The front doorbell rang.
“I’ll bring her up, ma’am. You can see for yourself.”
She smiled and took a seat near the windows. “I’m looking forward to it.”
Roger went to the door and opened it to find Barbara and her mother on the step. “Good morning, ladies. Won’t you come in?”
They stepped into the hall, taking in the foyer with wide eyes. Roger pictured his own first look and smiled.
“Welcome to Shackleford House,” he said.
“I hope it’s all right,” Barbara said. “I brought my mother after all.”
“Perfectly fine,” he said. “Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Griffin.”
“Thank you, Mr. Mulligan, isn’t it?”
“Just Mulligan is fine, ma’am. Tradition.”
She narrowed her eyes at him for a moment and touched Barbara’s arm. “Oh, dear.”
“What is it, Mother?”
“I—I don’t know,” she said. “Is there a problem, Mr. Mulligan?”
“Mr. Shackleford has a guest at the moment. His niece called unexpectedly, but if you’d come with me, I have someone else who would like to meet you.”
The older woman’s face relaxed and she nodded.
Roger led them to the upstairs parlor where Fidelia Necket rose to greet them.
“Ms. Fidelia Necket, may I present Esther and Barbara Griffin.” He turned to the Griffins. “Mrs. Griffin, Ms. Griffin, it’s my pleasure to introduce you to Ms. Fidelia Necket, an old friend of Mr. Shackleford and your guide for your stay, Ms. Griffin.”
Ester’s eyes widened. “Guide?”
“Mr. Shackleford asked me to serve as a kind of chaperone,” Fidelia said. “I’m familiar with the workings of Shackleford House and he thought that having another woman involved would help everyone feel more at ease.”
Esther stepped forward to shake Fidelia’s hand. “Very pleased to meet you, Ms. Necket.”
“Delia, please. No need for formality here.”
Esther nodded. “I’m Esther when I’m at home.”
“You can consider this your home while under the Shackleford roof, ma’am,” Roger said. “Is there anything I can get you? Tea? Coffee?”
“I’d love a cup of coffee,” Barbara said.
“I wouldn’t refuse a cup of coffee,” Esther said. “If it’s no trouble.”
Roger looked at Fidelia. “Ma’am?”
“Coffee’s fine, Mulligan. Thank you.” She waved a hand at the chairs arrayed in front of the windows. “Shall we?”
They took their seats while Roger returned to the kitchen for the second tray of the morning. He chuckled to himself wishing he could be a fly on that wall upstairs. He hadn’t expected Barbara’s wingman to be her mother, especially on a work day, but he didn’t feel terribly surprised. The Shackleford family seemed to have solid roots, even if some of the sprouts seemed a bit off.
It took him a few minutes to brew a fresh pot and load the tray with cups, sugar, milk, and cream. He arranged the items on the tray to his liking before the coffee finished brewing. He added a plate of finger pastries and some dishes and napkins before taking it back up to the parlor.
Fidelia smiled at his return. The Griffins seemed completely at ease—relaxing in their chairs.
“Ah, Mulligan. Just in time,” Fidelia said. “Thank you so much.”
Roger placed the tray on the table between them and gave a small bow. “My pleasure. Sorry for the delay. I needed to brew a fresh pot and some things can’t be rushed. Shall I pour?”
Fidelia shook her head. “Thank you, Mulligan. I think we can manage.”
“Is there anything else you need, ladies?”
“At some point we’ll need a tour of the house,” Fidelia said. “That can wait until Joseph is free.”
“Of course, ma’am.” Roger left them to the clinking of glassware and the low murmurs of conversation. He smiled to himself stood just outside the library door, trying to judge how matters progressed inside by the tone of the voices coming through the heavy wood. It didn’t sound like they were fighting, but his distrust for Naomi Patching made him nervous. He waited as long as he could stand it and then tapped twice before entering.
Shackleford looked up, a scowl on his face, his lips pressed into a line. “What is it, Perkins?”
“Is everything satisfactory, sir?”
“Of course it is, Perkins. I would have rung for you had it not been.”
