On Sparrow Hill (7 page)

“Oh, come now, Mum, it’ll be fine. You can see the roses from here, and I know you like them. Would you care for some iced tea?” Quentin walked toward the tea trolley set off to the side. “I believe Helen said it’s orange mint. How about you, Rebecca?”

She accepted the offer immediately. Elise declined.

“So tell me, Rebecca,” Elise said, “why are you working as a commercial manager out here in the country? You should be in London, where all the other young people live.”

“I like it here,” Rebecca said, hating the meek tone but unable to take it back and replace it with something more robust. She cleared her throat and made another attempt. “I’m interested in history, and I like working with others to preserve it.” Better, though still not herself.

Elise neared the table, the tip of one long finger grazing an orchid petal. “Some things are worthy to be preserved, although you must admit there is a plethora of Victorian homes available to schools and tourists. We don’t really need this hall on a public list.” She picked up a knife and inspected it, then replaced it. “Do you know, if the aristocracy isn’t concerned enough to have families—and large ones—the English aristocracy will die that much sooner?”

Rebecca nodded. Only life titles had been given since the 1960s—none that would be passed on through the generations. One might attribute it to any number of things: politics, a goal for universal democracy, simple modernized thinking. Somehow Rebecca didn’t think Elise would find any of those arguments compelling.

Rebecca slid her thumb along the cool glass in her hand, avoiding eye contact with either Lady Elise or Quentin.

“Since you are the commercial manager for this estate,” Elise said, “how is the market for selling such a place as this?”

The glass nearly slipped from her hands. Elise wanted not simply to close the Hall to visitors—she wanted to
sell
it? It might not be home to her anymore, but it once was, when her boys were young. When her husband was alive, he spent much of the year here. The same home had housed Hollinworths, and Hamiltons before them, for two hundred years. Rebecca could think of nothing to say.

“Mum is daring me to sell or donate the place to the Trust,” Quentin said, pouring himself a glass of iced tea. “But if you knew her better, you would see the ploy behind the suggestion. She wants the Hall to be either home or museum, not both. She’s archaically old-fashioned. I intend to keep things as they are, at least for the time being.”

A wave of relief rushed through Rebecca, one that had nothing to do with whether or not she kept a job she loved. If Lady Elise was so old-fashioned, couldn’t she see history would lose a vital connection with today if it were owned by anyone else, even the Trust?

“Drafty in the winter, hot in the summer,” Elise said. “And since it’s open to the public on more days than ever, it’s hardly a home and certainly no place to raise children.”

“Why not? At least they’d have a thorough education on the running of a Victorian estate. Thanks to Rebecca, who made sure it won a Sandford Award and has just been nominated for a Featherby as well.”

“How nice,” said Elise, staring out one of the mullioned windows. “Sounds as if the Trust would be happy to have this place.”

So much for an offer of thanks for Rebecca’s part in distinguishing the Hall with educational awards.

Soon Helen and her husband came in with trays, a full five-course dinner beneath rounded silver domes. Quentin led his mother to the table, where the three of them took their seats.

“Just a moment,” Elise said once the dinner was served and the husband and wife headed for the door. They both turned expectantly.

“Yes, ma’am?” Helen asked. “Can I get you anything else?”

“No.” Her narrow gaze could have pierced steel. “Was it your idea or my son’s to serve our dinner in here?”

“It was mine, Mum,” said Quentin before Helen could answer. “I want the bird to know I’m home, so I’ve been having my meals in here.”

One brow rose over Lady Elise’s eyes in what looked like exasperated acceptance.

“Anything else, ma’am?” Helen’s back, as well as her tone, seemed a bit stiffer than it had before.

Good for her. At least she isn’t cowering.

Elise turned back to the table, effectively discharging them from the room. Rebecca caught the grin Quentin sent Helen’s way, a simple gesture that softened the board she had made of her shoulders.

“There is a bit of other news,” Quentin said as they began eating.

Rebecca paused before taking up her fork. Evidently there was no blessing to be said over this meal. Silently, quickly, she sent up a word of thanks.

“Other news?” Elise asked. “What news have you given me already that this should qualify as ‘other’?”

