by Grey, R. S.
I can’t believe it, really.
I read the note again then hold it up for Cornelia to see when she flutters over, curious about the sender.
“Handsome boy. He was sad you’d left the party, and I’m not surprised he sent these.” She touches a bloom and twists it so it catches the light. “They’re very pretty.”
“I’m sorry. It’s probably inappropriate that he sent me flowers.”
“Why on earth would it be inappropriate?”
“It’s just…I don’t know the rules. I’m your employee.”
“Please stop saying that.”
“But it’s the truth.”
“Well so what? If Barrett wants to send you flowers or take you out, good for you! I hope you have a wonderful time. You might even see him on Wednesday. We have lunch plans at the club with Lydia and Victoria.”
Oh good. I feel bad that I left Tori high and dry. I hope her offer of friendship still stands.
“That is if you’re feeling up to it,” she adds gently.
“Oh, yes. I’m feeling much better, so you can put me to work now. Do you need me to do anything? Help clean up after the party?”
“It’s already been done.”
“What about dinner?”
“Chef is taking care of it.”
“Has the table been set?”
“By Patricia.”
“And what about—”
“You know what? If you’re so intent on doing something, come play a song for me. I haven’t heard you on the piano in days.”
* * *
On Monday, I try to make myself as useful as possible for Cornelia without getting in anyone’s way. I offer to walk into town to pick up her dry cleaning, and Collins actually agrees to let me go because he’s so busy with other tasks he had to put off to prepare for the ball. When I get back, I unwrap all the clothing and hang everything up in the designated sections of her very organized closet. Once that’s done, I cut fresh roses and replenish the vases in the blue drawing room. Then, I join Cornelia for tea, and when she asks me to read a book aloud to her, I happily oblige. We stay there until the early afternoon reading Pride and Prejudice together.
At dinner, we discuss whether or not Elizabeth Bennet should have accepted Darcy’s first proposal.
“Absolutely not!” I say, slamming my fist down on the table for added effect. “She thinks Darcy is proud and selfish and assumes, at the time, that marriage to him would be absolutely miserable.”
“What if it would save her family from poverty?” she prods.
“No. The sacrifice is still too great.”
“So then you’ll only marry for love?”
“We aren’t talking about me,” I say, frowning in consternation.
She smiles then. “No, perhaps not.”
After dinner, I play her a few songs on the piano and then go to bed that night feeling less guilty than days prior. I like feeling useful, and I think I could make a real place for myself here if I try hard enough.
On Tuesday, Tori calls the house while I’m out on a walk around the property with Cornelia. Apparently, she was serious about the invitation to play tennis.
“I can’t go,” I say, looking to Cornelia. “I need to help you prepare for the kids from St. Michael’s.”
“Nonsense. There’s nothing left to do. Now hurry and change or you’ll keep Tori waiting.”
“Change? Into what?”
“Tennis whites, dear. They’re in your closet.”
Of course they are, because why wouldn’t they be?
An hour later, Frank drops me at the entrance to the yacht club, and I rush to the tennis courts near the edge of the property. Tori’s already there with our instructor, a giant of a man with a heavy Russian accent who takes his job very seriously. It’s a shame considering the fact that Tori and I barely get to chat as he leads us through a round of Olympic-level tennis training. I’m sweating bullets by the time we’re done, and Tori sends me an apologetic smile.
“He wasn’t like this last time, I swear.”
I can’t even catch my breath enough to answer her, so I just wave like, No worries! Unrelatedly, do you happen to know where they keep those paddles to kickstart a heart just in case mine decides to give out?
“Maybe next time, one of us should fake a limp so he’ll go easier on us,” Tori teases as we walk through the club toward the women’s locker room after our lesson ends. Trophy cases line both sides of the hallway and I peer into a few, catching names that are familiar only because there are streets around Newport that carry the same titles.
Midway down the hall, I’m surprised to spot Nicholas in a framed photo propped against a trophy. He looks younger than he is now, but not a teenager. College age, maybe. He and his friend stand side by side, working together to hoist a large silver chalice up into the air. Nicholas beams at the camera, and I immediately think of my musings from Sunday. Apparently, he does know how to smile.
“That’s Nicky and his best friend, Rhett,” Tori says, coming closer so she can peer into the trophy case as well. “They were both there on Saturday night. Did you meet them?”
“Yes,” I reply, studying the missing link between the boy in the painting and the man from the ball. I find it infuriating that he never had to suffer through an awkward stage. “Nicholas, not Rhett.”
