by Ellery Adams
“He’s certainly in America’s poshest setting,” Jane said. “Can you text me his photo? I want to know him when I see him.” Sinclair promised to send a photo as soon as possible. “I have one more thing to tell you. I received a note.”
Sinclair listened carefully as Jane shared the details of her tour, Julian’s suggestion that she meet Lachlan by the lion statue, and the discovery of the Storyton Hall paper.
“As people say, this is a good news/bad news situation,” Sinclair said when she was done. “The good news is that you’re in the right place. Mr. Alcott is being held somewhere on the estate. The bad news is that your mission is already known. The question is, by whom?”
Jane scanned the faces of the people in the bakeshop. “Friend or foe?”
“Precisely.”
After checking her watch, Jane told Sinclair that she needed to return to the hotel and get a recap of Lachlan’s afternoon before they had to prepare for the evening’s event.
Lachlan was unusually animated while recounting his time with Mr. Tucker.
“He’s invited us to a picnic breakfast in his garden tomorrow morning,” Lachlan said. “You’ll like him. He’s a sweet old man who’s devoted his whole life to Biltmore.”
“So he knows it well.”
Lachlan took one hand from the wheel and gestured at the surrounding grounds. “Every plant, tree, and animal burrow on this estate. He lives on in a small cottage within sight of the manor house and has been here long enough to witness all kinds of changes. One thing that’s never changed has been the strict rules and regulations. The staff keeps to their own departments. The winery employees aren’t meant to be in unrestored parts of the house while the staff of the inn shouldn’t be poking around in the subbasement or wandering in the gardens. The place is like a small city-state. There are borders.”
“Rules keep the estate more secure,” Jane said. “I don’t view that as suspicious.”
“Rules do increase security, which is important in a place holding as many valuables as Biltmore,” Lachlan agreed. “But it also means that the few people holding keys to the restricted areas—”
“Can come and go unobserved,” Jane finished for him.
Lachlan exited the Biltmore property and continued on to their hotel. Back in their suite, he said, “Tell me about tonight’s event.”
“It’s all about food,” said Jane. “There’s a talk on culinary trends for luxury travelers followed by a meal of small plates where we get to try some of these choice delights.”
“I wish my job came with more perks,” Lachlan grumbled.
He was teasing, but Jane tossed an embroidered sofa pillow at him anyway. “Stuffing our faces isn’t our goal. If Ramsey Parrish makes an appearance, I need to cozy up to him. And though you’re my official plus one, your job is to charm any female staff members who might be able to tell us how the top-tier employees come and go from the estate.”
“Got it. Just don’t let Eloise know that I flirted with other women to elicit information. I’m already on thin ice with her.”
Jane wanted to shower and get dressed now so she’d have plenty of time to call the twins. She felt incredibly guilty for leaving them after their recent trauma. Their memories of their kidnapping were fragmented and fuzzy, and neither boy seemed fazed by the experience. But they were only in grade school, and in Jane’s mind, they were still her babies. She was still plagued by doubts over their welfare.
She sensed that guilt was weighing Lachlan down as well. Not only had he seen terrible things during his military service, but he’d also witnessed his brother’s murder. This guilt had been eating at Lachlan for years, and Jane wasn’t sure how to help him exorcise it.
“Things have happened to you,” she told him now. “Frightening and horrible things. Incredibly sad things. These experiences wounded you. Not in the way your brothers in arms were wounded. Your pain isn’t physical. It’s in here.” She pointed at her chest. “You’ve built walls around yourself because you’re trying to avoid being hurt again. But Lachlan, if you shut out the bad, you also shut out the good. Joy and pain. Love and heartache. They’re all rolled together. Like a big ball of rainbow-colored yarn. Allowing yourself to be vulnerable with Eloise will scare you more than your most dangerous Army mission, but it’ll be worth it. I promise.”
Lachlan nodded to show that he’d taken in all she’d said. “I need to get ready.” Turning away, he added, “And to call Eloise.”
Satisfied by this outcome, Jane went to her own room to prepare for the evening.
An hour later, she emerged to find Lachlan waiting for her. He looked like a male model in his tux. Judging from his expression, he thought she looked pretty good as well.
