by Grey, R. S.
“What do you think?” Rita asks, standing near the door as I turn in a slow circle inside the room.
“It’s really pretty, but so…fancy.”
She laughs lightly. “Most of the furniture are heirlooms, yes. That writing desk belonged to Cornelia’s mother. It was brought over from France.”
I make a mental note to stay far away from it.
“To the left is your ensuite bathroom. Feel free to use it to freshen up. I’ll be back at six o’clock to help you get ready for dinner.”
I frown.
“I don’t think I need help.”
My rebuff doesn’t seem to sit well with her, so I quickly amend my words. “That is, I can probably get ready for dinner on my own.”
The tension between her brows lessens. “I think you’ll find it easier if I help with your hair and dress. Besides, I enjoy doing it.”
Not wanting to hurt her feelings, I nod.
“Right, okay. Maybe it’ll be beneficial to see how it’s done. I’ll be working here soon…I think.”
Rita smiles. “Yes. Cornelia told us you’d be arriving today.”
Oh really?
“Can I ask what she said about me?”
Enlighten me, please.
“Oh, she didn’t go into too much detail. She mentioned that she was expecting a young guest, said you would be her new charge.”
Charge?
“But that’s not right. I’m not a guest—I’m working here.”
She smiles, humoring me. “I’m sure you two will hammer out the details soon enough. For now, you’ll have to excuse me for treating you as she instructed. Cornelia is formal and likes things done a certain way, so I’ll be back promptly at six to help you get ready.”
5
Nicholas
I have four young associates and two interns in my office. It’s six PM and none of us could leave even if we wanted to. There’s no clear path to the door. Papers litter every available surface. Empty coffee cups and food wrappers haven’t quite made it into the trash can, and I stand at a whiteboard writing down a potential lead for our defendant, Antonio Owens.
This is just another day in the office for me. In law school, I thought I’d go into public defense and dabble in some pro bono work here and there. In reality, it’s all I do. I founded the Innocence Group upon graduating five years ago, heavily influenced by one of my professors at Yale. He lectured us time and time again on the number of wrongly convicted innocent people who remain incarcerated with no representation, and rather than lamenting the injustice, I decided to do something about it.
“Has anyone found the cell records for July 8, 2014 yet?” I ask, turning to look at the group scattered behind me.
“I’m at June 2014,” one of the interns says, whipping through papers. “I’m getting there.”
The phone rings on my desk, and someone leaps to answer it.
“Innocence Group. Alex speaking.” There’s a pause, and then Alex looks up at me. “Yes, he’s right here.”
I reach for my phone over the tangled mess of people, the cord barely reaching where I stand. Alex has to hold the base up and over someone’s head so I don’t rip the thing out of the wall.
“Nicholas,” I say, wedging the phone between my head and shoulder so I can continue to write on the whiteboard.
“What a wonderful greeting from my grandson.”
I smile. “You should know better than to call me at the office. What’d you expect?”
“Oh, yes yes. I know you’re busy. I was just bragging about your work at the club today, in fact.”
“Is that why you called?”
“No, though I can see you’re trying to rush me off the phone, so I’ll be brief. I just wanted to inform you that I have a new employee. I know you like to know about these things, so here I am, telling you.”
I immediately stop writing and wave my hand to shoo everyone out of the room. They all jump to their feet, leaping and hopping over tiny mountains of paper. Trash crunches under their feet as someone trips and nearly goes down. In a few seconds, the door shuts behind them and I’m alone.
“Employee?” I ask. “I thought you already hired a new driver. Is Frank not working out?”
“Frank is wonderful. No, I hired someone else.”
“To do what exactly?”
“Handle my personal affairs. Nothing you’d be interested in.”
I pinch my eyes shut. “I prefer conducting your employee interviews myself. Especially after what happened last week, I think it’d be prudent to vet anyone you invite into our lives.”
“This was a unique case.”
“Did you check references? Ask for a resume?”
“I don’t think I quite like your tone right now.”
I send a silent groan skyward. “At least tell me where you met the person?”
“At Holly Home. You know that’s where Annette is staying, and I go to visit her from time to time.”
“Is your new employee a resident there?”
My grandmother laughs at the suggestion. “No. She worked there. She’s quite young actually.”
“What’s her name?”
“Maren Mitchell.”
“The moment we hang up the phone, I’m looking into her. Background check, references, the works. We haven’t even surfaced from the news articles that were published last week—you realize that, don’t you?”
“Michael was an outlier. I knew something was off with him from the start, and I should have followed my instincts. I assure you that’s not the case here.”
“You understand I’m still going to have an investigator look into her, right? Tell me you’ve had her sign an NDA.”
“Not yet. The lawyers are drafting it now. As I said, this is a unique situation. She only arrived today.”
I sigh and glance down at the literal mounds of work waiting for me.
“I’m just trying to look out for you,” I say softly.
“Yes, and your mother would be proud.”
She says she needs to run, and once we hang up, I dial a number I know by heart.
“Derek, I need you to look into someone for me. No, it’s not for a case. It’s personal.”
