The Art of Inheriting Secrets(74)

The next was from the detective, who informed me that the skeleton they’d found was over six hundred years old if they were to judge, so the house work could continue.

A relief. Stirring sugar into my coffee, flashing back on Samir’s long-fingered hands chopping chicken last night, tracing the shape of my body, whispering over my lips, I punched the next one. The accountant. Then:

“Did you think I would never find out, Countess?” said Grant’s voice.

My gut dropped. I swore aloud, forcefully. Somehow, he’d found out about my status here, and now things would be even harder to negotiate. Carrying the cup of coffee to the table, I opened my laptop to read my email—

And sighed. A forwarded email from my publisher held the subject line, “American Heiress Inherits Ghosts along with Estate.”

The story had originally run on some website but had gone viral, and now a search on the story showed over a thousand links, most to small newspapers in the US. Of course—it was a sweet little lifestyle filler. The photo that ran with the story was me at a cocktail party six or seven years ago, my hair in a tousled updo, the dress cut way low in the back. The flash had caught my eyes wrong, so I looked drunk.

And maybe I had been. Who knew. The booze and wine flowed freely at the foodie parties we attended.

The actual text was sensational and short:

Poor Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere, has her hands full enough with the extensive renovations on her newly inherited manor house in Hertfordshire. This week, she had to grapple with a skeleton, which gave rise to the mysteries haunting the ancient estate. Is the skeleton the body of teenager Sanvi Malakar, who disappeared over forty years ago?

The Countess of Rosemere, until lately the celebrated editor of Egg and Hen, a food magazine in the US, landed a hefty inheritance when her mother died three months ago. Rumors say she had no idea. We say, give us a secret inheritance, no matter how devastated the estate or how many skeletons are buried there.

At any rate, the countess has been seen often in the company of the Earl of Marswick, who is mentoring her in the ways of the gentry, along with his very eligible nephew and heir to the Marswick estate, Alexander Barber. Could the two families be planning a dynasty?

David had added,

Thought you’d want to see this. You sound quite glamorous, my dear. I suspect we won’t be getting you back, will we?

PS: The strawberry Ingredients column was one of your best.

I hit reply. Hesitated, fingers over the keys. Across the center of my palms moved the ghost of Samir’s side, his ribs. I closed my eyes.

It was one night. One night.

But in the deepest part of my gut, I knew better. This wasn’t a flirtation. I didn’t know what it was yet. I didn’t know anything about anything, except that maybe I was in love.

Which scared the hell out of me. What if I was only leaping toward him because I was lonely and sad and grieving? What if we woke up six months from now and—

Stop.

I touched the keyboard. Gave it a moment’s thought and typed,

I have no answers at the moment, boss. That’s the honest truth. I love writing about this place, but there is so much happening, so fast, that I can’t make any decisions right now. Just sent Lindsey an article on carrot cake, and I’m going to ask a local to write an Ingredients guest column on coriander, if that’s all right. If you want to make more formal arrangements on the editorial side, we can talk whenever you like.

xoxo

When I hit send, it felt like taking another step away from my old life, which honestly felt far, far away now. It surprised me, but I’d begun to feel very much at home in this little village. Perhaps it was the pleasure of carrying unearned status or the sense of my ancestors walking the churchyard, but it was undeniable.

A wisp of Samir wove through my memory, his hands on my spine. I blinked, letting it fill me. My body was tired and a little sore. The very best feeling. It chased away the dismay of the article.

Against the wall near the bed was the box of photos we’d found, all those shots of my grandmother and Nandini and the old plantation. Impulsively, I picked up the phone and punched a number.

It wasn’t until her voice mail answered, crisp and aloof, that I realized I’d called my mother. “This is Caroline Shaw. Leave a message.”

Her voice rocketed through every cell of my body. I hurt everywhere, all at once. But instead of hanging up, as I’d done the other two times I’d made this mistake, I waited for the beep and said, “Hey, Mom. I just had to tell you about all this stuff I found in Violet’s room. Did you know about her and Nandini? Crazy and so sad that they had to hide all those years. Decades, I guess.” I paused, bending my head more intimately. “I think I met someone, Mom. Wish you could meet him too.”

I held the phone in my hand, wondering how long it would take to understand that she was actually dead, how long it would be until my heart wasn’t broken anew twenty times a day.

It would help to get all this business with the house settled, and I had no time for grief today. Not that grief ever seemed to care.

I called the accountant back first and left my name and number. Next, I called Jocasta. She answered on the second ring. “Hullo, Olivia! I heard there’ve been all sorts of things happening. Skeletons, the roof! And I have news from my contacts abroad.”

“I have news for you too. I found some paintings in my grandmother’s room, all wrapped up very neatly. I think my mother might have left them there.”