by Grey, R. S.
“Okay. Thank you.”
“We should arrive in about an hour.”
“An hour!?”
“Yes. Occasionally, I can get to Newport in less time, but not with this traffic.”
Newport.
It occurs to me now that I should have asked where Rosethorn is located, but then I don’t even know what Rosethorn is. Another nursing home? Please god no.
I had just assumed the driver would be taking me somewhere in Providence, but now that I know I’m wrong, it feels too late to pump the brakes—literally. Frank has already pulled away from the curb, and I’d look like a crazy person if I asked him to pull back over so I could leap out of the car. So instead, I sit quietly. We don’t say a word to each other for the entire drive. He keeps the radio dialed in to classical music, and I love every minute of it. I can’t remember the last time I listened to music like this, uninterrupted, with Rhode Island’s early summer landscape whipping past the windows.
The farther from Providence we travel, the more water splashes across the scene. Small pockets turn into expansive bays that stretch to the horizon. Once we’re on Aquidneck Island, we continue south until Memorial Boulevard takes us to the very tip of the world. I look out onto a sandy beach hosting a few brave souls as we climb a steep hill that eventually deposits us onto a road lined with shops that look straight out of a theme park. They’re all perfectly matching, a long line of two-story Tudor-style townhomes with green scalloped-edged awnings announcing cafes and art galleries, tennis shops and boutiques. We pass them by and then continue on into a neighborhood—at least that’s the only word I can think of to describe this place. Each house we pass is slightly bigger than the last. Properties expand. Gates grow toward the sky until it’s impossible to make out what’s concealed behind them.
I’ve heard of Newport; everyone in Rhode Island has. I’m pretty sure the rumors are only half true, but the story goes that there’s no world more exclusive, no property values more expensive. The difference between the Hamptons and Newport, as I’ve heard it, is that the Hamptons are where people move when they have a few million to spare. Newport, on the other hand, doesn’t have a price tag. The mansions here aren’t sold; they’re inherited.
I think of what it would be like to see one of them, almost working up the nerve to ask Frank if we can stop just to take a quick peek behind one of the gates, but then he clicks his blinker on and pulls off the road to the left, onto a long drive.
My first thought is that he’s headed in the wrong direction and needs to make a U-turn, but then he pulls up to a soaring limestone-framed gate with a pair of heavy copper gas lanterns, and he presses a button on the remote mounted on his sun visor.
The huge iron doors swing open and we pass through. At the last moment, before the gate disappears from view, I turn back to glance over my shoulder and notice the delicate word formed by scrolling ironwork at the very top.
Rosethorn.
4
Maren
I’m standing in a room waiting for Cornelia to join me. Just like when I was inside the Range Rover, I’m scared to touch anything. The housekeeper who brought me in here told me to make myself at home, but I don’t dare. I hover near the door, off the carpet. I feel compelled to take off my shoes, but I don’t. I’m not sure my socks are any cleaner, and besides, I’m not sure what the etiquette is when you’re a guest at a palace.
Yes, palace.
One so grand I wouldn’t be surprised to find it was originally built for some long-deceased French king, one of the Louis, probably. From the front gate, I witnessed Rosethorn come into view through a dense forest of trees, nearly unbelieving as I took in its proud two-story marble facade. It boasted thick columns and arched windows accompanied by carefully trimmed boxwoods and soaring cypress trees. A pair of lions ushered me into the front entry with its glistening floors and hanging portraits.
Even now, in this “drawing room”, as the housekeeper called it before she left me here, ornate statues stare at me from atop the fireplace mantel. I wonder with a silent laugh if they’re on loan from some fancy museum.
The furniture is traditional and old, all of it coordinated to blend into a combination of blues. I get the feeling it’s supposed to be an intimate space meant to put visitors at ease, and it is “quaint” compared to what I’ve seen of the rest of the house. However, I don’t think a room with four separate seating areas, a large marble fireplace, and a grand piano can ever truly be called intimate.
I glance over at the piano again, nearly salivating.
It’s more beautiful than any I’ve seen, black lacquered and in pristine condition from what I can tell at a distance. The tufted bench is angled invitingly. My stomach squeezes tight with longing, and then the door to the drawing room opens and Cornelia strolls in right past me.
She takes three more confident steps in, stops on a dime, and glances around, confused until she finds me back near the door.
She laughs. “What in the world are you doing over there?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Didn’t Diane tell you to sit down?”
I nod. “She did. She just didn’t tell me where.”
Cornelia smiles. “Of course. Right. This room does have a lot of options. I find that the couches are the most comfortable. Why don’t we sit over there?”
I do as she suggests, letting her take a seat first before I perch on the edge of the couch across from her. A flower arrangement with four white orchids cuts off our view of one another until she leans forward and pushes it a smidge to the side.
Then, with no preamble, she says, “Tell me about yourself.”
I jerk my gaze up to her. What does she want to know? My favorite movies? How I take my coffee?
“That’s so open-ended. Don’t you have something more specific you’d like to know about me?”
“Yes, of course. Let’s start with your childhood. Annette told me you lost your parents when you were quite young?”
