The Perfect Guests

by Emma Rous

  “Promise me, lovely girl, you’ll never leave Raven Hall. You’ll bring up your own children and grandchildren here, and you’ll teach them to love it as much as we do . . .”

  Suddenly she’s picturing those two dreadful women again, and resentment swoops back into her chest like a kestrel dropping onto its prey.

  How can this have happened? The slow-moving woman on the swing seat, the long-haired daughter in her orange crop top . . . For a moment, she tries to imagine herself wearing such an outfit, and despite the lump in her throat, she almost smiles. Daddy would have been scandalized. He’d have said she was encouraging the boys. As if boys ever came within a mile of Raven Hall anyway. She sighs. Poor Daddy. He had no idea it wasn’t the local boys he should have been worried about.

  She thinks fleetingly of the young doctor. That’s what Daddy always called him, as if it were his official name—the Young Doctor—even though she happened to know his name was Roy, and he was nearly thirty.

  She hasn’t seen the young doctor since the day Daddy died—not since they walked into Daddy’s study together and found Daddy collapsed over the green-topped desk. For days afterward, she didn’t think of anything or anyone much at all. But when the shock had begun to subside—when reality came creeping back in—she’d dared to hope that the young doctor might reappear. She’d even watched for him from the windows of Raven Hall, while the lawyers argued in low voices behind her.

  But he didn’t reappear. Not when the lawyers told her the estate was bankrupt and Raven Hall would have to be sold. Not when a distant relation of her mother’s begrudgingly offered to take her in as a lodger, eighty miles away. Not when they dragged her, sobbing, down the stone steps and into a taxi on the final day . . .

  She frowns and picks up her pace. She needs to decide—should she knock on the young doctor’s door when she gets back to the village? He’s the only person who ever showed an interest in her. And now, living at her distant relative’s house, she has no one to talk to at all. But what might he say if she knocks on his door this afternoon? “I’ve missed you,” or “I’m not interested”—which is more likely? She’s not an idiot—she knows he must have kissed other girls and told them they were special too, but . . . She plucks a daisy from the path and pinches its petals off as she marches along. He loves me; he loves me not . . .

  “Hallo.”

  She almost dies of fright.

  A very tall young man emerges from the low hedgerow—he must have been crouching down. Is he going to attack her? But he holds up his hands, and his smile is apologetic.

  “I was just taking pictures of some toadstools.” He taps the camera hanging around his neck. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Sorry.”

  “Who are you?” She’s alert for any sudden movement, ready to run if he looks like he means her harm. But his expression is earnest, and he’s careful not to come any closer.

  “Sorry. I’m not trespassing, am I?” he says. “I’m just visiting for the weekend, for a housewarming party.” He indicates the direction she’s come from. “Raven Hall—do you know it?”

  She’s horrified to feel tears welling up, and she swallows hard. “Not really. A bit.”

  “Ah. Well.” He looks away, toward the lake. “I thought this was all theirs, but—anyway, I should be getting back. My girlfriend will wonder where I’ve got to . . .”

  His gaze slides back to her, and she feels it like an electric charge on her skin. Of course, she thinks. The girl in the orange crop top. Of course, she’s his girlfriend.

  She should say good-bye and walk on. But he hasn’t moved to pass her yet. They stand there, holding each other’s gaze, and she finds she can’t walk on.

  “Are you a photographer, then?” she says. “I mean, of wildlife, or something?”

  His smile makes her heart skip. “Actually, I’m a student. In London. I’m studying horticulture. But I love it out here.” He gestures at the stunted hedgerow on one side of them, the bank of nettles leading down to the lakeshore on the other. “I’d love to live somewhere like this when I graduate. How about you?”

  “Oh, I’m—” She wipes her palms on her skirt. “I’m just visiting someone here too. In the village.” She wrinkles her nose. “Or at least, I was thinking about it. I haven’t decided yet.”