“About the Featherby, Mum,” said Quentin. Amazingly, his tone was light, forgiving.

“Oh, that,” she murmured dismissively. “What other news, then?”

“We’ve heard from an American branch of the family. Direct descendants of Cosima and Peter Hamilton.”

She waved a hand in front of her face at the names. “We? Whom do you mean when you say ‘we’ve’ heard?”

“The e-mail first went to the Hall’s business address,” Rebecca said, “but it was for the Hollinworth family: you and Quentin.”

Elise’s fork stopped midway as she scrutinized Rebecca. “Strangers are trying to contact my son through the Hall? Yet another reason to sell off this place and remove ourselves from being such easy targets.”

“But they’re authentically related, Mum. They’ve traced their family back to ours. Well, Father’s line anyway. I’ll be eager to meet them.”

“Meet them? Why? Are you planning a trip to the US?”

“No, they’re actually coming here. I assume they’ll want to see the Hall, since this was where Cosima and Peter Hamilton lived and reared their children.”

“Surely you’re not having perfect strangers come here, Quentin?”

“No, not exactly strangers.”

“The whole idea is positively frightening. Americans, no less.”

“They have a journal,” Rebecca offered quietly, thinking even that probably wouldn’t change Elise’s mind. But Rebecca was in this with Quentin and didn’t want him fighting alone. “A journal belonging to Quentin’s great-great-great-grandmother.”

“I’m sure they do.” Her tone indicated she didn’t believe a word.

“Have you checked your e-mail today, Quentin?” Rebecca asked. A slight shift in the topic might ease the tension. “Dana sent the text of Cosima’s journal.”

He shook his head, smiling. “No, not yet. I’ll look for it tonight. So you’ve seen it?”

“Only that it was attached. I didn’t have time to open it.”

“This is all so fascinating,” Elise cut in, “but I assume you both know you could be fooled by a family of con artists wanting heaven knows what.”

“Clever con artists, if so,” Quentin said, winking Rebecca’s way.

Maybe Rebecca was beginning to adjust to Elise’s abrasive personality. Or maybe that wink, like the grin he’d aimed Helen’s way, was enough to abolish whatever discomfort Rebecca still felt. She smiled.

“They’ve offered quite an extensive pedigree,” she told Elise. Even her voice sounded like her own again. “I don’t really see how it could be false. I’ve verified what I could with public records, birth and marriage certificates. It all appears legitimate.”

Elise eyed Rebecca. “How resourceful of you.”

“Besides, they don’t want anything, Mum. Just to see the Hall, and they can do that by making an appointment for a tour anyway. And something else. When we heard about the journal, Rebecca and I looked through the vault and found letters from Cosima and Peter’s generation that we’d like to share with these cousins of mine.”

The corners of Elise’s mouth went up as she looked at her son, but it wasn’t what Rebecca could call a smile. “It’s nice if you want to investigate Hollinworth history, Quentin. Keep it within the family, though. I don’t want any tabloid memoirs released of my family or your father’s.”

“Sharing a few letters with distant cousins isn’t making much of a public debut, Mum.” He took another sip of his iced tea, and Rebecca respected his demeanor. Rebecca could learn something from him, if only when dealing with difficult clients booking the Hall. “We
are
keeping it in the family, after all.”

Lady Elise sighed. “I don’t like the sound of these so-called cousins. Just don’t make me say ‘I told you so’ when these people try to cheat you out of this house or some of the funds it generates. I’d rather sell it than lose anything to frauds.”

8

* * *

Mr. Truebody was not to be found, having gone to Dublin for reasons his clerk would not disclose. You might recall I have some slight reservations about Mr. Truebody, but they are insignificant in comparison to my opinion of Mr. Flegge, the local constable to whom Duff decided to go after finding Mr. Truebody absent. If you had stood in the blue room with me, Cosima, you would have seen the condescending look upon his face as clearly as I did. I could not imagine which he thought less of: a school for the infirm run by women or one of the infirm apparently having been abandoned.

“I’ve not a clue as to what you expect me to do, miss,” said the constable, holding his hat in his hand. Mr. Flegge was neither ugly nor comely, rather somewhere in between, with thinning hair, only a slight paunch, and a chin that had grown soft in middle age. “I cannot very well leave me duties behind to go searching all Ireland for the girl’s family, can I now?”

