The Art of Inheriting Secrets(23)

But maybe it would be a way to save the house. My very practical mother would say, Do what you must, darling. “I’ll look into it. I can really use all the help I can get.” When I had made my way down, I said, “Why do you care what happens to this house?”

He shrugged and looked up, first at the window and the high ceiling, then the paneling. “I dunno. It just seems a shame to let it fall to pieces.” He raised a hand, pointed. “Look.”

Peering down at us from the gallery was a cat, presumably the same one who’d dashed out from under my mother’s bed but a different cat than the one we’d seen the first time, this one nearly all black with white on his face and paws. “Hey, cat,” I said.

He didn’t move. His long tail swished over the edge. I clutched the painting to my chest, thinking of all the cats peering out of my mother’s forests. Again, the tears welled in my eyes, and I had to turn away. “This is all making me kind of emotional.”

“It’s all right to miss her, you know.”

I nodded. “I just wish she was still here.”

He touched my arm, gripping it just above the elbow for a moment.

We were quiet on the return trip. Parked back at the hotel, he reached into the back seat and pulled out my mother’s painting and then also handed me the framed photo of our grandparents. “You might like having this.”

“Thanks. And thanks for showing me around.”

“Of course.” He was quite close in the small car, his hair tousled from our explorations. Curls fell down over his forehead and touched his eyebrow on one side, where there was a streak of dust. He smelled like twilight and cool dew. For one small second, I indulged the pleasure of looking at his face, that strong nose and wide mouth and silky, very black goatee.

It took me a little longer to realize he was gazing right back at me. On the radio, a woman sang something bluesy, and I knew I should go, gather up my things, but I just hung there, between moments, peering into the fathomless darkness of his eyes. The air around us condensed. Something earthy and green and fertile bloomed between us, twining like the vines through the windows of Rosemere Priory.

It was too close, too intense, and I bolted, nearly flinging open the door before Samir stopped me. “Whoa.”

A car whizzed by. From the wrong direction. “Sorry. I’m still not used to it.”

“Takes time.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” The back of my neck burned.

“Listen, this might be a bit . . . er . . . there’s a manor house an hour’s drive from here that might inspire you. I’d drive you out there if you’d like, Sunday next.”

“Sunday next? I’m sorry; I can’t—the Earl of Marswick is having some garden party or something.”

“The earl.” His tone flattened.

“What?” I allowed myself to look back at his face.

“He’s one of the richest men in England.”

“Oh, great. That makes it easier.” I sighed. “Thanks for sharing.”

“You really haven’t yet grasped all of this, have you?”

“Grasped what?”

He shook his head. “Never mind.” He looked though the back window. “You’re clear now.”

“Thanks again,” I said and opened the door.

“Sure,” was all he said, and he drove away. I clutched the painting and photo and made my way to my room, aware that I’d stomped very hard on that new green thing.

Intentionally? I didn’t know.





Chapter Six

I showered and washed the cobwebs from my hair, suddenly aware that it had been a very long day. My leg was aching, and my emotions were all tangled over the revelations of the house, and—

All of it.

Wrapped in a cozy bathrobe, I opened my laptop. In the search bar, I typed, “Restoration Diva.”

Google returned hundreds of related results. At the heart of them all was a dark-haired woman in her fifties, Jocasta Edwards. She was tall, with a direct gaze and an appealing expression, brisk with a helping of whimsy, as if she could get things done but wouldn’t be opposed to a good belly laugh. I went through the results, skimmed a couple of her shows and blogs. Her enthusiasm for her subject—saving the old houses of England—was palpable. She also used a set group of experts on architecture, art history, gardens, and restoration, and that could be enormously valuable to me.

After all the feedback about how much money it would take, what white elephants the old houses could be, she offered a wisp of possibility.

It couldn’t hurt to reach out. I clicked on the contact link on the BBC page for the show and began typing.

My name is Olivia

I backspaced.

Lady Olivia Shaw, the new Countess of Rosemere. I’ve only just learned of my inheritance, which includes a wreck of an Elizabethan mansion. I’m not at all sure the place can be saved, but

Suddenly I realized part of what appealed to me.

I feel I’d be letting down the women who’ve come before me if I don’t at least try.

I was skilled in pitching ideas. What would set this property apart?

As you may know, the house has been vacant since the late seventies, when all the members of the family deserted it. My mother went to San Francisco, where she raised me without saying a word about her past. There seems to be no trace of her brother, and it is quite unclear when my grandmother died. The locals seem to think she cursed it because she never wanted to leave India to live in England, but she was forced when she inherited the house.