Beware the Wicked Heir

by Mara McQueen

  Olivia swallowed her indignant huff and marched up the stairs. Mrs. Bolton remained at the foot of the stairs, underneath the dome, issuing commands and asking too many questions.

  “What shade is the alabaster? Milky white or milky beige?”

  “Would you say the desk was heavier or lighter than Addie?”

  “Is the name etched onto the side, Lisa or Lavinia?”

  And it went on and on and on for hours.

  Olivia and Milo unpacked, opened and heaved countless items out of the way, some of them falling apart in their hands.

  Every once in a while, under a thick layer of dust and debris, they found something valuable and it made the whole experience worth it. Mrs. Bolton had understated how old some of the things in her home were. Small gems waiting to be uncovered in the pile of rubbish.

  And Mrs. Bolton decided the most valuable assets would be given away.

  “They’re useless to me. Kieran has his own money, and I don’t intend on being buried with them,” she said when Olivia almost cried at the thought of donating the Dadaist painting they found under several sheets of stained paper. It could've paid her debt ten times over.

  A tingle of excitement coursed through Olivia as she passed Kieran's door.

  She shook her head as soon as it hit her. She needed to get back to the city if two conversations with the man made her insides do a flip at the mere thought of seeing him.

  Bertha passed them at one point, grimacing and muttering, “Tarts and tossers trying to steal the bed right from under me.”

  One of the last rooms they sifted through turned out to be the one Olivia hadn’t been able to open last night.

  Emma produced a gnarly black key and shoved it into the keyhole, jiggling it a few times to open the door with a loud creak.

  Olivia and Milo stepped inside, shielding their noses with their sleeves. But the room was spotless compared to the rest, freshly-cleaned, with a rosy smell. Milo, precious nose high in the air, looked like he was in heaven.

  “I doubt you’ll find anything of value, but we need to be sure,” Mrs. Bolton shouted from downstairs.

  “Of course we do,” Milo said under his breath. “Cause she isn’t the one doing the heavy lifting.”

  Olivia headed for the dresser and started pulling out bunches of ribbons and old files. “Oh, can it. You’ve done worse for a sale.”

  “Yeah, when it was a sure thing. This one’s far from it. After we’re finished organizing her junk, what if she throws us out in the street?”

  Olivia threw a bunch of socks on the floor and scoffed. “Sure. That’s a real possibility.”

  “I’m serious.” Milo picked up one of the boxes and placed it on top of the bed, standing up with a huff. “She wouldn’t be the first client trying to scam me.”

  “That’s because most of your clients are nouveau riche airheads.” Olivia tried to open the bottom drawer, forcing the old wood when it didn’t budge.

  "But aren't you the least bit worried?" Milo went on, voice softening. "You could lose an entire week—"

  "You're going a really shit job at trying to scare me away from the sale, Underwood," Olivia mumbled, not even looking his way.

  Olivia pulled at the drawer again, finally able to yank out the black container from within. It looked and felt expensive; probably a jewelry box from Mrs. Bolton’s earlier years.

  The heavy lid slid off to reveal a single wilted piece of newspaper from 1968. An original front page detailing the machinists strike in Dagenham with a large picture of women demanding their equal rights.

  A real part of feminist history, right in Olivia's hands. A huge smile stretched her face. This was amazing.

  In an imposing blank font, Dorothea K. Bolton was credited with taking one of the photos Olivia had studied and hunched over in her sociology course.

  She raced out of the room, carrying the newspaper and the box, and stopped a safe distance away from the railing. “I found something you’ll want to keep.”

  “Is it my pearls, dear? I’ve been looking for them for a while now,” Mrs. Bolton shouted back.

  “No, no. It’s the photo you took in Dagenham. The women’s strike. Remember? I mean—you took it. You were there. It says so here. It’s—this is—it’s you.”

  Mrs. Bolton fell silent for a few moments and Olivia feared she hadn’t heard her giddy declaration. As Olivia opened her mouth again, Mrs. Bolton’s voice filled the stuffy space. “Yes, dear, I remember. What of it?”