“Surely something can be done,” Berrie said. “From what she’s said, her brother will be very concerned about her.”

“Then it’s fair to assume he’ll be searching for her. Perhaps he’ll be contacting me office and I’ll show him to yer door straightway; of that you can be sure.”

Berrie sighed, knowing that unless she hired someone to search for Katie’s family, the task would not be done. But every bit of the funds she’d been allocated—either by donation or from her father and brother Peter—were tied up in getting things started. Even the sale of items left behind in Escott Manor that wouldn’t or couldn’t be used by their school left little money beside.

As Berrie wished the constable good day and he took his leave, myriad thoughts crossed her mind. She must do
something
. Post a notice in one of the newspapers? It was worth a try since clearly Katie’s family was literate, though it might not do much good if her family was from a rural area where newsprint circulation was limited. Perhaps she could spare Duff for a few days; he was reliable, hardworking, and honest—bright, too, for one so young. He showed such promise she planned to name him senior attendant once the children started arriving. She had been planning to send him out on a mission anyway. Perhaps he could accomplish two tasks in one outing.

One way or another, she would find Katie’s family. She must.

9

* * *

Rebecca rubbed her eyes, trying to banish the sting of fatigue. Glancing at the desk clock in her office, she realized she’d been reading Cosima’s journal far longer than she expected. It was nearly two in the morning.

But Cosima’s story had captivated her. Was Dana also affected by the Kennesey curse? Had she too given birth to a “cursed” child? She said she’d be bringing her husband
and
daughter.

Rebecca had known Cosima Hamilton only through her portrait and her somewhat limited legacy: decorating themes that no generation since hers had seen fit to drastically alter; a storybook she’d written for her children full of Irish rhymes and tales; a few recipes. So far, Berrie’s letters hadn’t revealed much more about Cosima.

Perhaps it was just as well Elise Hollinworth had shown no interest in either the American cousins or whatever correspondence they sent ahead. Learning the Hamilton line had been tainted by a curse wouldn’t be something Lady Elise would bring up in any of her circles.

Rebecca felt she really ought to go to her room and sleep. After Quentin’s mother had left just past ten, Rebecca had excused herself despite Quentin’s invitation to share a cup of tea. Herbal, he’d promised, without caffeine. But she had an appointment with a bride-to-be the following morning, and those oftentimes went on forever. She’d gone to her room, changed from the black dress into a soft T-shirt and cotton shorts to sleep in, then promptly found herself too wide-awake to sleep. So she’d headed to her office.

Even now, after several hours of diversion, the questions returned. Had she been a fool to decline extending an evening alone with Quentin? And why had he asked, anyway? Only being polite? Maybe she’d imagined the look in his eye, one that said he’d like to be with her.

But now she really must go to bed. A glass of milk would help.

To her surprise, she spotted a light already on as she neared the kitchen. She quickened her step. Surely Helen wasn’t still there, fretting over the meal she’d served? Though Elise Hollinworth hadn’t liked the setting, she’d spoken nary a word against the food. Helen should have been glad for that, considering Elise obviously didn’t hesitate to say a negative word if one popped into her mind.

Rebecca stopped abruptly, nearly slipping on the cool kitchen tile. Not Helen at all. There, at the wide wooden table where Rebecca had watched Helen prepare meals and shared plenty, sat Quentin.

“I saw the light,” Rebecca said by way of explanation for her hastened entry. “I worried Helen might still be here and something might be wrong.”

If there had been any fatigue on his face when she’d first spotted him, it was gone now. He looked her over with a smile, and even though the slow glance was welcoming, she wondered if she should hurry back to her suite, at the very least to change her clothes. Although she wore less at the beach, this was hardly the right attire to be sitting with her employer—particularly one who’d once invaded many of her waking thoughts. And some dreams as well.

He seemed to jerk his gaze from her. He held up loose, printed pages and cleared his throat. “I printed out Cosima’s journal. Fascinating. You should read it.” He paused, momentarily staring at her again, then turned back to the pages, flipping through them. “But I seem to have left the first section in my room.”