Jane’s favorite colors for formal gowns were blue, champagne, or deep crimson. She thought those hues complemented her strawberry-blond hair and freckled skin. However, Mabel Wimberly, Jane’s friend and the owner of Le Grande Dame boutique, had convinced Jane to try a taupe dress with cap sleeves, a lace bodice, and a floor-length satin skirt. Jane felt classy and elegant. Better yet, she could actually partake of tonight’s fare without worrying about busting any seams. Once again, Mabel had made her the perfect dress.
“I’ve never seen your hair like that,” Lachlan said as they walked to the car. “It’s nice.”
Jane touched the coiled braid at the base of her head. “The last time I wore my hair like this, Edwin cooked dinner for me at his restaurant. I thought—I don’t know—that I should wear it like this because he’s close by. He can’t see me, but it makes me feel connected to him.” She shook her head in embarrassment. “It’s stupid.”
Lachlan shot her a surprised glance. “No, it isn’t.” After navigating through Biltmore’s entrance for the second time that day, he murmured, “We’ll find him, Miss Jane.”
Jane carried Lachlan’s conviction with her as she entered Biltmore’s conservatory. The space was warm and fragrant with the scent of flowers. Everywhere Jane looked, there was greenery. Potted plants lined the walls, and stunning floral arrangements sat on every table. Jane could see stars through the glass roof.
The speaker, one of Biltmore’s celebrated chefs, began his talk on cuisine. His descriptions of food made Jane’s mouth water.
Jane and her fellow conference attendees were treated to an array of edible works of art. These included duck consommé, pigeon with truffle soufflé, lobster ravioli, Iberian pork ribs, saffron potatoes, Madagascar chocolate topped with a caramelized letter B, and more.
As the coffee service began, a distinguished-looking gentleman in a smart-fitting tux stepped behind the lectern. His commanding presence immediately coaxed the room into silence. Jane recognized him at once and sat a bit straighter in her chair.
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen.” The man’s voice was as smooth as the chocolate they’d had for dessert. Jane had always been a sucker for British accents, especially when spoken by a man who could have stepped out of an Ian Fleming novel. “Welcome to Biltmore. I’m Ramsey Parrish. I’ll be hosting this evening’s discussion on trends in luxury dining. I’ve invited groundbreaking chefs who’ve earned at least one Michelin star to speak on this topic. We will continue our food journey with aperitifs and a fruit and cheese course in the walled garden.” He smiled graciously at his guests.
“I’m fond of classic literature,” Ramsey continued. “Ernest Hemingway, one of my favorite authors, lived life to the fullest. Like many of us, he enjoyed his wine. He once said, ‘Wine is one of the most civilized things in the world.’ He believed everyone should experience its sensory pleasures. So sip and savor, ladies and gentlemen.”
Ramsey stepped away from the lectern, and Jane tried to weave her way through the crowd to reach him before he could disappear through a side door in the garden wall.
By the time she opened the small, wooden door that looked like it belonged in Middle Earth and peered out, Ramsey was gone.
Like one of Tolkien’s wraiths, Ramsey P
arrish had melted into the shadows.
Chapter Three
Early the next morning, Jane and Lachlan drove to Gerald Tucker’s cottage. The quaint little house, with its stone walls and low-slanting roof, looked like the picture on a jigsaw-puzzle box.
Gerald met them at his garden gate with a cheerful “Good morning!” Shaking hands with Jane, he said, “Thanks for letting Lachlan hang out with me yesterday. He’s the best company I’ve had in ages.”
“He’s at your disposal,” Jane replied with a smile. “Not many people share his passion for birds of prey, so he’s lucky to have you to talk to while I’m at my conference.”
Waving for his guests to follow him into the garden, Gerald proudly watched as they admired the colorful flowerbeds and the manicured bushes and trees.
“I could imagine spending hours out here with a thick book,” said Jane. “It’s lovely.”
“My favorite outdoor reading spot is right there.” Gerald pointed at a garden bench shaded by a Japanese maple. “Please call me Tuck. I might work at a fancy place, but there’s nothing fancy about me.”
Tuck removed items from a straw hamper and placed them on the checkered cloth he’d spread out over the surface of a metal café table. There was egg and breakfast pie, fruit kebobs, and Mason jars filled with yogurt and granola.