  “Well, I just thought you’d want to hold onto this one. You kept it all these years for a reason.” Olivia tried hard not to let her disappointment at Mrs. Bolton's lackluster response show.

  “Why? I can find that photo and many others of mine on my personal computer if I want to. It’s—it’s part of another life. An old dame like me has no use for a piece of paper.”

  Olivia sighed and bit her lip. For a powerhouse woman like Mrs. Bolton, the thought of not being able to go out on the field must’ve felt bittersweet. “Please don’t take this the wrong way—”

  “I probably will.”

  “—but if I were you, I’d like to hold onto every memento of my impressive career.”

  “Pish posh. Kieran made a binder for my birthday with all my cover photos. If you like it so much, why don’t you take it?”

  Olivia slowly stepped down the stairs, smiling. “Only if you sign it.”

  Mrs. Bolton averted her gaze. For a second, Olivia thought she had caused another episode.

  When Mrs. Bolton looked up again, she was all wrinkly smiles. “You’re an odd little duckling, aren’t you? Yes, I’ll sign it. After you’re finished with the rooms, of course.”

  "Thank you." Olivia folded the paper gently, and turned, coming face to face with another pleasant surprise.

  Kieran watched her with a part curious, part pleased expression, his head tilted to one side. She took a steady breath.

  His eyes flickered to the newspaper. “I think you’ve just made her whole week.”

  “Well, if she does sign it, she’ll make my whole month. I mean, look at it.” Olivia came closer to him, raising the photo. “Look. She captured the feminist movement. College me would’ve screamed her lungs dry at this.”

  “You should see her other work. Abortion acts, annual marches, protests. She's always had a certain knack for sniffing out big changes. And then she added taking down huge corporations to the mix.”

  “When I grow up, I want to be your grandmother.”

  Kieran’s deep laugh reverberated on the wooden surfaces crowding them.

  He looked much less threatening in a white shirt and with genuine delight relaxing his tense features.

  Olivia’s mind flashed to last night. She tried—she really did—to keep a blush from spreading from her cheeks down her neck, but she couldn't help it. Whenever he sent those piercing eyes her way, her skin heated up.

  “I remember you threatening me with going over the contract. In detail,” he said.

  “Name the time.”

  Milo popped his head out of the room, swinging his smartphone in the air. “I have the contract right here. I can tell you everything you need to know.”

  “Oh, Underwood.” Olivia chuckled and narrowed her eyes. She grasped Milo’s wrist, lowering his hand. “I have a perfectly good copy in my room. Thanks for your help, though.”

  “Nonsense, Abbate.” Milo waved her off. “I’m more than happy to help. Just point me to the nearest printer.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes. As if who printed the damn thing mattered.

  Kieran’s chin jutted toward his study. He watched Milo disappear inside it with a raised brow. His eyes met Olivia’s, amusement flowing between them. “He isn’t in the habit of nicking things he shouldn’t, is he?

  “Kieran, dear? I need to talk to you,” Mrs. Bolton yelled, interrupting their staring contest.

  Olivia gritted her teeth. Damn it.

  “Coming, Nan,” Kieran shouted back and winke
d at Olivia.

  "I'll leave the contract on your desk," Olivia said. With Mrs. Bolton bossing both of them around, talking about contingencies and deeds had to wait. "Read it, then I'll answer whatever question you might have. In detail."

  "Oh, I'm sure you'll have to dedicate at least a few hours of your time to explain everything to me," he grinned up at her as he descended the stairs.

  “Did you hear me, dear?” Mrs. Bolton called again.

  “Oy! Stop with the shouting,” Addie interrupted, slamming the door to her bedroom.

  “Only after you stop disgracing my furniture,” Kieran fired back in a calm voice.

  “Kieran, manners!” Mrs. Bolton shouted louder, ending the conversation.

  After another half hour of dust, grime, and sweat, the entire operation came to an abrupt halt when Mrs. Bolton asked Emma for a Petra flavored pudding cup, in a troubling, faraway voice.

