The Art of Inheriting Secrets(16)

“No one knew what to do.”

“Exactly.” He bent his head, flicked a thumb over the edge of the paper. “The history of that house is quite dark, Ms. Shaw. I believe your grandmother wanted it to fall down.” He paused. “A feeling a great many of us share.”

I thought about the soaring center hall with its magnificent woodwork, the neglected rooms, the vine growing through the window with a rose blooming inside.

“Why?”

“It’s said to be cursed, and although I’m a practical man, the evidence seems to support that idea.”

“I’m not a superstitious person,” I said and realized that I’d already formulated a plan while I’d been reading and supposedly resting. “I’d like to call in a contractor and see what they have to say about the house. It seems to have good bones, and maybe it’s sentimental of me, but I want to know what’s there before I let it fall down.”

“Oh, dear.” He pursed his lips, and the mustache looked like a little animal, perched and prissy. “I don’t mean to pierce your romantic dream, but the costs of saving that house would be truly extravagant. The rents won’t pay for it, and once you pay the inheritance taxes, the funds will be thin indeed.”

Ah, the infamous inheritance taxes. “What’s the tax rate?”

“Forty percent.”

I didn’t imagine the relish with which he imparted this information. “That is substantial. And what’s the most current valuation of the estate?”

“I’ll include that with the notes, of course. And the offer.”

“Thank you. I want the full picture before decisions of any kind are made.”

“Understood.” For a moment, he took my measure. “These great old houses are white elephants in this day and age. Many of them have already collapsed, and the rest stand to bankrupt their owners. The offer we’ve had is remarkable. Perhaps you will want to consider that as well.”

The reporter in me smelled a story. Who would be willing to take on the estate for a “remarkable” sum? What was to be gained? But I said only, “Absolutely. Include those details too.”

“Anything else?”

“No,” I said and stood. “I’ll look forward to those reports.”





Chapter Five

When I returned to the hotel, Sarah stopped me as I went by. “Lady Shaw,” she said with some excitement. “Something came while you were out.”

She was practically vibrating as she handed me a modest square envelope made of heavy linen paper. The handwriting was old-fashioned and very English, with those square formations along the lower edge, as if it had been written along a ruler. It was addressed to Lady Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere.

Inside was a note written in the same hand.

Dearest Lady Shaw,

I will be having a small gathering Sunday next, 3:00 to 6:00 p.m., in the garden as long as the weather holds. It is very short notice, but if you are so inclined, I will send a driver to fetch you at 2:30 p.m. I knew your mother and grandmother, and it would be my great pleasure to welcome you to the neighborhood.

Sincerely,

George Barber, Earl of Marswick

Marswick Hall

(01632) 960401

Sarah still shimmered behind the counter, as if a fairy godmother might appear any moment and whisk her into another life. As mildly as possible, I said, “It’s the Earl of Marswick, which I’m guessing you knew.”

She nodded. “It’s his crest, there on the back. And his driver brought it in a Bentley.” The last word was uttered in a whisper.

“So I should accept his invitation to a gathering next Sunday, then, if only for a ride in that car?”

Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes.”

I tucked the card back into his envelope, feeling absurdly shy and panicked. “I have no idea what to wear.”

“Oh, it won’t matter.”

“Thank you, but I’m sure it will.” I took a breath. “I doubt I brought anything with me that would be appropriate. Where should I go shopping?”

“London is the only possibility, Ms. Shaw.”

“Maybe.” I inclined my head. “What do people wear this time of year?”

“Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Poole.”

Rebecca. Maybe she would even be attending. I had her number but again felt hobbled by my telephone and the logistics of what I was doing here. “I need to go to Letchworth. Is it Mr. Jenkins who brought me here? I’d like him to drive me over there this afternoon. Will you call him to see if he’s available?”

“Of course.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll send Allen with a pot of tea, shall I?”

“That would be wonderful.”

I made my way back to my room, feeling pampered by her solicitousness, and warned myself not to get too comfortable. It would be all too easy to get used to being attended.

With a pot of tea at my elbow and a low fire offering warmth, I opened my laptop and made notes of my conversation with Jonathan Haver, along with a list of questions.

And following Haver’s suggestion, I also made notes on the research I needed to do—had anyone saved a manor house like this successfully? What methods were used to keep estates going? I didn’t know who I’d meet at the earl’s gathering, but there might be some help there. I picked up the phone in my room and dialed the number on the bottom of the note.