The Art of Inheriting Secrets(87)

Chapter Twenty

At one point, Haver had given me a ring of keys, some of which were labeled and some not. When I arrived at the carriage house, I peeked in at the progress they’d made on the space I’d claimed, and it was barely started—which was good if I changed my mind.

The caretaker’s flat had a fine modern lock on the door, and I found a correspondingly shiny key for it. It opened on the first try.

The rooms were empty, down to bare wooden floors, which confirmed that they would not be hurrying back anytime soon to make things right.

But the space was wonderful—five big rooms with polished wood floors and exposed beams. The sitting room faced a large hearth, and new windows had been installed, three of them, side by side, to let in the light. The bathroom was modern, with a proper English bathtub, and what I presumed was a bedroom had a wardrobe that must have been built five hundred years before. I opened it. Empty.

The kitchen was the killer. It had been recently updated, as recently as three or four years, I guessed by the finishes. The AGA, which I’d looked up out of curiosity after admiring the one in the main house, was a $16,000 appliance, and this one was in British racing green, a color I knew because a friend had a MINI Cooper. Tiny lights hung down over a generous granite counter furnished with stools.

Beautiful. At least they’d had good taste, all weathered wood and natural finishes and the open beams. Yes, this would be a great flat for now. Maybe for a long time. I could knock out the walls between the other two bedrooms and live in more space than I’d ever had in my life. Again, I caressed the AGA. What would it be like to cook on it?

“Okay, Mom,” I said aloud. “This is not so terrible.”

But I still had to figure out how to pay for everything. Maybe I should talk to the earl again, get his advice on what to do about Grant.

In the meantime, I had to figure out what my mother wanted me to find. When I got back to my flat, I’d go through the photos Samir had forwarded to see if I could piece anything together. Today, however, it was time to deal with my fear of Rosemere. I would go to my mother’s room and see if I could find any clues. The construction workers were there still, banging around. Their noise would help.

And really, it was just time to begin to actually own this house, become her caretaker in truth. What kind of caretaker couldn’t even walk through the place without a friend?

Before I left the carriage house flat, I shot photos from every angle. It would need furniture.

Definitely a dog.

Thunder rumbled distantly as I walked across the stretch of grass between the carriage house and the main house. I let myself in the back door and walked through the kitchen with determination. This room never bothered me. I loved the light and the open spaces and the potential it offered.

From the kitchen I marched through the butler’s pantry and into the dining room, which was so much more appealing now that the vines had been cut away from the windows. The walls still showed mildew and grime, but it was possible to see how it would all look later. The parlor was the same—the mullioned windows filled the entire wall, with window seats and picturesque views of the fields. It was easy to imagine a dozen ways to make the room appealing and interesting.

As I moved into the stairway hall, I could hear construction workers barking orders and the banging of tools. All very reassuring, but my feet still halted at the bottom of the staircase. In the darkening day, the colors of the abbey window were muted, and I almost felt as if they judged me. A cold draft poured from the damaged north wing, and I looked up, wondering if it was a ghost I felt or just the approaching storm.

A sudden noise behind me made me whirl, and there was the black-and-white cat, his long fur a bit scruffy but not terrible. “Meow,” he said.

“Are you going to talk to me today?” I didn’t move for fear he would run away. “I didn’t bring anything to eat, but I do keep meaning to do that. What do you like?”

He sauntered toward me, as if he were a house cat and not a feral stray at all, and rubbed against my legs. “Wow. Thanks.” I let him circle my ankles for a minute. “Would it be all right if I pet you?”

With great gold eyes, he looked up and mewed.

I bent down and stroked him, and his back rose up against it. “You’re friendly. Do you want to help me with this scary thing I have to do?”

As if he knew what that thing was, he started up the stairs. Halfway, he paused and looked back.

“I’m coming.” I followed him up the stairs, aware of the house around me, rustling in its stillness. At the landing, I stopped and looked back down, looked up and toward the gallery, feeling it. Time. Lives. Generations. I imagined the first Earl of Rosemere standing here, full of pride at his accomplishment, and then the woman who had championed her cause with King Charles, meaning I could, all these years later, inherit. I made a mental note to find her name and remember it. I imagined Christmases in the 1690s and balls in the Georgian years, days of mourning and days of birth and ordinary days in between. Breakfasts changing styles, dinner parties, servants, pets.

It calmed me. All of them belonged to me in one way or another.

My mother’s room and Violet’s room were at completely opposite ends of the house, my mother in the southwest corner, Violet in the northeast, along opposite hallways. I made myself walk the corridor down to Violet’s room and take a peek inside. The sight of it nearly empty gave me a sad jolt—as if she, my grandmother, had been suddenly buried. For a moment, I stood there, looking at the empty walls. The cat joined me, poking his head in, and then sauntered away, disinterested.