I don’t really mind that Mrs. Archer divulged this information. I don’t get the sense that Cornelia is trying to use it against me. She just seems curious, so I answer her openly.
“When I was thirteen.”
She hums sadly. “Very young indeed. Were you close with them?”
I shrug. “I was a young teenager with strong opinions. We fought a lot and had grown apart. But when I was younger, yes, I was close with them. Especially my dad.”
I get the feeling she’s poised to ask me another probing question, so I speak quickly, before she can.
“Mrs. Cromwell—”
“Cornelia.”
“Cornelia, you mentioned on the phone that you had a job for me, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Of course. You’ve come a long way, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
She leans over to a side table where a thin silver phone sits on a dock. She picks it up, presses a button, and then gives instructions to the person on the other end of the line.
“Rita, would you please have tea brought in? Yes, that would be lovely, and add a few of those little sandwiches you know I like—the same ones Chef made last week with the creamed salmon.”
Sounds disgusting, but I smile when she sets the phone back on the dock and glances back to me.
“Patricia will be right in with tea.”
Patricia? I thought she just said Rita.
“How many people work here?”
Maybe I’m not supposed to ask blunt questions like that, but I might be one of these people soon enough and I’m curious to know how many coworkers I’ll have.
“At present?” She waves her hand in the air like it’s a frivolous thing. “There’s a staff of fifteen, but that includes the groundkeepers and drivers and kitchen staff. In housekeeping, there’s Patricia, Diane, and Rita. Collins is the butler, and Bruce is the footman.”
Footman, right. Because apparently Frank didn’t just drive me to Newport—he also drove me back to the 1800s.
I smile nervously. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, it’s just that it sounds like you have everyone you might need.”
What could she possibly need me to do, wipe her butt? Yeah right! I’m sure she already has a team of servants doing that.
She narrows her eyes, studying me gently with a tilt of her head. “I’ll admit the role I have in mind for you is a little unorthodox. In fact, I’m not sure what to call it except to say you’d be my companion.”
“Companion,” I repeat.
I’ve heard that euphemism before, but only from seedy old men looking to get laid.
I try to clarify. “Do you mean I’d be your assistant?”
She weighs the idea in her head. “Occasionally you’d help me remember my appointments and that sort of thing, yes. My memory isn’t what it once was.”
The drawing room doors open, cutting off our conversation, and in walks a middle-aged woman with chestnut brown hair similar to mine, except hers isn’t hanging loose down her back. It’s wrapped in a tight bun, pulled up and off her face. She’s wearing dark blue pants and a pale blue sweater. In the corner, just above her heart, a pink rose is embroidered with an overlapping monogram. I saw it on the front of Frank’s hat as well, and I see now that it’s made of two interlocking Cs, no doubt for Cornelia Cromwell.
I wonder if I’ll be wearing a similar uniform soon.
In the woman’s hands is a silver tray topped with a tiered tower of cookies, an ornate teapot, two cups and saucers, and a few plates of sandwiches. It’s enough food to feed ten people. I almost expect her to leave a few of the items and take the rest somewhere else, but she sets the entire thing down on the coffee table between us and then straightens, smiling at Cornelia.
“This looks wonderful, Patricia. Thank you.”
Patricia bows her head, casting me a quick smile before exiting the room on silent steps.
I wait for Cornelia to make the first move and watch as she pours us each a cup of tea with steady hands. I notice the way she keeps one of her hands carefully placed on the lid so it doesn’t fall off.
“Do you take milk and sugar?” she asks, gesturing to both.
“Um, yes. I think so.”
“Oh, that’s right. This is your first cup of tea, isn’t it? Well, if I were you, I’d go heavy on both. It can’t hurt you one bit anyway. You’re tiny, dear—liable to disappear into thin air. Here, have some cookies too. And a sandwich. Do you like salmon?”
I must make a disgusted face before I catch myself, but she doesn’t take offense.
“You’ll try it. That’s the polite thing to do when someone offers you food. One bite, that’s all.”
She fills a small china plate with a heaping mound of food and then holds it out for me to take.
There’s no need to urge me twice; I eat my way through the delicate finger foods—salmon sandwich and all—until I uncover the same gold monogram and its accompanying rose etched in the center of the plate.
When I’m done, I find Cornelia studying me. I reach forward to take a cotton napkin from the tea tray and dab it against my mouth. I realize now I probably should have slowed down instead of doing my best impression of a vacuum.
“I can’t help but notice you didn’t bring any of your things with you today,” she says, holding my gaze. “Did Frank already take your bags?”
“Bags?”
“Yes, with your clothes and toiletries.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to bring any of that with me.”
I’m still wearing my red purse. It’s all I thought I needed.
“Yes, well, no need. I would have likely had Collins toss most everything into the furnace anyway. What are those things you have on your legs?”
I look down in confusion.
“Jeans?”
Surely she’s seen denim before.
She furrows her brow. “They have so many holes in them. Is that because you’ve had them for so long they’re threadbare?”
I smile. “No, it’s the style.”
