On Sparrow Hill (6 page)

As she talked, Katie withdrew several neatly folded cotton day gowns, a more festive gown of green organdy with many flounces and yet another of brown tarlatan. Two more formal gowns were rigidly folded and would need to be hung to let go of the creases. A day gown of sturdy gingham looked more practical, and another of warm merino was obviously made for colder weather.

Berrie frowned. Whoever packed this bag obviously intended its wearer to stay through the summer and on into autumn, or perhaps even winter, judging by the variety of material suitable for different seasons.

“My other bag,” Katie said after laying out the last dress, “besides the petticoats, has another hat like the one I’m wearing but made of straw. And I have gloves, a shawl, and my shoes.” She turned to Berrie, once again choosing to look beyond Berrie’s shoulder until she seemed to notice her surroundings for the first time. “This is my room?”

“Yes, for tonight.”

“If you were to take the furniture from this room it would be perfectly symmetrical,” Katie said. “The door is directly in the middle and there are two windows evenly placed, thus.” She pointed to the tall windows with identical yellow curtains dangling in gentle waves to the wooden floor.

“Yes, I see what you mean,” Berrie said.

“But of course the furniture is too distracting to notice the symmetry, with the beds on one side and the cabinets on the other.” She glanced toward Berrie, then to the windows before speaking again. “Your face, Miss Hamilton, is also symmetrical. If you could fold it like a piece of paper, it would match.” Her glance flitted in Mrs. Cotgrave’s direction. “Yours, Mrs. Cotgrave, is not. You have a mole beneath your left eye and your mouth sags to one corner and your left eyebrow is higher than your right. You could train yourself to hold your brows at the same level, but that wouldn’t eliminate the corner of your mouth being different or the mole. Therefore you cannot have a symmetrical face anyway, so I don’t recommend wasting effort with your brows.”

Berrie exchanged a look with Mrs. Cotgrave, though it appeared neither one of them had a response to Katie’s observations. Berrie took a step toward the chiffonier. “Daisy will help put your things in here, Katie. For the time being, this room is all yours.”

Katie nodded and Daisy was already opening the chiffonier door. Berrie scanned the room to make sure there was nothing that could be tampered with that might hurt either the occupant or the room. She was surprised to see that the bedside lamps had been taken out. Daisy? Thankfully it was well lit by the afternoon sun. Gas lamps must be used sooner or later but for the moment wouldn’t be missed.

Berrie quietly asked Daisy to see if there might be some item among Katie’s belongings to suggest the whereabouts of her home. Daisy nodded; then Berrie closed the door, following Mrs. Cotgrave down the hall.

“Would you care to check on her in a bit, or shall I?” Berrie asked.

“I don’t mind.” Mrs. Cotgrave gently laughed. “Symmetry, indeed. I daresay, I haven’t been insulted with such a fine vocabulary in quite some time.”

Berrie looped her arm through Mrs. Cotgrave’s as they made their way down the hall. “Do you suppose she might be of help? She seems well in control.”

“Oh, she’s an odd one, that’s for certain. She has an excellent manner of speech, though. I’ve seen her kind before. If we keep to a schedule, as we plan to anyway, she might set a good example for those who struggle with rules and language.”

“But we don’t know if she’ll stay,” Berrie reminded her. “Even without someone funding her, she said her brother doesn’t know she’s here. From what I gather, he might not approve. Her sister shipped her off without telling him or anyone else, not even Katie’s maid.”

Mrs. Cotgrave glanced back toward the closed door. “Poor dear.” She smiled sadly. “But then it’s true those with the mind of a child often don’t see the harm hurled their way. God bless them.”

7

* * *

Thursday came quickly for Rebecca. Between her daily duties overseeing the Hall, writing a new script to accompany the refurbished wardrobe for the women demonstrating a Victorian afternoon tea, and filling out preliminary paperwork for the Featherby, she only had time to transcribe a few letters from Quentin’s forebears.

Tonight his mother was to arrive for dinner. Rebecca had watched Helen dither about what to serve Lady Elise since being informed of the visit two days ago. Should Helen serve shepherd’s pie? Ploughman’s soup was her specialty, but she thought it too provincial and the weather not nearly cold enough. Despite that being her husband’s favorite, William agreed, having been infected by Helen’s distress. The last word Rebecca heard of the main course was something about a traditional London broil or perhaps roast lamb. The only item not in doubt was trifle for dessert. Helen was known throughout the village for them.