  “Oh, okay.” He tilts his head. “Well, you’ve got a long walk ahead, but I guess you know that. Do you want to come back with me? I could drive you down there if you like . . .”

  “No,” she says. “I’m fine.” She narrows her eyes. “I’m not lost, if that’s what you’re thinking. I used to live around here. I know the way.”

  “Oh, right. Great.” He studies her with a puzzled smile. “Well, I’ll probably be back this way some weekends, from now on. Maybe we’ll bump into each other again.”

  She gives this suggestion some consideration. “Maybe.”

  “I’ll try not to startle you so much, next time.”

  “You’d better not.”

  His laugh is gentle, like the breeze in the reeds. “It was nice to meet you, girl-who-isn’t-lost.”

  She stares at him for a moment, drinking in his features, memorizing them to pore over later. Then she turns away and hurries on, without looking back.

  Beth

  July 1988

  Itugged at the neckline of the blue dress and frowned down at my salad. Leonora and Markus had barely eaten any of their own lunch either; they were too busy exchanging uncharacteristically snappy words across the dining table. I wished with all my might that Nina would skip down the stairs and interrupt the meal by announcing she was fully recovered and ready to meet her grandfather. But instead, I had to listen to her parents bicker while my skin itched and sweated under the uncomfortable fabric. I longed for the afternoon’s visit to be over.

  “We should sit outside, actually,” Markus said. “Dad always liked the garden here . . .”

  “We are—sitting—in the drawing room.” Leonora enunciated each word with painstaking clarity. “And your father hated the garden, I remember you saying. And Beth can’t exactly play her violin outside, can she?”

  “Can’t she?” Markus sounded genuinely nonplussed. I jabbed my fork into a slice of cucumber and kept my gaze lowered.

  “Of course she can’t,” Leonora said. “Stop trying to change everything at the last minute. We stick to the plan.”

  Markus’s cutlery clattered onto his plate, and he held up his hands. “Okay, okay.”

  “Unless you’re having second thoughts?” Leonora’s tone was icy.

  “Of course not.” Markus’s prompt reply seemed to mollify her slightly.

  She turned her attention to me.

  “So, Nina, let’s run through it again, shall we? What do you like doing in your spare time?”

  I straightened in my seat. “I like reading. Drawing. Anything to do with animals.”

  “And?”

  “Oh, and playing my violin.” I kept forgetting this part, since it wasn’t true of the real Nina, but when I’d queried it with Leonora, she’d dismissed the question with a quick frown and a shake of her head.

  Leonora scrutinized me now. “You will sound a bit more convincing when he’s here, won’t you?”

  I met her gaze sheepishly. “Yes, I’ll try.”

  They rose to clear the table then, and I peeked at my watch. Markus’s father was due at three; I still had an hour and a half stuck in these silly plaits and this horrible dress, and all to trick a grumpy old man. I’d go along with it for Leonora and Markus’s sake, but it seemed a daft sort of game to me.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Rolls-Royce was late. Only by a few minutes, but Leonora and I had been peering through the drawing room window for a quarter of an hour by then, and her tension was contagious. It made me wonder exactly what she was afraid Markus’s father would do if h
e found out his planned meeting with his granddaughter had been thwarted—by a sickness bug, of all things. He must be a desperately unreasonable person, I thought. I had no memories of my own grandparents, but in the photos of them taken with me as a baby, they looked to be kind, caring people. I hoped this so-called little game with Nina’s grandfather wasn’t going to turn into an ordeal.

  All the more reason to play my part properly, I decided.

  “Here he comes,” Leonora said, and Markus sprang from the armchair he’d been pretending to relax in and marched out to the hall. A moment later, I heard the front door open. By the time the car came to a halt on the gravel, Markus was waiting on the bottom step. He held up a hand to the chauffeur and went forward to swing his father’s door open himself.