While they ate, Tuck shared stories of what he loved most about Biltmore.
Jane understood his devotion. She felt the same about Storyton Hall. However, she inherited the responsibility. Storyton Hall had always been lived in and cared for by Stewards. How had Tuck become so attached to someone else’s estate?
She decided to ask him, apologizing ahead of time for being nosy.
“Not to worry,” he assured her. “Without a little backstory, it’s hard to understand why I’ve given my heart and soul to this place. I’ll try to keep a long tale short by saying that William Amherst Vanderbilt Cecil, grandson of the man who built Biltmore, gave me a job when I was down on my luck. Decades ago, I was a young man with a hot temper. One night, I got in a bar fight and ended up in jail. When I was released, I couldn’t land a job because I had a record. Potential bosses saw me as a violent man. An unreliable man.”
Jane glanced at Lachlan and saw empathy in his gaze.
“My folks taught me everything they knew about the plants in these parts. They were real nature lovers. I thought of us as three hobbits, walking everywhere in our bare feet. We were all as round-bellied and flat-footed as hobbits too.”
This made Jane laugh. Tuck did look like a hobbit. With his short stature, curly white hair, and thick arms and legs, he could have been Bilbo Baggins in his golden years.
Tuck grinned and continued his story. “One day, I went out looking for work again. This time was a bit different because I had my dog with me. He always fell asleep at my feet while I stood on a street corner, holding up a sign.” He smiled at the memory. “That day, I’d scrapped the usual messages about how skilled I was and wrote this on my sign, IF YOU DON’T WANT TO HELP ME, HELP MY DOG—THE HEARTBEAT AT MY FEET.”
Jane’s brows creased. “Where have I heard that before?”
“Edith Wharton,” Tuck said. “I had no idea she was a friend of Mr. Vanderbilt’s, but Mr. Cecil rode by on his horse and saw my sign. He dismounted then and there and asked about my dog and my situation. By the time we were done talking, I had a job. I’d be given a second chance to live my life right. And I took it.”
An idea came to Jane, and she made a mental note to call Sinclair the moment she was back in the truck. She had a book in her collection that she wanted to give to Tuck.
“My tenure at Storyton Hall became my second chance too,” Jane said and went on to tell Tuck how her husband, William, had been killed in a car accident. “He never had the chance to meet his sons, but he’d be happy knowing that they’re surrounded by nature, loving family, loyal friends, and an endless supply of books.”
Tuck gave Jane’s hand a paternal pat. “It’s rare to meet folks who like the simpler things in this complicated world. Would you like to see my book collection? I could make tea while you look.”
Jane said that she’d like nothing better, and Tuck led them inside. The cottage had four rooms in total. Tuck showed them the cozy kitchen and the entrance to the bedroom and bathroom before inviting them into his reading room.
The moment Jane entered the reading room, she was filled with a deep sense of calm. There were books everywhere. Shelves hugged every wall, and each shelf was stuffed with books. Every table or stand held a stack of books. A row of books marched across the mantel. The only objects not covered in books were a pair of upholstered chairs with faded floral cushions. Embroidered stools were tucked under each chair. A round side table holding a coaster and a candle sat within easy reach. The candle’s label read Sherlock’s Library, and Jane couldn’t resist giving it a sniff. She smelled vanilla, sandalwood, and a hint of citrus.
After inviting Jane to sit in his favorite chair, Tuck headed back to the kitchen. Lachlan wandered over to the window and gazed out.
It was pleasant to hear Tuck moving around in the next room. To Jane, the mundane sounds of opening and shutting cupboards, the rattle of silverware, or the ping of tap water striking the bottom of a kettle were as soothing as a bubble bath. She thought of the spacious kitchens at Storyton Hall and wondered if Mrs. Hubbard had started baking the Victoria sandwich for the afternoon tea. Jane could imagine her bustling about, her apple-round cheeks flushed as she barked orders at her staff. Later, when the twins popped in for a treat, her voice would turn sugary sweet, and she’d hug Fitz and Hem before plying them with fresh-baked cookies or bowls of marshmallow fruit salad.