“Sorry for the interruption, sir.” Roger bowed and started to back out of the room.
“Just as well,” Naomi said, placing her cup and saucer on the tray with a rattle of china. “I think we’re done here. You can show me out, Perkins.” She stood and gave Roger a smirk. She crossed to Shackleford, kneeling beside his wheelchair to pat his hand and forearm. “You rest, Uncle. You seem very tired today. I’ll stop by again later in the week to make sure you’re all right. How does that sound?”
Shackleford shook his head. “Dreadful, but I don’t suppose I can stop you.”
Naomi smiled. “Oh, Uncle. You know I just want what’s best for you.”
Shackleford snorted and turned his face away from her.
She patted his arm again and stood.
Roger stepped out of the doorway to let her precede him from the room and closed the door gently after himself.
“He’s completely lost it, Mulligan,” she said. “How long has he been like that this time?”
“He was fine at breakfast, ma’am.”
She gave him a sour look and sniffed. She started down the stairs but stopped at the sounds coming from the parlor. “Is somebody else here, Mulligan?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Naomi glared at him and reversed direction, bolting down the short hall before he could get in front of her. She stopped just inside the door.
“Good morning, again, Ms. Patching. Care to join us?” Fidelia said, looking up from her coffee with a smile on her lips but steel in her eyes.
“What are you doing here?” Naomi asked, biting the word out.
“Well, I was having tea with Mr. Shackleford before you needed the room.”
“Not you. Them.” She pointed at the Griffins.
Roger saw Esther’s eyes narrow for a moment before she put her coffee down on the tray and positioned her body in the chair as if to protect Barbara.
Fidelia tsked. “Manners, Ms. Patching. Manners. This is Mrs. Esther Griffin and her daughter, Barbara. We’ve just been discussing the history of Shackleford House over the centuries.”
Color flushed up the back of Naomi’s neck and ears, a visible warning of her anger. “Griffin,” she said, spitting the word onto the rug. “Already?” She stalked a couple of steps closer.
Roger moved to get himself in front of Naomi, using his bulk to intercede. “Ms. Patching, this is inappropriate.”
“It’s fine, Mulligan,” Fidelia said. “Ms. Patching is no threat.”
“I see you, Fidelia Necket. You’ve been angling to get your hands on my uncle—and this house—for decades. It’s not going to happen.” She waved a dismissive hand at the Griffins. “I should have known you were behind this latest stunt.”
“I believe that’s quite enough, Ms. Patching. It’s time for you to leave, ma’am,” Roger said.
Naomi turned her fulminating gaze on him. “Or what? You’ll throw me out? I have more right to be here than you do. I hired you, for God’s sake.”
“Yes, ma’am, you did, but you gave me the job of protecting Mr. Shackleford and this house. That extends to his guests.” He paused. “I must ask you to leave now, Ms. Patching.” He really didn’t want to lay hands on the woman, but he was prepared for it. He’d certainly done worse in his life.
“You’ve already got one assault and battery on your record, Mulligan. Do you really want another?” Patching asked.
Roger gave her a small nod. “I take my duties seriously, ma’am.”
“Technically, it’s self-defense,” Esther said
.
Naomi turned her glare on the woman. “Who asked you?”
“Nobody,” Esther said. “I just thought I should point out that Mr. Mulligan—in his capacity as butler—constitutes the de facto head of security for the building and it falls within his purview to protect the house and the people in it. As such, it’s perfectly within the scope of his duties to grab you by the scruff of your neck and frog march you out of the building, if he determines you to be a credible threat to my daughter or me.” She reached for the coffee again, not looking away from Naomi.
Barbara gaped at her mother. Even Fidelia gave the woman an admiring glance before turning her gaze back to Naomi.
“What are you, a lawyer?” Naomi asked.
“No. Paralegal. I work for lawyers. Domestic assaults are all too common, so I see a lot of case law.” She sipped her coffee and stared back at Naomi.
Roger stepped between them, blocking Naomi’s view. “Ma’am. Please.” He gestured to the door with an open palm.