  I’d been expecting someone older, but Markus’s father didn’t look even sixty. He was just as tall as his son, and he had a thick thatch of white-blond hair that added at least another inch to his height. He unfolded himself from the car, and his expression when he turned to the house was severe. Leonora snatched me back from the window, out of sight.

  “We’d better go and greet him,” she whispered, and when I saw the way her trembling fingers fluttered to her throat, I felt a wave of sympathy for her. She was frightened of this man—it shocked me to discover an adult could feel this way. What on earth could he have done to her to make her fear him this much, and yet agree to let him visit?

  In the hall, we came face-to-face with Markus and his father. The older man’s gaze locked onto mine, and his stare was so piercing, I was convinced he could see right through my eyeballs and into my brain. Heat flared to my cheeks. Could he read what I was thinking? I hadn’t said a word to him yet, but what if he already sensed I was an impostor? I glanced at Markus and then at Leonora, but neither of them met my eye.

  The visitor’s gaze left mine and jumped to Leonora, and I let out a shaky breath. I’m Nina, I reminded myself. He’s never met me before. Of course he’ll believe it.

  “Ms. Averell.” His voice was silky smooth but not friendly. “You look remarkably well.”

  Leonora stuttered something unintelligible, and I frowned, not understanding why his phrase had sounded like an insult rather than a compliment.

  “And you—” Again, he stared right into me. “You are—?”

  I steeled myself. “I’m Nina, sir.”

  He raised his bushy eyebrows high, as if waiting for more, but then he turned to Markus and indicated the door to the drawing room. “Shall we?”

  Leonora caught hold of my wrist as Markus and his father went into the room.

  “We’ll make some tea,” she said, a little too loudly.

  I followed her down the hall to the kitchen, my heart jumping uncomfortably. Had I done enough? Leonora pushed the kitchen door firmly shut behind us.

  “You were perfect,” she said. “We’ll let them talk for a while; then we’ll take in the tea and cakes.”

  When we eventually joined the men in the drawing room, they broke off their conversation, and the visitor gestured for me to approach him. Markus flashed me an encouraging smile.

  “So,” the older man said, “tell me, Nina. Do you know who I am?”

  I cleared my throat. “You’re my grandfather.”

  “Hmm.” He studied me. “I hear you’re quite the musician. Is that right?”

  This was a question I’d normally have been delighted to answer, but I felt a prickle of unease.

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose so.”

  “Would you play for me now?” he asked.

  Leonora was already carrying my violin case toward me.

  “Okay,” I said. “If you like.”

  I lifted out my violin and bow, and I took them across to the piano and struck an A, aware that all three adults were watching me intently. Usually, the act of tuning my instrument slid me into a calm, focused state, and I was desperate for that reassuring feeling now. I adjusted my bow slowly, waiting for the familiar scent of the resin to transport me back to my carefree childhood days, the way it normally did. But my heart continued to race, and I couldn’t shake the sensation of Markus’s father staring at me with those glittering eyes. I marched across to the black marble fireplace and positioned myself with my shoulder turned against him so that I didn’t have to see his expression while I played.

  I began too fast, and I hurried through the piece, feeling increasingly resentful as my bewilderment about the situation swelled. It wasn’t a terrible performance, but it was nowhere near the best I could do, and by the time I reached the end, I was close to tears. I lowered my instrument and bow.

  I don’t know what I expected—polite applause, perhaps. A condescending comment from the man I was trying so hard to fool. But when I reluctantly turned to face him again, I was horrified to see he was crying. Fat tears slid down his pale cheeks, and he gestured for me to sit next to him on the sofa. I desperately wanted to run from the room.

  But Leonora spoke sharply. “Nina.”

  It jolted me into action, and I forced myself to join him on the sofa. He placed one of his gnarly hands over mine and took a moment to compose himself.

  “That was beautiful, my child.” He gave me a surprisingly gentle smile. “You remind me so much of your grandmother, Anneliese. She played the cello every day of her life up until she—” His face contorted briefly. “Well, up until she grew too weak to hold it upright anymore. I’ll tell you something else. She’d have been very proud of you.”