6
Maren
I’m too scared to leave my room before Rita comes back at six on the dot. I spend the early moments of the afternoon going over various scenarios in my mind and weighing the pros and cons of staying here versus asking Frank to drive me home. Leaving my old life behind isn’t simple. In the event that this job at Rosethorn proves to be too good to be true, it’s not like I can just pick up right where I left off. It took six months before the group home had a vacant bed available for me, not to mention how long it took for me to secure the job at Holly Home. Granted, it might not even currently be waiting for me anyway if Mrs. Buchanan insists on pinning that stupid theft on me.
The safe bet would be to return to Providence as soon as possible and beg Mrs. Buchanan to believe in my innocence and keep me on at Holly Home. I should go down and find Frank immediately; chances are I could still make it back in time for my shift tonight.
I look down at my feet as if willing them to move me in the right direction.
Go, dammit!
They stay put on the plush rug.
This is reckless! I shout to myself. Too good to be true!
Nothing in my life has ever come this easy. There has to be a catch to this arrangement, some fine print I’m missing.
My internal warnings fall on completely deaf ears. It’s as if my brain and my body are on two different wavelengths. My body wants a break. My body sees this fancy room and that wonderfully large bed with all its fluffy pillows and it wants it, fine print be damned.
My brain decides one night can’t hurt. I’ll just give myself a little more time to think it over. I walk over to the desk and pick up the phone so I can call Mrs. Buchanan to tell her I won’t be there for my shift later, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. I punch in the telephon
e number to the nursing home but am met with a heavy dial tone no matter how many times I try it. Eventually, with a frustrated growl, I set down the receiver and give up, walking over to the pair of windows that overlook the back half of the property.
Cornelia’s rose garden is the largest I’ve ever seen. It’s situated on the left side, encompassing a good portion of the yard. It’s symmetrically laid out along a long gravel path, trimmed with tiny boxwoods that delineate one variety of rose from another. There must be more than thirty different kinds, ranging from vibrant orange to deep red to pale pink. A gardener is out there now, tending them with gloved hands.
I stand there watching him for a good while—paralyzed by indecision—before I give in, take the apple and the book out of my purse, and sit down on the settee to read.
As promised, Rita returns to help me get dressed. The poofy pink gown she has hanging over her arm catches my attention right away.
“Is that for me?”
She smiles. “If it fits.”
“Can’t I just wear what I already have on?”
Her smile fades, and it’s obvious she’s horrified by the suggestion. “Cornelia has requested dinner in the formal dining room, and guests are expected to dress appropriately.”
I don’t argue. I take a seat in front of the vanity at Rita’s suggestion and let her treat me like a doll. I never got my hair or makeup done for special occasions when I was growing up, so I’m not sure what to expect as she pulls out a curling iron, heats it up, and starts to brush out my long hair.
Then she opens the drawers of the vanity to reveal an array of makeup, all of which is brand new.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as it slowly transforms. Green eyes, which I always thought were my best feature, are made to appear even bigger and brighter with the right shades of eyeshadow. Blush sweeps across my high cheekbones. A dusky red stain paints my lips. She leaves my hair down but pins it back on one side, pushing most of the long curls over the other shoulder.
“You’re so good at this,” I tell her, in awe. I don’t usually bother doing anything with my hair. It’s so long and thick, most days I just throw it up into a ponytail.
“I’ve done Cornelia’s hair for years, and when Judith was young, I styled her hair as well.”
“Judith?” I ask, trying to recall if I met a Judith today.
“Mrs. Cromwell’s late daughter.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t realize her daughter had passed away.
She meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles gently. “I think she’ll be very pleased by your appearance tonight. You’re a beautiful young woman.”
Beautiful.
What a word.
She’s right though; the person in the mirror does look beautiful. Oh, sure, I’ve thought I looked pretty before, but always in a thrown together sort of way. Never as beautiful as this, never quite so delicate and soft. I wonder what my parents would say if they could see me now.
“Now let’s get you dressed and hope that gown fits.”
Fortunately, it does, though it’s a little snug in the chest and long at the hemline. Rita doesn’t have any shoes for me to wear, so I’m forced to put my tennis shoes back on. Fortunately, the bottom of the dress conceals them most of the time. I think it looks totally ridiculous even still, but Rita assures me it’s fine as she ushers me out of the room.
“I’ll take you down to the dining room so you aren’t late.”
I follow after her, aware that we’re heading down a wing of the house I didn’t see earlier. More doors and hallways branch off on either side. Paintings, sculptures, floral arrangements—there isn’t a single wasted space in the whole house.
We turn down another hall, one with paintings in gilded frames all arranged at the same height on the wall. Most paintings I’ve seen in the house look like scenes from history or mythology. These are different.
“This is the Cromwell family portrait gallery,” Rita says, slowing her pace to match mine.
I pass women in huge vintage gowns posed in front of fireplaces, men wearing three-piece suits while dogs lie submissively at their feet. The portrait at the end of the row catches my eye more than the others, and I stop, curious.
