The Art of Inheriting Secrets(4)

And there, rising from a nest of forest, flaws erased by distance, was Rosemere Priory. My breath caught at the splendor of it, the even rows of windows, the towers, the lands spreading around it with embroidered green skirts. Thirty-seven rooms! I’d never lived in a house with more than eight. What did you even do with so many rooms?

A light drizzle began to fall, and I opened the umbrella, unable to tear myself away just yet. Even if I’d had no connection to the mansion, I would have been enraptured. My mind struggled to encompass that it was the house of my ancestors. Ancient. Brooding. Beautiful.

And holder of my mother’s secrets.

As I returned to the hotel, the rain picked up. The hems of my jeans were soggy by the time I came in, shaking off the wet.

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of something coming toward me and braced myself in time to turn and see a giant dog suddenly screeching to a halt.

“Bernard!” a woman cried, racing behind the furry, well-tended Saint Bernard. “Oh, good, he stopped. He doesn’t always yet.”

The woman was as well tended as the dog, a slim-hipped blonde in a thick wool tunic and leggings tucked into whimsically flowered rain boots. “Hello,” she said. “You must be Olivia. Jonathan is a friend of mine, and he sent me to rescue you—he feels wretched about the missed appointment. I’m Rebecca Poole.”

I took her outstretched hand. Her fingers were cold. “Hello.”

“Oh, my goodness, you have the lightning bolt!”

“The lightning bolt?” Self-consciously, I touched my right eye. My blue iris was marked with a diagonal yellow zigzag I’d hated with a passion as a child.

“It’s famous in your family. It’s not always a lightning bolt. Sometimes it’s a sun around the pupil, sometimes something else. A lot of the villagers have it too.” Her sideways smile gave her a knowing expression. “Lords will wander, don’t you know.”

Blinking, I asked, “It’s a family trait?”

“Yes! Didn’t your mother tell you?”

I took a breath. “Do you mind if we sit? My leg—”

She finally noticed my cane, and her hands flew in the air. “Sorry! Of course. Though I was planning to whisk you away to luncheon if you like. I’d love to welcome you to the neighborhood.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” I raised a finger. “Just give me one minute—”

“Of course!”

I sat down on the chair in the tiny lobby and rubbed the tight spot just below my knee. “I’ll want to grab my purse,” I said. “And my phone.”

“Let’s have Sarah fetch them, shall we?”

As I rubbed my knee, the dog eased closer and gave me a hopeful look. His eyes were the color of whiskey, and he snuffled over my wrist, very politely. He didn’t slobber, which so many Saint Bernards did. “You’re a pretty boy, aren’t you?” His fur was silky. I touched his ears, scrubbed under his chin, found the magic spot on his chest. He groaned, leaning closer.

“Good dog, Bernard,” Rebecca cooed. “He’s only two. I have to keep bringing him with me everywhere because he was so impolite as a pup, and we can’t have a dog this size knocking people down, can we? Are you a dog person?”

A Technicolor picture of my dog, Arrow, glossy and healthy, flashed in my brain, ears flying as he raced down the beach, back when he’d still been young and strong. “I am,” I said simply.

Sarah arrived with my purse and phone. “It rang as I was coming along, though of course I didn’t answer it.”

“Thanks.” I glanced at the screen. Grant, my fiancé. “I should return this call before we leave.”

“Take your time; take your time.” Rebecca leapt up and whistled for Bernard, who agreeably trotted behind her, leaving me alone in the pub to dial home.

Grant picked up on the third ring. “Olivia! I thought I’d missed you. How’s it going?”

I imagined him in our top-floor San Francisco apartment—a tall, solid man with artfully shaggy hair and paint-stained fingers. We’d met at a showing of my mother’s work eight years ago, and he’d pursued me with a single-minded focus that had flattered me deeply. A big man with clear gold-green eyes, he painted abstracts that were well received in some circles. I didn’t ordinarily attract that kind of attention, and I had allowed him to take me to dinner. His knowledge of food and art, his general amiability, had won me over. Within months, he’d moved into my apartment, a jewel I’d snagged only by being in the right place at the right time.

His studio in that apartment was on the airy top level. It was a room filled with light and plants and artwork—my mother’s and his and a few pieces I had bought before I met him, mostly whimsical renditions of food.

It seemed far, far away. I said, “The lawyer is stuck out of town somewhere, so I still don’t have any details.”

“Well, there’s no rush. Take your time and figure it out. I’ll manage the sale of your mom’s house.”

I hadn’t told him everything, only that my mother had affairs that needed to be settled here. Since I’d already hired the Realtor when this business had come up, the obvious way to manage it for a week or two seemed to be to let Grant loosely oversee everything. “Did the Realtor give you a date yet?”