Jane’s pleasant reverie was disrupted by a knock on the front door.
“Coming!” Tuck called. The door creaked on its hinges and Jane heard Tuck say, “Come in, Mr. Parrish. I was just making tea. Would you like a cup?”
“Very much, thank you. And it’s Ramsey. This is your home, after all.”
“Yes, sir,” Tuck said, sounding more than a little nervous. “Just so you know, I have two guests in my reading room. Ms. Steward and Mr. Lachlan are visiting from Storyton Hall. They’re here for the managers’ conference. I’ll carry in some chairs from the kitchen, and we can all sit together.”
“Allow me,” Ramsey said. He appeared in the reading room with a ladder-back chair in each hand. After placing them near the fireplace, he turned to Jane with a welcoming smile and introduced himself.
Jane held out her hand. “Jane Steward.”
Ramsey gave her hand a businesslike shake. “Gerald tells me that you’re from Storyton Hall,” he said, taking the other upholstered chair. He had a real lord-of-the-manor air about him, and Jane remembered Sinclair telling her that Ramsey Parrish descended from British aristocracy.
“Yes, we drove down yesterday,” said Jane.
Tuck appeared carrying a heavy metal tray. He seemed at a loss as to where to place it.
Jane moved some books and Ramsey jumped up to relieve Tuck of his burden. After putting the tray on the coffee table, Ramsey offered to serve everyone, starting with Jane. As he handed her a cup, he said, “Sadly, I’ve never been to Storyton Hall, I hear it’s quite the paradise for bibliophiles.”
“It is.” Jane looked at Tuck. “This room would fit right in with our other reading rooms.”
Tuck was clearly pleased by the compliment. “Mr. Lachlan says that you have thousands and thousands of books on all kinds of subjects. Mine are mostly about nature.”
Jane described a few of Storyton Hall’s rooms like the Daphne du Maurier Morning Room, the Isak Dinesen Safari Room, and the Henry James Library. “We have loads of children’s books too. We keep them in the Beatrix Potter Playroom.” She turned to Ramsey. “Last night, you mentioned your love of literature. Who are your favorite authors?”
“I’m a fan of the Lost Generation. Dos Passos, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, Eliot.” Light danced in his dark eyes.
It was a look Jane knew all too well—the look of a book lover describing exactly what he loved about his favorite books. “To me, those men were heroes. Not only did some authors, like Hemingway, serve their countries in the Great War, but others wrote about wartime experiences with a level of honesty most of us are incapable of. I admire them to no end.”
“Me too,” Jane said, warming to Ramsey. “I was so enamored with Hemingway and Fitzgerald’s work that I named my sons after them. They’re twins, so I was able to use both names.”
Ramsey finished his tea and set the cup aside. “Hopefully, they won’t become as Bacchian as their namesakes. Poor Bacchus. He’d been reduced to a symbol of wild parties and drunkenness, but his cult originally celebrated the arts, especially literature and theater. He was revered as an outsider because those who worshipped him thought it was better to be an outcast than a mindless sheep. They made their own rules.”
“Is that why you’re so fond of the Bacchus fountain? Because you’re from another country?” Tuck asked Ramsey. When Ramsey didn’t reply, Tuck went on. “The fountain with the face. At the esplanade. Isn’t it a Bacchus face? I’ve come upon you standing in front of it many times, especially after our visitors have left for the day, and the estate has gone quiet.”
For a split second, Ramsey’s mask of congeniality slipped. Something like anger flared in his eyes. By the time he reached for the teapot, however, he was once again the picture of amiability. “I like the Bacchus. Or satyr. I’m not sure which it’s meant to be. But what I most enjoy is the view across the lawn. Such a sight keeps me humble.” He looked at Tuck. “It also reminds me to be grateful to be where I am. Could I pour you more tea, Gerald?”
Tuck declined and shrank a little in his chair. Jane felt protective of the old gardener. Had Ramsey just issued a veiled threat? Had he not-so-subtly reminded Tuck to be humble and grateful? Was this a warning not to divulge additional details about Ramsey or the estate to strangers? Jane believed that it was, and she didn’t like it one bit. She didn’t like to see Tuck, a kind and sensitive man, treated like a disobedient dog.