“Oh good. He’s one of my best friends. Rhett is too, but I’m closer with Nicky.”
The nickname—or perhaps the close bond it signifies—doesn’t sit well with me.
“You’re joking. What could you possibly see in him?”
She laughs, but when I turn to look at her, pressing for an actual answer, she shrugs. “He’s loyal and kind.”
I nearly clasp a hand over my chest in disbelief. “You’re joking. Nicholas Hunt? Cornelia’s grandson? Kind?! Are we talking about the same person?”
She cracks a smile. “He can be shy at times, sure, if that’s what you’re referring to.”
Shy is not a word I’d use to describe that man. Arrogant, yes. One hundred percent.
Shy? Ha.
“How long have you known him?” I ask. Maybe it’s a recent thing. Maybe she’s never heard him speak before.
“My whole life. He’s only a year older than me, and we all spent our summers in Newport together.”
Well there goes that theory. Maybe he’s different with her. It’s understandable. She’s of his world; I’m not.
“How old are you?” I ask, wondering more so about Nicholas’ age.
“Twenty-eight.” She jostles her shoulder against mine. “What did he do to you anyway? He seems to have left quite the impression.”
“Oh, nothing. Just rubbed me the wrong way I guess,” I say, moving away from the trophy case and hoping she’ll drop the subject.
I compare myself to Tori while we’re at lunch with Cornelia and her grandmother the next day. There’re the obvious physical differences between us. I have curves where she has none. She carries her body in a delicate way, like she’s a cloud floating above us, never quite touching earth. I seem to produce twice as much noise as she does at any given moment. Scooting in my chair, knocking my fork against my glass of water, jostling the tea cakes. I try to mimic her pin-straight posture and garner a curious stare from Cornelia.
“Are you all right, child? Quit fidgeting.”
She’s right. There’s really no use.
“Nicholas will be in town this weekend,” Lydia says, nodding to Tori. “Do you have plans to see him?”
She smiles sweetly. “Not yet. I’m sure we’ll have lunch again on Sunday before he heads back to the city though, and he’s sworn he’ll take me out sailing again soon.”
“If he does, you’ll have to take Maren with you,” Cornelia replies. “She’s never been before.”
A hearty, no-thank-you laugh spills out of me, and then I quickly clear my throat and offer an additional, “It’s okay. It’s not really my thing.”
Being out on open water wit
h Mr. I Think You Should Leave? Hard pass.
Tori smiles curiously. “Do you get motion sickness?”
I think back to the time Ariana forced me to sneak into a sketchy roadside carnival when we were teenagers. We rode every single death-defying ride twice thanks to the generosity of a weird carnie who enjoyed the way Ariana flirted with him. Leading him on wasn’t one of her best moments. Thinking back, Ariana seems to have a lot of those. Anyway, my stomach was just fine the whole night.
“No, I have a stomach of steel,” I say, reaching for another tea cake as if to prove it.
“Then you’ll have to come.” Tori beams. “It’s an experience you’ll never get anywhere else, and you couldn’t ask for better yachtsmen. Rhett and Nicky have been sailing their whole lives.”
I make a noncommittal show of acceptance and then go on sipping my tea while they make plans for a formal dinner this weekend. I assume I’m not included, but Cornelia clarifies on the way home that I’m expected to dine with them.
I don’t even bother suggesting that maybe I should be serving the dinner rather than eating it. There’s no hope where Cornelia is concerned. She’s intent on treating me like I’m her guest, and I don’t feel like continuing to fight her on it. I like her and I like living at Rosethorn. Besides, I’ve worked out an arrangement in my head. I’ll continue to make myself as useful as possible to Cornelia, and in return I’ll accept room and board. There’s no refusing the clothing and gifts she seems intent on giving me, but I’ll consider them on loan for the time being. It’s not as if I’ll take any of it with me when I leave. Why on earth would I need tennis whites back in the real world?
I’ve also decided I won’t cash my paychecks. I still only have the one, but it’s been burning a hole in my bedside table, taunting me. I know if I tried to give it back to Cornelia, she wouldn’t take it. I could rip it up right in front of her, but I have no doubt there’d be a new one sitting on my bedside table the very next day, probably made out for twice the amount of the original.
Obviously, I could really use the money. I’ll need it after I leave, but even knowing how far it could get me doesn’t convince me that I actually need it. I can’t accept it. I won’t. She’s giving me more than enough already.
