt on my skirt for a first impression. Taking another deep breath, I pulled a loose strand of hair behind my ear, faced the door, and knocked.

  “Miss Shelton?”

  I nodded.

  “Ye look awfy peely-wally, lassie.” The woman ushered me in as she signaled a man to retrieve my bag. “I’m Pauline, love.” She wrapped a motherly arm around me, although she stood a foot shorter, including the six inches the beehive hair provided.

  Between the eight-hour overnight flight, the jarring taxi ride, and the emotional battle waging in my head, exhaustion consumed me. Pauline’s grip tightened, and she unknowingly willed strength into me with that one tender gesture.

  Standing in the entry, my tired eyes flickered to ingest the sight of this first remarkable room. The pictures didn’t do it justice. A glorious vision of eighteenth-century perfection had been chiseled with majestic craftmanship. Before me, the grand staircase vaulted and branched out to an upper floor while I froze under a chandelier dripping with glass teardrops and threaded with elaborate gold leaves.

  My adoration remained brief. Pauline swiftly led me through an arched doorway and towards a lengthy hall. A dozen elongated windows met us on one side, and almost as many fireplaces in between. The bedroom at the far end became our eventual destination. A breathtaking four-post bed centered the substantial room, its covers delicately folded back for my arrival. My weary heart leaped for joy.

  “Tae lavvy ov’r there.” She promptly pointed out the bathroom nearby, added after the original construction, thankfully.

  I moved to the windowpane closest to me. The soft satin drapes intertwined with my fingers as pelts of rain splattered against the glass. It rarely rained in Arizona outside of monsoon season, so as it transformed the gardens into a saturated pool of moisture, its unintended beauty charmed me.

  “Bonny eh?” Pauline joined me after she directed the gentleman to place my suitcase next to the wardrobe.

  “Bonny?” I asked as my eyes sagged to the repetitive weight synchronized with each drop.

  “Pretty.” She answered. “A wull miss ‘tis hame awfy.” A sliver of sadness surfaced in her voice. “’Tis spaicial.” Then her tone changed abruptly official, “Tea at four and supper at seven in tae dinin’ if ye guid fur it, cheers love.” And she disappeared.

  I didn’t even bother to change. In fact, there’s not much I remembered once my head hit the feather pillows—the best thing to happen all day.

  Chapter Four

  Morning came too quickly.

  My eyes reluctantly adjusted to the brightness in the room as I attempted to recall my last memory. The window, dark rainy skies, Pauline speaking, and the weight of my body hitting the bed. That was it.

  I stretched my legs, and a thud shook me upright. One of my heels hit the floor. Did I fall asleep with my shoes on? My hand rubbed across my moist cheek and felt fresh drool. Ughhh . . . that hasn’t happened since childhood! I quickly swiped it off and glanced around to make sure nobody else witnessed my humiliation. Thankfully, I was alone. Not that I expected anyone to be in my bedroom, but I’d seen the movies where servants in grand mansions moved freely about. Knowing so little of my hosts, my mind wandered.

  I laid my head back down and tried to gain some composure. Did I really sleep throughout the night?

  A loud buzz interrupted my confusion. I strained to listen. A harmonic voice with the words to Lady Gaga’s “Telephone” song materialized and launched me into action. I tossed three layers of pillows aside before I located my cell phone. Twelve missed calls—eleven from mom, one from dad. The one attempt from dad meant mom finally reached a level of panic.

  I rubbed my eyes and located #2, her speed dial.

  “Kat!” Mom’s high pitch screech sailed through the device. I pulled the phone away from my ear. It was much too early for that sound. “Kat! Are you okay?”

  Those were the most overused words in my mom’s vocabulary. “Mom, I’m fine,” I groaned, rolling over to my back. “I didn’t call when I arrived because I was tired and went to bed.”

  “Tired? Your flight got in at nine yesterday morning. Do you know what time it is right now?”

  “Mom, we’ve been through this, London is five hours later than New York. What are you doing up this early, anyway?” I yawned.

  “Kat, it’s ten o’clock here.” The words were like a dagger to my heart. I shot straight up. If it’s 10 a.m. on the East Coast . . . oh crap! “Mom, I’m fine, gotta run, bye!” I launched for the bathroom and forcefully ripped my barf clothes off along the way. Seriously? How could I be this reckless? I haven’t slept this long since stricken with mono at twelve.

  After a quick shower, I pulled my wet hair up and twisted it into a tight bun. Throwing on a pair of dress pants and a clean blouse, I zipped gloss across my lips and headed for the door, chastising myself the entire time. What a fantastic way to make a lasting impression on the first day, Kat!

  Halfway down the hall, I realized that I had no idea where to go. I peered out one window to catch my bearings, but froze, stunned still by the splendor before me. This view, hidden on my approach yesterday, must be the backside of the manor. My eyes danced about qui
ckly, noting the picturesque estate. Gardens lined with immaculately carved shrubs, flowing fountains, and trellised porticos; I’d seen nothing like it.

  I refocused and dashed through the lower level. It should’ve been a treat as I entered each room, but my concern fell more on locating Pauline than a tour.

  Despite the size of the manor, not a sound resonated, not even the squeak of a mouse if they had one. Eventually, I found myself back at the front door and the entry hall. Once again, only bits and pieces of my earlier arrival materialized, though nothing prepared me for what I saw.

  My mouth fell open when my eyes scaled the majestic staircase. I stepped forward and skimmed my fingers along the curves of the wooden banister. The richly detailed carvings dug deep. The bottom step covered nearly half the room, spreading elegantly like a bride’s veil, and then scaled inward to the shape of an hourglass. It raised high above to a small mezzanine then divided the steps to opposite sides of the upper floor.

  A life-size family portrait adorned the center wall at the midpoint landing. I moved to take the first step for a closer look when a throaty gurgle startled me from behind. I turned around to find a pretentious butler dressed exactly how I would’ve pictured one—a hundred years ago. I grinned and scanned around for a camera lens, sure this had to be a joke. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Miss Shelton.”

  “Yes,” I answered suspiciously.

  “Ms. Campbell is expecting you. Follow me, please.”

  Impressed, I suspected the family had hired the skilled actor to increase authenticity for the tours, a brilliant marketing decision. Mr. Gilford, although stuffy and conceited, was sure to be a meticulous businessman. Which confirmed my continued bewilderment. Why did I get a job I’m quite unqualified for?