The painting is of a young teenage boy standing at the front of a large sailboat with his chin raised and his eyes focused off into the distance. My first thought is that he looks like some great leader or conqueror, which is silly because he can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen in the image. At that age, I looked dweeby, I’m sure. Nothing like this.
“That’s Mr. Hunt, Cornelia’s grandson,” Rita says, circling back to stand behind me.
Ah, that explains the confidence. He was born into this world. He doesn’t need to conquer it; it’s already his.
“He wouldn’t sit for the image,” she continues, “so Cornelia had to send off a photo of him to the artist in Italy. Still, I think he captured his likeness well enough. Isn’t he handsome?”
No. He’s not. And it’s not just because I’m not attracted to boys barely starting puberty; it’s his entire demeanor. The haughty look in his eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw.
“He looks cruel.”
“Ah, it’s the hair. Jet black, just like his father’s.”
“Does he visit Cornelia often?”
“Oh yes. He’s a lawyer in New York City, but during the summer he’s here off and on. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
For some inane reason, a shiver runs down my spine.
“Right this way.” Rita prods me along, away from the portrait. “We don’t want to keep Cornelia waiting.”
In the formal dining room, Cornelia sits at the head of the table in a simple square-cut dark green dress with the same sage green scarf from earlier draped over her shoulders. She’s speaking to an older, well-dressed servant with a thin frame and stark white hair who’s standing beside her chair. Rita deposits me on the threshold and then excuses herself.
Cornelia gazes up at me from beneath her brows, and then my appearance forces her to lift her head and take me in fully.
She unfurls a wide smile. “Beautiful. Rita did such a wonderful job with you, but of course, you were marvelous to begin with. Come. Come sit.”
The man at her right pulls out the chair beside her and I rush over to take the seat, not wanting to keep him waiting. Once I sit, he pushes me toward the table, and Cornelia prompts him to bring the first course. I catch that his name is Collins—the man from the phone.
His footsteps carry him out of the room, and Cornelia smiles at me.
“That dress looks lovely on you. You have such a nice warm complexion. You can get away with wearing any color you want, though I still think you’d do well to stay away from yellow. I’d like to see you in green next, I think—something that matches your eyes.”
“Do you do this with all of your employees?” I ask, sweeping my hand around the room and down to the fancy pink gown I’m wearing. “Dress them up and sit them at your table?”
She laughs. “No, of course not.”
“But I am your employee, right? Rita mentioned that I was your guest, and now I’m confused. Was she mistaken, or am I?”
She hums in thought. “Well let’s fix that then. I’m afraid you might not fit perfectly into one single category. I’ve told you I’d like you to be my companion. During the summer season, I have various functions I need to attend, and I’d like you to come along with me to those. I’ll expect you to dine with me in the evenings as well—”
“That doesn’t sound like work.”
She laughs. “Doesn’t it? My grandson would disagree with you. Okay, how about this? In addition to those duties, if I have any errands or pressing matters I don’t think my staff can handle, I’ll bring them to you. This is all new for me as well. I’m afraid we’ll have to learn together. Now, tell me, do you plan on staying?”
“I was still undecided this afternoon, but now I can’t see any other option. I think the telephone
in my room is broken so I couldn’t call my manager at Holly Home to tell her I won’t be back for my shift tonight. There’s no way I still have a job there.”
She frowns. “You should have asked someone for help. The phone system here is set up for dialing in-house. You simply press the extension for the department you’re trying to reach. 0 for housekeeping, 1 for the kitchen, and so on. You have to press 9 before you place an outgoing call.”
Right. I figured it was something like that and I should have asked someone for help, but I didn’t. And maybe that was on purpose, a subconscious way to force the decision in one direction rather than the other.
“I can put in a call to your boss and put her mind at ease if you insist on going back to work there.”
The idea depresses me more than I care to admit.
“Or you can stay on here,” she adds, her words taking on an uplifting tone.
I peer at her skeptically and press my earlier question. “As your employee or your guest?”
“How about for the time being, we just say both,” she replies as Collins returns, carefully holding two bowls of soup. They’re filled nearly to the brim and liable to overflow so I shoot to my feet to help him, but Cornelia tuts.
“Maren, sit down. Collins is serving the first course.”
And so begins my “work” at Rosethorn.
Any time I try to lift a finger during dinner, I’m told it’s not my place. I try to make my bed in the morning—after the most blissful night of sleep I’ve ever had—and Patricia tells me it’d be best if I let her do it. Then she proceeds to remake my bed before freshening up the rest of the room while I sit awkwardly on the settee. I go down into the kitchen to attempt to make my own breakfast and the chef uses a rolling pin to shoo me out. I’m not allowed to help clean up. I can’t set the table or take out the trash.
It completely boggles my mind.
Why does Cornelia actually want me here? I haven’t been the least bit helpful. In fact, I’ve been a burden. These people have to wait on me hand and foot even when I insist it’s not necessary. Rita dotes on me constantly, helping me dress for dinner the next day and curling my hair again. Patricia launders my clothes and keeps my room impeccably clean.