Naomi glared at him but turned on her heel and strode out of the parlor, Roger right behind her. She stopped at the door. “You listen to me, Roger Mulligan. That little bitch is not going to get this house. Am I clear on that?”
Roger opened the door and held it. “Good day, Ms. Patching.”
She took a half step closer to him, getting right up into his face. “You cross me, Mulligan, and you’ll regret it. Do you understand that?”
Roger schooled his features into as perfect a butler mask as he could manage. “Good day, Ms. Patching.”
She ground her teeth together hard enough that Roger saw her jaw muscles bulge and heard the tiny scraping of her molars. “This. Is. Not. Over.”
“Good day, Ms. Patching.”
With one final glare, she spun and stomped out the door.
Roger closed it behind her with a firm thump, throwing the deadbolt for good measure. He turned to find all three women standing at the top of the stairs, looking down. “Is there something you need, ladies?”
Fidelia saluted him with her coffee cup. “Thank you, Mulligan. We thought you might need a witness.” She glanced at the Griffins. “Or three.”
“She’s trouble, that one,” Esther said.
Fidelia nodded. “We know, Esther.” She turned and led the way back into the parlor. “Interesting story about the foyer, though. During the War of 1812, the British tried a blockade ...” Her voice faded out as they rounded the corner into the upstairs parlor.
Roger shook his head. The three of them together promised to make the next few days particularly interesting. He made his way to the library and knocked before entering. Shackleford sat, staring off into space. “Ms. Patching has left, sir.”
Shackleford didn’t move, just sat there—still in his wheelchair—gazing off, his eyeballs occasionally moving as if he might be reading something in his head.
“Sir?” Roger took another step into the room.
Shackleford’s head nodded a couple of times, that small nod you make to yourself when you make up your own mind about something. He blinked rapidly and sat back. “Ah, Mulligan. Has that wasp left, finally?”
“Ms. Patching has left, sir.”
“Excellent.” He looked down at his chair and at the tea service in front of him. “Oh, dear.” He looked up at Roger. “What happened, Mulligan?”
“You had a spell, sir.”
Shackleford snorted and waved a hand at the chair, which changed back to a straight wooden chair while Roger watched. “I know that, Mulligan. What happened? I didn’t need three cups for tea with Naomi.”
“I discovered you when Ms. Necket arrived, sir. We expected Ms. Griffin shortly so I brought three cups. Ms. Patching arrived first.”
“Delia? Is she still here?”
“Yes, sir. Next door in the upstairs parlor with the Griffins.”
Shackleford’s eyes shot open. “Plural?”
“Miss Griffin brought her mother, sir.”
Shackleford grinned. “Did she? Have they been waiting long?”
“Almost half an hour, sir. Ms. Patching met with you alone.”
“Did she?” He shook his head. “Can’t do anything about it now.” He stood and headed for the door. “Let’s not keep them waiting any longer than necessary, shall we?”
Roger followed Shackleford into the parlor where he held out his hands to Esther. “My dear Mrs. Griffin. Please forgive me for keeping you waiting. Family business.”
She stood and shook his hand. “Think nothing of it. Delia kept us quite entertained. I had no idea the house has such a rich history.”
He turned to Barbara. “I’m so pleased you’ve come.”
She stepped forward to shake his hand. “You’re paying for it.” She grinned at him. “I hope you don’t mind I brought my mother as chaperone?”
“Nonsense. Of course not. That’s why I asked Delia here to join us.” He turned to her. “Thank you, by the way, in case I didn’t mention that earlier?” He raised his eyebrows.
Fidelia waved him off with a smile. “We’ve had a lovely time getting to know each other, Joseph. Won’t you join us?”
Roger picked up the cue and moved one of the lighter chairs over to their grouping.
Shackleford smiled. “Thank you, Mulligan.”
“You’re welcome, sir. Shall I fetch you a cup for coffee?”
Shackleford looked at the tray and nodded. “If there’s any left?”
Fidelia lifted the carafe and gave it a testing shake before handing it to Roger. “You may need to fill this again, Mulligan.”