Helen had also called in an unusual number of housemaids in the last two days, lending an undercurrent of anxiety that added to Rebecca’s unease. Everywhere she turned someone was scrubbing what already appeared clean, polishing what already gleamed, straightening what already hung properly. Featherby judges couldn’t possibly inspire more angst.

Although Quentin had been home these past few days, Rebecca saw almost nothing of him. That was by her design. She filled her days with work and spent her evenings cloistered in her suite. There was something decidedly different in having Quentin under the same roof. Something she would rather ignore.

Today there was no hiding, despite a stronger wish than ever to do just that. Rebecca had watched Elise Hollinworth from afar for years. Knowing her family’s history of serving the Hollinworths, Rebecca paid attention when the Hollinworth family was in the news. Lady Elise Hollinworth was noted least often, and that seemed intentional. She was, Rebecca had learned, a private person who chose to live in a rather public social circle. Perhaps her parties weren’t much different from other society events, and yet Lady Elise’s held the added challenge of knowing reporters were especially unwanted. She’d once had one arrested for trespassing, while another had been dunked in the pool, camera and all. After that it became a challenge to see what the boldest society reporter could get away with at an Elise Hollinworth party.

Tonight, however, would not pose a problem, with only the two Hollinworths and Rebecca in attendance. The only one on edge tonight would be Rebecca herself; she was quite sure of that. And possibly Helen Risdon over her lamb selection.

Rebecca was ready far too early, dressed in a simple black dress adorned by a single pearl dangling from a braided gold chain. Her hair, looking nearly as black as her dress and set loose down her back, had surprisingly obeyed today, so the curls for the most part stayed out of her line of vision. However she had no intention of going downstairs any sooner than she was expected.

So she went to her office and clicked on her e-mail, seeing a note from Quentin’s American cousin. Rebecca noticed immediately it wasn’t directed to her but rather to Quentin. Perhaps there wasn’t a secret to be heard only by Quentin, after all.

Dear Mr. Hollinworth — or may I call you Quentin, since we’re cousins, after all?

I was so pleased to get your note and very eager to tell you my husband, my daughter, and I will be in Ireland for three months starting next week. We hope to visit you in England by the end of this month.

In your note, you expressed an interest in reading Cosima’s journal. As far as I know, the one my sister has is the original, although it wouldn’t surprise me if Cosima made copies for her other children as well (for the healthy ones at least). I’m attaching our e-file of the text, which my sister and I transcribed.

Once you’ve read that I’ll be happy to talk to you about Royboy and the others in our family and how the genetic condition Cosima called a “curse” survived through these 150 years. From the ancestry report collected by West World, I’m guessing only Mary and Kipp were affected and that your branch of the family was spared. Praise God for that!

Rebecca read that portion again, wondering what it could possibly mean. She noted the attachment and for a moment entirely forgot she was due downstairs any moment. Much as she would like to read it now, she only had time to finish the e-mail.

In any case, I’ll let you and your commercial manager (hello, Rebecca!) know once I arrive in Ireland and have a firm date for my visit to England. It’s very nice, isn’t it, to find someone who shares the same blood but has lived an ocean apart? How small and connected the world seems right now.

Looking forward to meeting you,

Dana Martin Walker

Rebecca smiled, though she wasn’t a relation at all. What was it about family, even one so distant, that could create an instant link?

No more stalling; it was time to join Quentin and his mother.

Helen had chosen to serve dinner in the garden room. A hundred years ago it had been an aviary, but the family’s interest in birds must have waned during one war or another, and birds were no longer purchased. A single blue and gold macaw remained, believed to be over fifty years old. Robert Hollinworth had always been its primary caregiver, and when he died the bird had stopped eating for days. Quentin claimed himself a poor substitute for his father, though their voices and stature were similar. It wasn’t long before the bird seemed bonded to Quentin.

Rebecca met Quentin and his mother in the hall just outside the room.