  I pictured the old cello case leaning in the corner of Markus’s study, and I nodded mutely. But Nina’s grandfather seemed to be waiting for a proper reply, and when I glanced at Leonora and Markus, they, too, were watching me with expectant expressions.

  “Thank you,” I managed to say.

  At that, Markus’s father tightened his grip on my hand. “Tell me, Nina. How would you like to come and live in America with me?”

  Leonora made a choking sound, and Markus caught hold of her arm. His father’s gaze was fixed on me, and either he didn’t notice Leonora’s reaction, or he chose to ignore it.

  “There’s an excellent music school in my city,” he continued, “and lots of wonderful opportunities for a bright girl like you. You could live in a big, airy apartment, go out to fancy restaurants, see a different show every night of the week. How does that grab you?”

  I stared at him, thinking of the real Nina, upstairs, ill, in her bed. What would Nina say to this? Nina, who swam in the lake and the water channels around here every single day in the summer; who could row across to the island faster than Jonas could swim to it; who loved her turret bedroom and her tree house and the acres of fenland she’d grown up in.

  “Thank you,” I said, “but I love living at Raven Hall too much. I think if I ever had to leave, I might die of a broken heart.”

  First, his white eyebrows shot up. Then they hunched down, and he pulled my hand closer to him, bringing his face right up to mine. I tried to wriggle away, but he wouldn’t let me go.

  “I see,” he said, and his voice had become a growl. “I see exactly what’s going on here. You’ve been brainwashed by your mother, haven’t you? I should have guessed.”

  I scrambled to my feet, desperately trying to tug my hand free of his.

  “Let go of me!”

  “Dad,” Markus said sharply.

  Finally, his father dropped my hand with a look of disgust. He got to his feet in one smooth, furious motion, and he glared at Markus, his body quivering.

  “I’ve seen enough,” he snapped. “I’ll think about what you said, but I’m very disappointed in you, Markus. You’re my only son—” He cut himself off and stalked to the door. “I’ll see myself out.”

  Sadie

  January 2019

  Sadie deliberately hangs back as the guests set down their champagne glasses and leave the drawing ro
om.

  Nazleen leads the way, with an eager Everett hurrying to accompany her, for all the world as if he really is an owl, sizing up his prey. Mrs. Shrew has regained her composure, but her expression is now severe. When Joe offers her his arm, she grants him the briefest of smiles, and she allows him to guide her from the room. Zach and Genevieve follow, arguing mildly about some aspect of the architecture of the house. Sadie brings up the rear, wondering which of them she’ll be seated next to at dinner.

  The dining room is a striking mix of old grandeur and modern luxury. Dark wooden paneling gives way to a lustrous raspberry-colored wallpaper above; dozens of flickering candles set the crystal glasses twinkling and the silver cutlery gleaming. The table is set for eight, and as the guests seek out their place cards, they see the head of the table remains empty. An enormous portrait looms over it: a severe-looking gentleman with bushy eyebrows and a thatch of blond-white hair.

  Nazleen, their hostess, hovers at the foot of the table while the others circle and find their places. Before they take their seats, she gestures theatrically at the portrait and glances around to make sure they’re all paying attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is my husband, Lord Nightingale.”

  On Sadie’s right, Zach murmurs, “A bit old for her, isn’t he?”

  Sadie shushes him.

  Nazleen continues. “I regret to inform you that this afternoon, Lord Nightingale was found murdered in his study. He was killed by a toxic powder that was delivered to him inside a sealed envelope. When Lord Nightingale opened the envelope, he inhaled the powder, and it killed him instantly.” She looks at each of the guests in turn. “He died at three o’clock this afternoon, precisely.”

  Sadie thinks of her alibi card. She visited Lord Nightingale in his study between two and three . . . Her pulse quickens, questions already flitting through her mind.