He took it with a bow. “It will be just a few minutes to brew a fresh pot.”
Shackleford settled back into his chair and crossed his legs at the knee. “We’re not going anywhere, Mulligan. Thank you.”
Roger took the carafe back to the kitchen and checked the time as he started the third pot of the day. He’d need to arrange luncheon for four soon. He ran some menu ideas through his mind. Soup and salad, perhaps some sandwiches? He made a mental note to ask if there were any preferences when he returned. While the mood upstairs seemed good, he couldn’t quite shake the sense that Naomi Patching would make more trouble. He snorted. Of course, she’d make more trouble. What bothered him was wondering where that trouble might show up.
Chapter 16
They spent the remainder of afternoon touring the house, Roger leading the parade with the keys while Shackleford and Fidelia filled in the missing context for them. Both of the Griffins seemed slightly glazed by the time the tour ended in the atrium.
Esther, who had been flagging as the tour wore on, seemed to perk up in delight at the garden. She clasped her hands behind her back and wandered through the narrow paths, marveling at the plantings tucked into corners. “It’s unbelievable,” she said. She looked up at the trees. “These feel like full-sized trees and ancient.”
“Some are more than a century old,” Shackleford said. “The last time the house burned down was in the 1800s. This wing was built around them during that reconstruction period.”
Esther shook her head and continued her stroll. Fidelia fell into step with her; the two of them meandered off into the garden, chatting.
Barbara, on the other hand, seemed almost shell-shocked, her eyes glazed as she stared at the plants, the trees, turning finally to Roger, then Shackleford. She blew out a deep breath. “You weren’t kidding.”
Shackleford shook his head, a smile reaching all the way to his eyes. “I wasn’t kidding.”
She drew in a deep breath and blew it out noisily. “And you want to leave this to me?”
“Yes,” Shackleford said. “I think so.”
“You don’t even know me.”
“That’s one reason I wanted you to come visit. Ideally, to live here, but that’s up to you.”
“I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
Shackleford shrugged. “There’s really nothing for you to do with it. Just make it your home. I think I said before, I
was going to leave it to the Shackleford Foundation so they could put it in the National Register to keep it from being demolished.”
“Do you need me for that?”
“Not strictly speaking, no, but I looked for a relative with talent for decades,” he said. “When I found you, it seemed like the answer to a prayer.” He looked at Roger. “I have you to thank for that, Mulligan. If you hadn’t installed the internet, I’d have never known of DNA testing.”
“My pleasure, sir.”
Barbara ran a finger down the trunk of the nearest tree and glanced over to where her mother and Fidelia bent over a planting of flowers deeper in the garden. “I don’t know how to talk to pixies or faeries,” she said, her voice low. “I assume they manage this garden?”
Shackleford nodded. “The fairies hold the garden as their home. Older than the house by centuries. Building the house around it protected it from being lost to development.” He looked up at the spreading branches above. “I’d forgotten how relaxing the grove is.”
“How does that work?” she asked.
“No idea,” the old man said. “They sometimes tell me if there’s a problem they can’t handle. That doesn’t happen often. Last time was ten years ago, before the condos came up to the property line. The pixies in the house? As long as they’re given the respect they deserve, they serve the house. I know when they’re upset.” He glanced at Roger with a grin. “They like a little whiskey now and again.”
“Will they talk to me?” she asked.
“I assume so,” Shackleford said. “You’ve got the talent.”
“I’ve got a talent,” she said, looking around. “Is it the right talent?”
“Honestly, I don’t think it matters,” Shackleford said.
She blinked at him, her mouth half open. “What?”
“It’s simple,” Shackleford said. “You have talent that’s been handed down for generations. You use it regularly. Consciously.” He glanced over to Esther. “So does she, even though I don’t think she’s aware of it.”
“So, what does that have to do with all this?” She waved a hand around in the air.
“You know that it’s real. That there are people like me and Fidelia, and even if they never speak to you, you at least have some foundation for believing me when I tell you that the house and grounds are cared for by pixies and fairies.”
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