“Mum,” Quentin said, smiling Rebecca’s way and extending a hand to her elbow, “do you recall Rebecca Seabrooke? She’s cleared her schedule and will be joining us this evening.”

Lady Elise was perhaps a hair’s breadth taller than Rebecca. Whereas Rebecca was dark, Lady Elise was light. Her skin, unlike Rebecca’s more olive complexion, was like powdered ivory. Her hair was a mix of blonde and white, impossible to tell if the white was partner to gray or added by design. Features, probably lovely when young, had sharpened with age. Her nose and chin pointed rather downward; her eyes seemed pulled the other direction. With attention to detail Lady Elise was still a distinctive woman, exquisitely dressed in an ice blue suit and expertly made up to take years from her face.

She was politely smiling with a bit of what looked like suspicious caution, mixed with a tinge of curiosity. Even so, it was a smile, and because of that, Rebecca felt sure the older woman had no idea who she was.

“I expected us to dine alone, Quentin, but tell me more about this woman in front of me.”

Rebecca extended her hand, which Elise shook with just the right amount of firmness. “It’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs. Hollinworth, although I must admit the advantage of knowing a bit about you and your family—at least, the Hollinworth side.”

One brow lifted and Rebecca was reminded of a photograph she’d seen of Lady Elise during a rare visit to a public restaurant. The place had closed within six months, and Elise’s face had encapsulated the reason. Rebecca was left wondering if almost no one liked the food or if Lady Elise had placed the germ of distaste in prospective diners before they’d taken their first bite.

“And how is it you know about the Hollinworths, Miss . . . it is Miss?”

“Yes, but please call me Rebecca. Your husband hired me as the Hall’s commercial manager three years ago, so I’ve become quite familiar with the family’s lineage.”

“How interesting.” She turned her blue gaze on her son, her pulled-up eyes narrowing slightly. “We’re dining with the staff, Quentin?”

He laughed so easily Rebecca would have found some comfort in it if she could feel anything through the tenterhooks jabbing her. “No, we’re dining with Rebecca, who happens to be the daughter of one of Father’s friends.”

That was, of course, another way to put it. Hardly the way Elise would interpret the relationship if she had all of the facts. Rebecca’s gaze lingered on Quentin a moment longer. She hadn’t known he was aware of the friendship between her father and his.

“So you knew my husband, Rebecca?”
Glacial
—that was the only word Rebecca could use to describe the tone.

“Yes. Or, rather, no. Not well.”

“And your father is . . . ?”

“James Seabrooke.”

Lady Elise appeared to ponder the name a moment, then shook her head briefly. “No, I don’t believe I’ve met a James Seabrooke, and I assure you I knew all of my husband’s friends. Are you certain your father knew my husband?”

Quentin laughed again. Rebecca wished she could join in, wished she wanted to.

“Father introduced me to James Seabrooke years ago, Mum.”

She wondered if he was deliberately keeping hidden the fact that one member of the Seabrooke family or another had been employed by the Hollinworths for generations.

“Was her father from London?”

Lady Elise eyed Rebecca as she asked the question of her son, as though Rebecca were an exhibit being pondered instead of a dinner guest.

“Yes, James works for the Trust.”

“Oh, well, why didn’t you say so?” Elise asked, then stepped into the garden room. Bright and airy, the room was decorated in snowy white, which seemed the perfect accompaniment to Lady Elise’s frosty blue suit. A pristine, padded wicker couch with matching wicker table and chairs gave the room an outdoor look, especially overlooking the rose garden. Upon their entry the macaw let out a screech. “I don’t know why Helen told us to come in here with that awful bird. I’ve always detested that thing.”

Quentin approached the huge gilt cage that housed the macaw, reaching inside to take a nut from its bowl to hand-feed it. “How can you say that, Mum? Father loved him, and he loved Father.” Quentin grinned. “You could even say he’s been a member of the family longer than either of us.”

“I’m well aware of how long that bird has been around. However, when I married your father, there was nothing in the vows about tending to that creature.” Lady Elise neared the table next to the windows. It was spread with spotless linen, adorned with nineteenth-century Wedgwood, eighteenth-century silverware, and fresh white orchids. “Does she expect us to eat the entire meal in here? I won’t have it, Quentin.”