  Milo dashed down the stairs without so much as a ‘see you later’. Olivia rolled her eyes.

  The last thing she wanted was to compete for Mrs. Bolton’s affection while serving her pudding cups.

  Olivia walked to her room, cringing at her dirty hands. God, she desperately needed nail polish. But first, she had to wash her underwear with body soap and hope the lace would survive.

  As she dug through her bag, a loud knock startled her. Less than forty-eight hours at Bolton Manor and she had already morphed into a jittery sap.

  Addie greeted her with a blank stare and five bags overflowing with clothes.

  “Here.” Addie half-dropped, half-threw them on the floor and turned to leave. “All new, never worn. They won’t fit you.”

  Too tired to grab the back of Addie’s extensions and yank the childishness out of her brain, Olivia kicked the bags out of the way, closed the door and locked it.

  After the briefest and coldest shower of her life, Olivia collapsed on top of the bed, feeling every sore muscle in her body.

  The rain began beating against the windows again, and the lights flickered unnervingly. But neither of those sounds were as annoying as the bangs and thumps coming from the attic.

  Whoever stomped up there was bent on making Olivia lose another night of sleep. Or scare her away from Bolton Manor.

  Too Personal

  The noise in the attic only died down after Olivia had flung one of her shoes and the heaviest of Addie's bags at the ceiling.

  Martin couldn’t have lost his way that much. Maybe Bertha had taken out her frustrations on whatever she could find up there.

  But Olivia had slept with the flickering lights on and her retractable baton under her pillow all the same.

  Olivia woke up tired and cranky. Her morning got worse when she saw what Addie had so selflessly donated.

  All of the clothes were unworn, with tags on. And yes, the fit was awful; too lose on Olivia’s chest and too snug on her hips. But there was so much glitter. And sparkle. And animal print.

  Better than nothing, though. She would have to half-heartedly thank Addie later.

  Olivia picked up a copy of the standard contract—she always kept three printed copies in her bag, just in case—and made her way to Kieran’s room. She spent an embarrassing amount of time in front of the door, running her hands through her hair, and yanking on Addie’s shirt to make it at least sort of fit.

  She wanted to look nice, sue her. With a deep inhale, she knocked. Then knocked again.

  What was it with the people in this house and not answering?

  Finally, she opened the door, only to find herself in the deserted study. No sign of Kieran. Olivia swallowed her sigh of disappointment and placed the contract onto the desk, fingers lingering on the smooth dark surface.

  Before her brain concocted another fantasy involving Kieran, Olivia clutched her phone tightly and walked onto the back terrace, basking in the warm summer sun. Coffee would've been good, but the Bolton Manor version was nothing but murky water.

  As she gushed over a crumbling banister and took a dozen more pictures of it than she needed, Olivia heard laughter from the lake's shore.

  Mrs. Bolton vigorously waved at her from behind a hungover Addie and Darryl, and a stoic Emma. And right next to them, dressed in black and looking dangerously gorgeous, stood Kieran.

  Well, Olivia could spare a few moments.

  She crossed the lawn as quickly as her wedges allowed—the only thing she had in her bag that wouldn’t end up stuck in the dirt or soaked. She stopped in front of Mrs. Bolton, letting herself enjoy a glimpse of Kieran. He returned it with a sharp grin.

  “I just saw the loveliest little Nuthatch.” Mrs. Bolton handed Olivia her binoculars. “It flew across the lake, chirping away.”

  Olivia had no idea what a Nuthatch looked like, and she wasn’t keen on finding out, but Mrs. Bolton had such a gleeful twinkle in her eyes. She secured the binoculars around her neck—they looked way too expensive to take any chances—and stepped closer to the lake, passing Emma.

  “Further, dear, further,” Mrs. Bolton said. “The water isn’t going to bite you bloody.”

  Olivia sighed and followed the old woman’s instructions, seeing no hint of wing or beak. Olivia half-heartedly wished Milo joined them—then Mrs. Bolton would have someone else to give pointers to.

