The Art of Inheriting Secrets(26)

“Disappeared?”

“No one has been retrieving the money for quite some time.”

“India? Why would he go there?”

“How should I know? He was born there, and some people . . . well, they don’t adjust, do they?”

“What do you mean?”

The phone rang again. Mrs. Wells said, “I’m sorry, dear; this phone will keep ringing. Why don’t you read the materials, and then we can talk some more, all right?” She picked up the phone without giving me a chance to answer. Dismissed, I headed back.

When I got back to my hotel, there was a package on my neatly made bed, a box that turned out to have a stack of my mother’s sketchbooks. Madeline Reed, my mother’s manager, had written,

There are many boxes of these. I tried to find some of the earliest ones, as per your request, but they are not all dated. I’m judging by style and sophistication—these look like they might have been done by a younger artist. Let me know what you need. Do be aware that they are quite valuable.

Best, Madeline

The books, all kinds and sizes, were inside. The one on top was square, about ten by ten inches. I flipped open the brown cardboard cover, and there was my mother in the lines of a bird, drawn in dark pencil. The wings were outstretched, falling off the page, and yes, it was without the polish and flair of her later work, but there was still an air of confidence to the shapes of the feathers, the single curved line of the beak, the tilt of the head.

It was so her, already. I wondered how old she’d been when she had drawn this, and I imagined her in the forest, back propped against a tree trunk, sketching. Looking through the page to that day, I longed to be able to travel in time, just to glimpse her for a minute.

What would my mother tell me about all of this? Whom should I trust? What should I do?

Despite her art, she’d been a fiercely practical woman. What she’d want me to do right this minute was to stop gazing backward and dig into the paperwork Haver, more likely Mrs. Wells, had assembled.

That’s what I did. I was not the most adroit banking person, but I was able to figure out most of what I needed for the moment—particularly the income and rents, which were, as the earl had predicted, quite substantial. I’d need advisors—multiple advisors, no doubt—but the estate was essentially a large business with several arms, and my task was to become CEO of the concern.

Daunting. But not impossible. With a quiet sense of confidence, I opened my laptop and began making lists. Things I needed to understand. Advisors I’d have to consult. Where I was strong. Where I was weak.

It was a start.





Chapter Seven

The meeting with the Restoration Diva was set for 1:00 p.m. I took the opportunity to walk up the path behind the church to the estate. It wound through the woods, thick and hearty, ripe with the scents of leaves and earth and cool damp. Tiny flowers bloomed in protected spots, and what I thought might be bluebells lay thick in the patches of sunlight. Birds twittered and called, a plethora of them, many calls I had never heard before. Blue jays rocketed overhead, trumpeting my presence, and doves cooed, and some persistent sparrow whistled and sang and whistled again.

I thought of the way my mother had painted the forest, with malevolent eyes looking out from every turn, but try as I might, I could sense nothing threatening here now.

The trail ended near the kitchen door, which made sense if villagers had walked to the manor over time. I walked around to the front, but Jocasta wasn’t there, so I ambled to the back and toward the gardens. The weather was gorgeous—still and warming under a cloudless sky—and from the top of the hill, I admired the tumble of cottages, the fields now showing a glaze of green. I walked along the edge of the terraced portion of the gardens toward the ruins of the abbey, which I hadn’t yet seen. As I rounded a curve of hedge, it came abruptly into view, gray and somehow sorrowful, most of it in ruins. Only the back wall and most of the southern side still stood, and the window area gaped where the stained glass for the stairs had been taken. A stand of pines sheltered the fallen north side.

A small fist of people worked an orderly garden to one side. This must be the medicinal garden, originally planted by the monks of the abbey. As I approached the group, I called out, “Hello!”

A rotund woman wearing sensible slacks and a big garden hat to shade her pale complexion straightened. She held a trowel in her hand and didn’t speak. Some of the others looked over but kept working.

It was a little unnerving to be regarded so silently, but I tried to channel friendliness and openness. She no doubt knew who I was, and despite Samir’s claim that witches tended the medicinal gardens, Rebecca had told me it was the local garden. The woman still had not spoken by the time I reached the boxwood border. “Hello,” I said again, more pointedly. “You must be part of the Saint Ives Cross garden club—is that right? I’m Olivia Shaw.” It hung there, and I hardly knew how to go on. I glanced over my shoulder. “I seem to have inherited this house.”

“Yes, yes.” She slapped dirt from her gloves and dipped her head backward to see me more clearly from under the brim of her hat. Her spectacles glinted. “Yes, we’ve been hearing all about you. I’m Hortense Stonebridge, president of the garden club.”

“Ah.” The formidable Hortense. She had that no-nonsense air so many women of a certain age in England carried with them. Her face was barely lined, but something in the softness of her chin made me guess her age to be more than seventy. “Of course. Mrs. Stonebridge. How nice to meet you. I understand the club has been taking care of the garden here for a long time.”