“Style.” She bats away the suggestion like it offends her. “No, dear, I’m afraid that’s not quite the right word.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s clearly not much for subtlety. Maybe in some people that would rub me the wrong way, but with her I find it refreshing.
She reaches back to pick up her phone and dials out again. “Rita, can you come to the blue drawing room, please? I’d like you to show Maren to her suite.”
My mouth opens to correct her, but I wait until she’s hung up.
“I don’t need a suite.”
I’ve already put her out enough as it is.
That seems to upset her. “So you aren’t taking the job?”
“We haven’t even talked about a job,” I push. “Not really. You’ve fed me tea and cookies and mentioned I’d be your companion, but we haven’t talked about references or past job experience or…” I look away, slightly ashamed to bring it up. “Pay.”
“Of course. How rude of me not to mention that earlier. I think we’ll start with an allowance of one hundred a year and work up from there. Though if you think you’d need more, I’m sure we could figure something out.”
My jaw is gaping open so wide I’m surprised there’s no rug burn on my chin. “One hundred thousand?”
“Yes, dear.”
I blink rapidly as dollar signs swirl in my head. That’s more money than I’d earn in three years working at Holly Home. She can’t be serious.
“And as far as references, Annette had nothing but wonderful things to say about you, and I’ve witnessed your work ethic firsthand. I’m convinced you’ll make a splendid fit.”
A moment later, another maid appears in the doorway, and Cornelia turns to address her. “Rita, would you mind installing Maren in the rose garden suite?”
Rita is an older woman with bright red hair streaked with gray. Her round rosy cheeks become more pronounced when she smiles wide. “Of course. We prepared it for her arrival this morning as requested.”
None of this sounds right.
“Where does the rest of your staff stay?” I ask. They can’t all have their own suites here…can they?
“Women are up on the third floor. Men are down below,” Cornelia replies, as if it’s a completely commonplace explanation.
“Then I’d like a room on the third floor, please.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. I don’t need a room. I haven’t agreed to stay—I’m not staying. It’s just that if I were going to stay, I’d want to be with all the other staff members.
My request isn’t granted.
“I admire your tact. As a guest, it’s unseemly to overburden one’s host. That’s a lesson you’d do well to remember. But the rose garden suite is already made up, so it will do. Rita? Would you mind finishing Maren’s tour before you show her to her room? I’d like her to get the lay of the land so she isn’t reluctant to explore on her own if she should feel the urge.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Then Cornelia stands and tosses one end of her lightweight sage green scarf over her shoulder. “I’d do it myself, but I’m late for the club. Lydia is expecting me. You’ll meet her soon, and her granddaughter is about your age. I think you two will get along famously. Dinner tonight is at eight PM in the formal dining room. I’ll expect you to look nice. Rita will instruct you.”
Then she’s gone, sauntering out of the drawing room with regal confidence, and I’m left wondering if any of this is real. The house, the conversation, the amazingly delicious finger sandwiches—the sheer decadence of it all has cast such a dreamlike quality over the day that I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find myself right back on my bunk at the group home, late for a shift at Holly Home.
Outside the drawing room, I follow Rita through the marbled hall, past busts resting on ornate pedestals and underneath excessively large chandeliers, each more detailed than the last. In the front hall, where I originally ent
ered the house, Rita leads me up a carpeted grand staircase that branches off in two directions.
She’s explaining the origins of one of the tapestries on the walls, and my mind can’t keep up.
“Would it be okay if we skipped the tour?” I ask tentatively. “I’m a little tired.”
She gives me an emphatic nod. “Of course. Your bed is made, so you can lie down on the settee in your room if you’d like. Or if you prefer, I can turn down the bed and you can rest there.”
I don’t even know what a settee is, but I still say, “The settee will be fine, I’m sure. Thank you though.”
She takes me down one of the long hallways that runs parallel to the cliffs outside. It’s the first time I’ve seen the back yard, and I realize now why all the wealthy families must have decided to build their houses here all those years ago. We’re right on the ocean. The manicured lawn sprawls forever until suddenly, it drops off to the cliffs below, the bright green grass giving way to blue ocean tinged with teal. Above it, a pale blue cloudless sky. It’s like stepping into an oil painting.
“Your room has a similar view,” Rita assures me, urging me along.
I follow after her, but my attention stays outside as I wonder how it’s possible that some people get so lucky. Cornelia wakes up to this view every day. I shake my head in wonder before hurrying my steps to catch up to Rita.
As promised, the windows in my room face the ocean, but they also provide a sweeping view of the rose gardens below, hence the name of my suite, I suppose. In early summer, the roses are in full bloom, but that’s only one of the things drawing my curiosity.
The room itself matches the ornateness of the rest of the house, and somehow, that’s shocking to me. The furniture in here looks old and breakable. Carved antique chairs sit beside a large armoire that could easily house everything I own.
The decor is not exactly my taste. It’s extremely girly and decadent with floral wallpaper covering all four walls. The pink striped drapes over the windows coordinate perfectly, as do the linens on the four-poster canopied bed. It’s a room fit for a princess.
