The Art of Inheriting Secrets(82)

“Yes.”

“I read about him. Seems a smart fellow. But you know, you’ll need someone to help you with Rosemere.”

I smiled fondly. “I know. You want me to marry your nephew, but I’m afraid I’m too American for that plan.”

“Very well. Remember your position—that’s all.”

“I’ll do my best.” Carrying the key tightly, I headed back to the library.

“You’re going to have to tell me about your book,” I said when I found Samir. “Everyone knows about it except me.”

“Who knows?”

“The earl. Peter, the driver, the other day. He said you were famous.”

“Clearly, that is not true.”

“Still,” I said.

“I noticed something while you were in there.” He drew me toward the paintings. “They’re all the same size. Exactly.”

I closed my eyes, recognizing the truth. “That’s what was bothering me too.” With a sigh, I crossed the room and picked two of them up, turned them over. The canvases had been aged and weathered, but in an eerily similar fashion. “They’re copies.”

“All of them?”

“I don’t know.” We reached for the paintings and turned them over one at a time. Out of the lot of fourteen, three were clearly copies. The rest appeared to be original, but they would have to be evaluated.

“Do you think your mother did the copies?”

I shrugged. “I doubt it very much. She wouldn’t do this kind of thing, and anyway, she was pretty feverishly working on a project of her own the past year.” Suddenly aware of the butler waiting by the door, I said, “We should go.”

We walked out to the van.

He opened my door, quiet. Around us, the night sang its own song, crickets in the shrubs and water running somewhere far away. An owl hooted at the moon.

“You can read it,” he said. “I told you that before.”

“No. Not until you give it to me.” I swung my feet into the van. “I can wait.”

He didn’t say anything else, just came around and climbed in and started the engine. For a long moment, he sat in the dark with his hands on the steering wheel.

“Is something wrong?”

That same bright moon from the night before poured cold light through the windscreen. “It’s just . . . that room. All those paintings. All that time and history. That’s your world now.”

“Not exactly.”

“It is, Olivia. And the fact remains that our social classes are vastly different.”

“Don’t,” I said, and to emphasize my point, I covered his mouth with my fingers. “Let’s just be us. Let it be.” I took my hand away. “Okay?”

He captured my fingers. “We’re tired. Let’s go to sleep, shall we?”

“Side by side?”

“Yes.” He shifted, pulling out of the drive. “What did the earl want?”

I opened my hand. “My mother left me a key.”

I dreamed of roses, thousands and thousands of roses, and one gigantic orange-and-peach beauty tumbling through the air. I woke up, confused about where I was. A cat on my feet padded up to my face when he realized I was awake.

Samir’s house. His bed. He was not next to me, so I cuddled Billi, kissing his head, talking to him softly. The image of the roses tumbling through the sky wafted back through my mind. What had that rose represented to my mother? She loved them, all roses, honestly, and now I understood a little more of that piece of her. But that particular rose showed up in her paintings much more often than others. Did it have some special meaning?

The whole crazy day wove in and out of my mind as I dozed, half waiting for Samir to come back. I thought about Grant and about the tenant who had given me asparagus, Pavi telling me her mother would not approve of Samir and me, the roses, the bedroom.

And that key.

I’d shared with Samir everything the earl had said—my mother’s illness, her trip to England last summer—as we drove back from Marswick Hall to Saint Ives Cross, enveloped in the night, music playing on the radio. We didn’t try to solve any puzzles, just let them be, and I realized we were both exhausted. It had been a very long day.

“You should let me cook tomorrow night,” I said. “One of the tenants gave me the most beautiful asparagus, and I bought peas and lamb chops to go with them.” As the words tumbled out of my mouth, I worried that they sounded too domestic and started to qualify them. “I mean, it’s just—”

But Samir covered my wrist with his hand. “I’m sorry your meal was interrupted by so much. It sounds brilliant.” His thumb moved on my inner arm. “Why don’t you bring the food to my house? It will be more comfortable to cook there.”

“Thank you.” I turned my head. “Pavi mentioned that you didn’t show up for dinner last night. Will you tell her that I’m cooking?”

“Does she know?” He gave me a quick glance. “About us?”

“She was there when you texted.”

He nodded, and I couldn’t quite tell if he was displeased.

“Is there something wrong? I thought you said she’d know anyway.” I started to take my hand away, adding, “I wouldn’t like lying to her. She’s my friend.”