I justify my decision by telling myself I’ll leave here no better or worse than I was before my arrival. Actually, that’s not quite true. I’ll leave here with a whole array of knowledge I never possessed before, all of which pertains to a world I’ll likely never enter into again. Formal dining, floral arranging, dress code for any event under the sun, party planning, hosting duties—it’s all layering over knowledge I’ve used to survive until now. How long to nuke a bowl of ravioli without turning it into magma. How long a pair of shoes will last if you take good care of them. How far $5 will stretch at the grocery store.
At the very least, maybe Cornelia will give me a good reference for another job.
The next day, Vivien returns with garment bags filled with dresses, a dozen of them perfectly tailored to my measurements. I try on each one behind a silk screen in my room and then walk out to oohs and aahs from Vivien and Cornelia. There’s a pale pink ball gown with lots of tulle. A blue strapless midi dress with a sheath skirt. A short flirty day dress with a light floral print. They’re all impeccable and ridiculously well made. My favorite, however, is a silky dark green cowl-neck dress that gathers tightly around my waist before cascading like a waterfall down to the floor. The spaghetti straps crisscross in the back, dipping low, so that a traditional bra won’t work with it. Vivien has me covered, though—naturally. She’s also brought a myriad of lingerie choices, and I’m more than slightly horrified when she starts to pull them out.
Cornelia doesn’t even bat an eyelash.
“You’ll wear the green dress on Saturday for dinner. It complements you so well.”
My stomach squeezes tight at the reminder of Saturday and who else will be present at the meal: the man I’m still not quite ready to see again.
12
Maren
I shouldn’t have worried about Nicholas. He doesn’t arrive at Rosethorn on Friday like Cornelia was hoping he would. Work keeps him in the city through Saturday morning as well, and I’m forced to hide my devious smile behind a rose bush to keep her from asking questions.
In the late afternoon, I help her set the table with Diane. It’s going to be a small group, and we set place cards for ourselves along with Tori, Lydia, and Dr. Reynolds, a humanities professor from Salve Regina University whom Cornelia thinks I’ll enjoy talking to. We put a card out for Nicholas as well, just in case he arrives late, but Cornelia isn’t very hopeful. Just in case, I make sure he and I are as far away from each other as possible, though it’s not nearly far enough. Dr. Reynolds, as Cornelia’s honored guest, has to take the seat at her right, and Lydia will fill the spot to Cornelia’s left. I’m beside Lydia with Tori across from me, and then Nicholas will (hopefully not) be next to her.
We arrange centerpieces with the flowers we clipped from her gardens, and when we’re done, Cornelia goes down into the kitchen to review tonight’s menu with Chef. Everything is written in French, so I don’t know why she insists I join her, but then it’s probably because she wants me to learn. I do actually pick up a bit of what they’re saying. The cherry pie will be stuffed with hen…or something like that. Who knows. The smells are delicious, at least.
Once that’s done, I’m ordered back to my room to get ready. Why she thinks it should take me two hours to make myself presentable, I have no idea. Rita is a miracle worker, and she can somehow wrestle my hair into a romantic updo and sweep on some makeup in less than an hour. I use the extra time to sit in a robe in my bathroom, peering out through a small window that faces the gravel drive, praying he doesn’t arrive. My stomach is a twisted knot of nerves as the sun falls completely away, leaving me with nothing but moonlight. Cars start to pull up to the house and I know I need to stand and put on my dress or I’m going to be late, but I stay there until the last possible second, convincing myself he won’t show up.
After I dress, I walk downstairs to find Cornelia standing in the receiving room, greeting her guests. I’m introduced to the professor, who grips my hand in both of hers, greeting me with a wide smile.
“Pleasure to meet you,” she says, and I find myself repeating the sentiment back to her.
She has long frizzy gray hair pushed back by a black headband, and large red glasses stand out against her thin face. Her brown and black plaid jacket is rolled up at the sleeves, revealing a surprising bright blue lining underneath. I like her immediately.
“Are you from the area?” she asks, keeping hold of my hand.
“No, actually. I grew up in Providence.”
“So did I.” She beams. “I only live here now because of my position at the university. Do you attend?”
At this point, Tori and Lydia have arrived as well and are listening in on our conversation. I don’t mind. I’m not sure exactly what Cornelia has told them about me—I know they’ve heard bits and pieces—but I’d rather they know the whole truth.
My eyes widen. “University? No. No, I work for Cornelia.”
“In what capacity?” