“It’s all right. I can’t imagine how strange it is to have no answers about who you are, who your people are.”
I took a breath, feeling the hollowness in my chest again. “Exactly.”
“But now,” she said, her voice light, “you must tell me about the Egg and Hen and how it feels to write for such a magazine.”
I took a breath, glad for the shift in tone. “Yes. Let’s talk about that—in a moment.” I pointed toward the ladies’ room, and she nodded.
“I’m going to check on my father. We’ll meet back here in a few minutes. Can you possibly make room for some gulab jamun? I make the rose syrup myself.”
I laughed, touching my belly. “Maybe in a little while.”
In the ladies’ room, tastefully appointed with two walls white and one stenciled with an arty peacock, I washed my hands and noticed that my cheeks were quite flushed. A little tipsy. It always showed in my cheeks. My lipstick had lasted remarkably well, but I touched it up a bit, and as I leaned in, I realized the scarf probably wasn’t hiding the too-much cleavage as well as I’d hoped. Maybe I’d have to give this dress up until exercise got me back down to my usual, still-not-svelte self. Too bad. It was my favorite.
In the meantime, I adjusted the scarf again and headed back to the table. Pavi wasn’t back as I approached the table, but Amika paused. “Would you like anything? Water, perhaps?”
“Yes,” I said emphatically. “Please.”
As I slid in, I sat on my scarf and pulled it sideways, a winner of an awkward move, and I was chuckling to myself as I tugged it out from beneath my rear end when I sensed Pavi. Laughing, I said, “My friend used to tell me it’s hard to be cool when—”
But it wasn’t Pavi, because it had to be Samir standing there in going-out clothes, a pale-blue shirt with tiny dark stripes and black jeans that hugged his legs all the way down. “When?” he echoed, one side of his mouth lifting.
I managed to free the scarf and clutched it in my fist, very aware of the “too much” that was on full display in my one and only dress. I could feel him noticing, too, and tried not to look at him as I draped the scarf around my neck and tied it demurely. “When you’re a klutz,” I said, folding my hands.
“I rather liked it the other way,” he said. One hand rested on the tabletop, long and elegant, the nails perfect ovals. The hands of an artist. A lover.
A shiver rippled up the back of my neck, as if those hands had touched me. But he only stood by the table, still as a cat, his eyes capturing me, seeing me. I reminded myself that he was thirty-three. That he could, theoretically, date twenty-five-year-olds.
But his gaze waited for me, and in the end I could only meet it, let that steady regard draw me into something quiet and private, a country of our own creation.
“Samir!”
The country disappeared as Pavi bustled out of the kitchen, her hands full with a wide, shallow bowl. The gulab jamun, no doubt. As she settled it on the table, I saw the sprinkles of rose petals. Beautiful.
“I didn’t know you were coming by tonight,” Pavi said, standing on her toes to kiss his cheek. He had to bend down, and in a flash I saw how close they were.
“I thought I’d see how you’d got on with the famous editor.” He grinned, encompassing both of us, and easily slid into the booth beside me. He smelled of night and dew, and his shoulders seemed a mile across. “I knew you would cook this.”
So he had known I would be here. A slight shimmer of possibility edged along my arms, down my thighs.
She slapped his hand. “Guests first.”
“I’m not sure I can take another bite!”
“Of course you can. Taste the rose syrup at least.” She dished out a brown dumpling into a small white bowl and drizzled syrup over it, then topped it with a few rose petals. She did the same for Samir and then for herself. I pulled out my phone and shot an Instagram photo of the dessert, three rose petals cascading down the river of syrup, light shining on the curve of the dumpling.
The siblings dug in, and I watched them for a moment before I picked up my spoon and tasted mine. Like everything else we’d eaten tonight, it took the ordinary to an extraordinary place—I tasted a thousand fluttering roses and a rain of sugar and the soft, spongy texture of the dumpling itself. “It’s sublime, Pavi. You’ll have to show me how to make it.”
“I’d be happy to. We should have an afternoon of cooking—that would be so much fun.”
“Where’s Dad?” Samir asked. He smoothed his goatee with thumb and forefinger, but I noticed that his hair was still a riot of big curls, untamable.
“We talked about Sanvi and Olivia’s mother and that whole mess.”
He nodded, gave me a look I couldn’t interpret. “Sad stories.”
“They are,” I agreed and wondered if I might need to take my leave now that Samir had arrived.
But Pavi said, “Now that you’ve had your dessert, Samir, you can go. We are going to talk about food, and you’re getting in the way.”
“Am I?” His smile was definitely meant to be slow and flirtatious this time. “Olivia?”
“It is my practice to never have an opinion between two siblings.”
“All right.” He slapped a hand on the table and made a move to go. “See you around, Countess.”
I raised a hand, aware that my face was not behaving, that I was trying to avoid smiling, as if I were fourteen and this was summer camp. And when he met my eyes, I saw that he knew it too. He winked. “Careful with that scarf.”
“Are you twelve?” Pavi asked. “Go.” As he ambled out, she shook her head. “Don’t mind him.”
I took a breath. “No. No, I won’t.”
And finally, we leaned our heads together and began to talk about the industry. Food and restaurants and magazines and recipes and writers. I felt like myself for the first time in months.
Chapter Nine
Sunday afternoon, a black car rolled up in front of the hotel, and a driver in a crisp black suit stepped out. I was waiting, nervous and a little overwrought from a lack of sleep. The lobby smelled of beer and cigarettes that had been consumed just outside the door while laughter and music had spilled out of the club Friday night and Saturday night till very, very late. My room, though it was down the corridor a long way, thrummed with the noise.
I hadn’t slept much either night, and it showed on my face today, showed in my nerves. I’d changed clothes three times, finally settling on pair of camel wool slacks and a simple green blouse. I didn’t have a coat other than the same one I’d been wearing since I arrived, a lined raincoat that saw me through the winter in San Francisco and had seen me through more than a few. Still, it was a Burberry and would do.
“Good morning,” I said.
“Good morning, my lady. I’m Robert, and I’ll be driving you to the Earl of Marswick’s garden party today.” He tipped his cap and opened the door. “It’s going to be a fine day, innit?”
In surprise, I looked up. Not only was it not raining, but actual sunlight was leaking through the clouds. In a couple of spots, blue sky peeked through. Where the sun touched the hills around the village, the grass shone gold. “Oh, my. Is it going to clear up?”
“So they say. Sunshine all week.” He saw me settled and closed the door. From the front seat, he added, “Right welcome. Rainiest March I can remember. But now it’s spring, and those lambs’ll be frolicking.”
I smiled. “I hope so. It’s rained nearly every day since I arrived.”
He pulled out, and I remembered I was supposed to notice for Sarah that it was a Bentley. I ran my hand over the leather seat and took notice of the wood appointments. Luxurious, but as I wasn’t a big car person, it was hard to know how it differed from other luxury cars. I’d take the description of the leather and wood back to Sarah.
“Is it far?” I asked. “To the estate?”
“An hour, I expect, given that it’s Sunday. I brought you a bottle of water there. Anythin’ else you need?”
>
“No. Thank you.”
“Music?”
“Yes. That would be great.” To my own ear, that sounded obscenely American. That’d be great. But I was American, and I didn’t have to become anyone else. Just be who you are, my mother had drilled into me. Be who you are.
And yet she hadn’t at all, had she?
The looping back roads were relatively empty, the car exquisitely comfortable, and I found myself drifting off, waking with a start only when we bumped over a rutted road into a long drive. The sun had broken through, chasing clouds off to the sea, and entire swaths of bright, clean blue sky showed through. Beneath that splendor sprawled a house made of gold stone, surrounded by open green lawns dotted with painterly trees.
“Here we are,” Robert said. “Marswick Hall.”
Unlike Rosemere, Marswick had been well tended. A gleaming row of windows marched across the face, end to end for four stories, each row getting smaller until they culminated in a small, ordinary row just under the eaves. Wide stone steps led to a pair of gigantic doors painted dark blue, one of which was open, guarded by another man in a suit, balding and ostentatiously aloof, like a butler from an old movie.
But this was no movie, and he probably was the butler. I smoothed my trousers and took a breath. He came down the steps to greet me. “Lady Rosemere.” He bowed a little. “Please follow me.”
The house was long but not deep. The marble corridor at the entrance led straight through to a pair of glass doors at the other end, doors open to the garden at the rear. I could hear music and voices, the ring of laughter. I steeled myself to enter the party, but the butler turned right and led me down a corridor to a room that must be a parlor of some kind. A genial-looking black Lab leapt to his feet and trotted over to greet me as the butler announced, “The Countess of Rosemere, Olivia Shaw.”
“Very good, Mr. Tims. Thank you.” A man stood, lean and fit despite his advanced years. He’d said he’d known my mother and grandmother, and he might well have been a contemporary of my grandmother, so late eighties? Early nineties? “Hello, my dear,” he said. His voice was strong, not at all wavery. “Please, come sit with me a moment before we go out into the madness.”
“I’d be delighted.” Sunlight poured through the long windows to spill over elegantly worn Persian rugs. Thousands of books lined the walls. The contrast with tattered, neglected Rosemere made my heart ache. This is how it would have looked, once upon a time.
The earl waited by his chair, leaning on a magnificent walking stick carved of dark wood into a loose weave of tree branches. I admired it openly. “That’s beautiful.”
“Oh, yes. My nephew brought it to me from his travels. Can’t remember where he was. Ecuador, Argentina. Somewhere like that.” He tapped it on the floor, then looked at me. His eyes were a startlingly bright blue, not at all rheumy but direct and clear. “Makes me look dashing rather than old.”
I laughed. “Absolutely.”
He held out his hand, and I took it. “You are Caroline’s daughter, then. Olivia, is that right? May I call you Olivia?”
“Of course.”
“And you may call me George.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh, I’m pretty sure that would not be polite.”
“All right. Marswick, then. How’s that?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s sit down, my dear. We haven’t much time before they come after us, but I wanted a moment to have you to myself. Welcome you to the neighborhood.”
“Thank you.”
A woman appeared at the door with a tray, and he waved her over. “Tea? Or a ginger splash?”
“Ginger, please,” I replied, intrigued.
He accepted a cloudy ginger, too, served in a tall, narrow glass with a slice of lime floating on top. I sipped it delicately, and the flavor sang through my mouth, sharp and bright. I forced myself not to make a sound over it and politely took just one more sip.
“How are you finding us?” Marswick asked.
“Everyone has been very helpful.” I sipped again, trying to trace the flavor profile. Ginger, lime, sparkling water, or maybe tonic?
“Oh, I’m sure, Lady Rosemere, I’m quite sure. They’ll all want a piece of that pie that’s landed so neatly in your lap.”
I thought of Rebecca and the solicitor. “Yes, some of them. Not all, I don’t think.”
“Humph. In my experience, a woman of your rank will have to watch her back. You’ve not had much experience, I warrant.”
“None at all. My mother never said a thing. I thought she grew up in some forgotten industrial town somewhere.”
“But her accent!”
“We don’t hear accents the same way in the US as you do here. They all just sound English.”
“My word.” He sat back, large hands on his thighs. “You must be reeling.”
“Yes.”
“Well, I’m going to tell you frankly that there are a good number of social climbers who’ve had their eye on that property for years, and they were just about to snap it up when you arrived out of the blue.”
“I’ve gathered that. They want the land for developments, I’m guessing.”
“Perhaps. I suspect others might wish to buy a title.”
“Can they do that?”
His mouth turned down at the corners. “They can. I gather it isn’t easy, but it has been done often enough in recent years.” He folded his hands over his bony knee, and I realized he must have been a very big man, once upon a time. His hands were nearly the length of my forearm. “And a title without responsibility is an abomination, so I’m hoping to convince you to give it a try.”
“What do I know of any of it?”
“It’s in your bones.”
“Mmm. I doubt it.” I shook my head. “Have you seen that house? It’s a complete wreck.”
“Yes. But the lands earn a good income, and with enough time, anything can be fixed.”
Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but today, it felt overwhelming. All of it. The mystery, the house, the possibility of not just being here for a visit but leaving my life in San Francisco behind completely. I fell back on my rote response. “I need more information before I can make any kind of decision. I don’t know where I’d live or what steps to take or—”
“You’ll rent a cottage, won’t you, and renovate one of the apartments in the carriage house.”
I laughed at his easy answers. Maybe someone else would have been put off by his bossiness, but my gut said he was trustworthy. “Why does it matter to you?”
He fixed those bright-blue eyes on my face with great intent. “Our families have been neighbors for more than four centuries. Four hundred years,” he added for weight. “Always, it was the Barbers and the Shaws, side by side. We stood in solidarity over many things and quarreled about others, but I believe our people have always stood for the same ideas—that with great wealth comes responsibility. That responsibility takes on a great deal more weight when it comes to protecting the estates, and the titles, from the greedy.” He visibly straightened. “We are charged with looking after the land, too, and none of them care a whit about that.”
“Noblesse oblige.” With nobility or high rank comes obligation. I thought of the taxi driver the very first day telling me that he remembered picnics on the grounds of Rosemere when he was a child and of the lanes filled with cottages, the lands stretching far into the distance when I looked out the window of the house. “I have no idea what to do, even where to begin, or what it means to have inherited this title. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“I shall tutor you, Olivia, if you’ll allow it.”
I bent my head, suddenly overcome. “Thank you.” Taking a breath, steadying myself, I looked at him. “If I decide to stay, I will certainly take you up on that kind offer.”
“Oh, it isn’t kind, my dear. It’s an obligation.” But his eyes twinkled as he said it. “Come, now. I suppose we have to go mingle. Which is your first lesson. One must speak to ev
eryone at the party and remember something important about each one.”
He offered his arm, and I took it, aware that he probably wished for the stability he found in my grip. “Another day, you must tell me all about your mother’s life in America,” he said when we walked down the corridor to the glass doors. “I was very fond of her, you know.”
“I’d be happy to,” I said, and then we were walking out the glass doors. It felt as if the entire company raised their eyes to the pair of us.
“Good afternoon!” the earl cried.
The murmuring faded. Women in spring dresses and high-heeled sandals and men in tidy trousers and sport coats waited. A few raised a glass in his direction.
“I know you’ve all been curious about the latest addition to our local gentry, and I am absolutely delighted to be able to present to you the Countess of Rosemere, Olivia Shaw.”
A round of clapping splattered around the knots of people. They looked at me expectantly. My brain emptied entirely, but as the pause grew, I managed to blurt out, “I look forward to meeting each of you.”
Oh, well done, you.
“That should get them going,” the earl said under his breath.
“Gossiping about my lack of a brain, I’m sure.”
He chuckled. “Not at all. Come; I’ll introduce you to a few people you should know.”
The rest of the afternoon was a blur of faces and floaty dresses and crisp slacks, handshakes and face kisses. It was a relief to find a face in focus when Rebecca swam up to greet me, her husband in her wake. “Olivia!” she cried, kissing my cheeks. “So lovely to see you!” She leaned into the earl, ever so slightly too close, and kissed his cheeks. “You haven’t met my husband, Philip.”
Philip, too, leaned in to kiss my cheeks and left a waft of leathery cologne behind. The edges of his blond hair blended thinly into his tanned neck. A golfer, no doubt. “So happy to meet you, Olivia! Rebecca told me about your lunch together and the tour of the house. Are you really going to try to save it?”
“I have no idea. Not yet.”
“It is something of a white elephant, I suppose.”
The Art of Inheriting Secrets Page 11