  “So nice of you to come out during the day, Kieran,” Mrs. Bolton said to her grandson. “In this light, I can see you need a haircut.”

  “Nan has very firm opinions,” Kieran said, his heavy steps stopping next to Olivia.

  She smiled but made no other move to acknowledge his presence. That didn’t deter him.

  “Out of all the hobbies in the world, she picked the most lackluster one,” he continued in a low voice.

  “Bird watching’s very calming.”

  “I guess I should be relieved she isn’t trying to shoot the poor creatures anymore.”

  Olivia laughed, setting her sights on the boathouse in the distance. Martin and Sarah circled it, deep in a marital disagreement; they kept snatching the map from each other and gesturing wildly at the lake.

  “So if looking for this elusive Nuthatch isn’t your ideal start to the day,” Olivia lowered the binoculars and finally looked at Kieran. “What brings you down from your den in the daylight?”

  Kieran glanced at Addie and Darryl lying on the wet grass, groaning every time the sun would come out from behind the clouds. “I saw those two from my window. Who knows what they’ll convince my grandmother to give them next.”

  A twinge of disappointment pricked Olivia. She'd thought—actually, hoped—he might've come down to see her, too.

  Kieran was clearly not interested in her and that was that. Totally unimportant. Ideal, really, given their situation.

  Just freaking great.

  “You don’t seem too fond of your cousin,” she said, trying to keep his attention focused anywhere other than her reddening ears.

  Kieran scoffed. “She isn’t my cousin.”

  “Niece?” Olivia tried again. Maybe she had misheard Addie.

  “The heavens might’ve been malevolent enough to make me related to her, but the family connection is too convoluted to bore you with it.”

  Olivia cleared her throat to ease the awkwardness that settled between them.

  “But dear Addie’s smart,” he seethed. “She heard about Nan’s money, found her and pretended she cared. Then I woke up one morning to find her and that heaping pile of stupidity at my door.”

  Olivia took a deep breath. “This might not be my place to say—” No, it sure as hell wasn’t. “But why don’t you just kick them out?”

  “When the woman who raised you wants something, you let her have her little joys. Even if it means putting up with the bottom of the family tree.”

  “So you’re not worried about them at all?” If someone like Addie and Darryl had shown up on her doorstep, Olivia would have yanked them to the police station in five seconds or less. Preferably with a missing chunk of hair.

  But K
ieran didn’t seem to be as inclined to use force or diplomacy to exterminate the vermin. He shrugged as if they had just discussed the summer weather. “Their presence calms her. I intervene when necessary, and Emma almost never leaves her side. The only things those two will be able to get from us are some rags and whatever brandy they can steal from the cabinet when they think no one’s looking. And I have some big, big plans for them after...”

  He trailed off, casting a longing glance at Mrs. Bolton, who was stretching all the way to the ground and ripping strands of grass. She shooed Emma away when she tried to rip them for her.

  “She’s always bringing in strays,” Kieran said in a soft voice. “She’s given me everything. I can’t refuse her anything now.”

  Olivia didn’t say anything else. Kieran trailed that fine line between friendly—or at least, his skewed understanding of it—and too personal. With so much time spent locked up away from civilization, it was no wonder he wanted to share with someone, and Olivia was kind of giddy he'd chosen her.

  “I’ve been wondering,” he said after a while of alternating between staring at his grandmother and grimacing when Addie picked herself off the grass and approached the old woman with a fake smile on her face. “We never finished the tour on that first day. Are you open to continuing it? I promise it will include brilliant architecture and questionable historical facts.”

  Oh, Olivia was more than open. She had only scratched the surface of what this house had to offer. And a few more hours spent with Kieran? All alone?

  She wasn't giving up this opportunity for anything in the world.

  “I might,” Olivia said coyly. "How generous of you to offer to be my guide."

  He shrugged, dripping with confidence. “Us Boltons are like that.”

  He winked at her. Olivia’s breath hitched.

  “See you around nine o'clock?”

  Olivia frowned. “Isn’t that a bit late?”

  “Not for where we’re going.”