The Art of Inheriting Secrets(12)

These paragraphs were followed by a genealogy of the earls—and in some cases, the female heirs of the place—from 1555. Their accomplishments and additions to the house were noted. The medicinal gardens of the monks, which Samir had mentioned earlier, had been maintained throughout the centuries, and I made a mental note to explore them. Another ancestor, the sixth Earl of Rosemere, created the Georgian-era gardens and began to fill the conservatory with plants from his explorations.

It pained me that both were now in shambles.

The modern entries in the genealogy were George Shaw, twelfth Earl of Rosemere, 1865–1914. Probably died in the war, I guessed. Next was Alexander Shaw, 1892–1941, maybe another war death.

The final three were Violet Shaw, Countess of Rosemere, 1917–1973; and Roger Shaw, fourteenth Earl of Rosemere, 1938–disappeared 1975. Presumed dead.

The last entry was Caroline Shaw, Countess of Rosemere, 1951–present day. Whereabouts unknown.

For a long time, I sat with the tablet in my lap, staring at those bald, strange facts. I could edit them. Add my mother’s death. My own name, Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere.

Instead, I went to Google and typed in “Caroline Shaw, Countess of Rosemere.” The first entry was Wikipedia, the same one I’d been on for the house. Not much else, but a line of images marched across the top of the page, and I raised my finger, hesitated, and clicked the images link.

And there she was, my mother, younger than I’d ever known her. A delicately built teenager in a pencil skirt, laughing with a crowd of other teens. In a party dress with her hair swept up, almost certainly on the steps of the house, with that cathedral window behind her, a suave-looking man on her arm. In another, this one close-up, she looked coy and knowing at the camera, her eyes lined in a cat eye that was so recently back in fashion.

I didn’t even realize tears were pouring down my face until they splashed on my wrist. How could she have left all of this behind and never told me a single thing about it?

Overwhelmed, I shut the tablet and flung off the blanket. What I needed was a bath and a novel that would take me away.

My cell rang. I glanced at the clock, which showed nearly ten, and considered letting it go to voice mail, but when I glanced at the number, I saw that it was my Realtor in San Francisco. “Hi, Nancy.”

“Olivia! I’m sorry to call so late. Is this all right? I just have a bunch of news and wanted to talk to you as soon as possible.”

I sat back down. “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“I have an amazing offer on the house.”

“But it’s not for sale yet.”

“No, not technically. But this buyer has had her eye on the house for more than three years, and she would really like to settle with you before it goes to market.”

I closed my eyes, thinking of the kitchen where I’d eaten my breakfasts as a child, where my mother had made her endless pots of tea. “What’s the offer?”

“Three point two.”

The number pinged around my brain, impossible and ridiculous for a breathless moment. When I found my voice, I croaked, “That’s insane.”

“It is a lot of money, but in this market, it’s not at all uncommon. This neighborhood is highly prized.”

“You think I should take it.”

“No, actually. This makes me more eager than ever to take it to market. It might go for even more.”

“What about all of my mother’s things?”

“Look, Olivia,” she said gently, “we can leave everything in place when we show it, because you know it will be torn down the minute the sale goes through. But wouldn’t you rather everything be safely tucked away in a nice, climate-controlled storage unit? Then it will be safe, and you can go through it at your leisure.”

I felt airless, exhausted. “Maybe.”

“It’s your call. I do not want to rush you, and honestly, this lot is going to sell for a great price no matter when we put it up for sale.”

Three million dollars. Three million, two hundred thousand dollars. That was life-changing money. Winning-the-lottery money.

In my mind, I heard my mother’s sensible voice say, “Be practical, darling.” She said it so often it was engraved on my brain. She would want me to make the deal, give myself the possibilities the money would offer.

“Put it on the market,” I said, “but you’re going to have to give my mother’s gallery a few days to get over there and get the paintings and drawings out. Not taking any chances on that.”

“Done. Do you want me to handle it?”

“No. I will.”

“All right, I’ll await your direction.”

“And, Nancy, I don’t want you to talk to Grant about this. Communicate with me directly.”

“No problem. You’re the boss.”

I hung up and looked up the other numbers I needed. Within twenty minutes, I had arranged for the removal, packing, and storage of all of my mother’s work at the gallery warehouse, safely away from . . .

Hmm. From Grant. He’d always been so avid for her paintings, dreaming of hanging them in our apartment. Some of them were quite valuable, and I would probably sell a few. But not yet.

Suddenly, I thought of the triptych she’d done, three gigantic paintings in a mysterious wood, so layered with detail that much was hidden until you looked deeply. I wondered if there might be secrets hidden in those paintings. I called the gallery back and asked for prints of them to be sent to me here, along with her oldest sketchbooks. It was a hunch. Maybe I could piece together her secrets if I looked at that material through the lens of all this new information.