The Art of Inheriting Secrets(17)

A woman answered, her voice high and fluting. “Marswick Hall.”

“Hello,” I said and suddenly felt my mother beside me, lending me grace. “This is Lady Olivia Shaw. I received a note from the earl just now. I’d love to accept his invitation to the gathering at Marswick Hall next Sunday.”

“Very good, my lady. I’ll have a car sent to the hotel at two thirty, if that would be acceptable.”

“Yes, thank you.” I hung up. Staring into the fire, I realized I was starting to feel a little bit more like myself, which made it easier to trust my instincts.

I didn’t trust Haver. Or Rebecca, for that matter. Even before Samir had warned me, there had been something a little too friendly about her. She might just be a social climber. Not exactly an attractive trait, but it wasn’t criminal.

Now there was the earl and whoever I’d meet at his party. At this point, it would be wise to assume that almost everyone had an agenda and proceed with caution. I’d have to keep my wits, especially considering the challenge of interpreting English culture.

By the time Mr. Jenkins, who insisted I call him Peter, picked me up, the rain was beginning to clear. Fingers of sunlight poked through the clouds, glazing the green fields, the roofs of the odd village in the distance. It always amazed me how empty the countryside of England felt, when in reality it was crowded with people, especially so close to London. “How many people live in Hertfordshire County, Peter? Do you know?”

“Oh, more than a million, I reckon. Going to be twice that if they keep building up housing estates in every field.”

“Are there a lot?”

“Too many,” he spat. “We get far too much traffic now in Saint Ives, thanks to the one south of town. Have you seen it? Line at the bakery is a mile long of a Monday, everybody stopping before they head out to the train in Letchworth.”

“I did see it.” I thought of West Menlo Park, where my mother’s other house was, the price of a single lot because of location. “Is the village convenient to London?”

“Aye, right down the A1, or by train though Letchworth or Baldock.”

Very easy access to the city. I thought of that “remarkable” offer on the estate and the two thousand hectares. How many houses could be built on that much land?

A lot, I guessed.

At Letchworth, Peter took me to a shopping center. “I’ll be here waiting, my lady.”

“You don’t have to sit in the car,” I said. “It’s going to take me a little while. Get a cup of tea or something. I’ll ring you on my new phone when I’ve got it.”

He grinned. “Right, then. Maybe a wee scone.”

The phone was easy enough. I bought exactly the same model as my American phone and transferred all the contacts and apps right there in the store. It was amazing how much more grounded I felt, walking out of the store. When I sat down, I checked to be sure Peter’s number was there, and right below it was Samir Malakar.

Impulsively, without giving myself a chance to think about it, I texted him, the skin on the back of my neck rustling. Hello, Olivia Shaw here. Maybe go back to the house sometime soon? I want to see what’s really there. I sent it. Then I added, This is my new number.

It was the first time I’d been out and about since I had arrived in England, and it was pleasant to take a few minutes to people watch. Setting the phone down face first, I crossed my arms and looked around me, wishing suddenly for a sketchbook. I’d never been an artist like my mother, but as long as I could remember, I’d loved sketching. I hadn’t been doing much recently but itched for proper materials now.

On a Friday morning, it was a thin crowd of mothers with toddlers and old women in tidy trousers, the odd business person in a suit.

From my bag, I took out a Moleskine notebook and a pen that I always carried for essay ideas and made notes on the setting. The clothes and attitudes of the passersby, the kind of shops that populated the hallways, the cakes in the case, so different from what I’d see at Starbucks in the US—these heavier slices, richer and smaller, along with an array of little tarts.

I sketched them, finding my lines ragged and unsure at first. Then as I let go a bit, the contours took on more confidence. My pen made the wavy line of a tartlet, the voluptuous rounds of a danish.

The barista, a leggy girl with wispy black hair, came from behind the counter to wipe down tables, and I asked, “Which one of those cakes is your favorite?”

“Carrot,” she said without hesitation. “Do you want to try one?”

If I ate cake every time I sat down for coffee, I’d be as big as a castle by the time I went back to skinny San Francisco. “No, thanks. I was just admiring them. What’s that one?”

“Apple cake.” She brushed hair off her face. “That one is a brandenburg, and that’s raspberry oat. You’re not English.”

“No, American.”

“Yeah? You don’t really have an American accent.”

People said this to me all the time. I was never sure if it was because my accent was western or because my mother’s accent had influenced me. I gave her a wry smile. “In some places these days, that’s not such a bad thing.”

She grinned.

On the table, my phone buzzed, and I turned it over to see a text.

Hullo. Samir here. Want to tour today? No work bcuz rain.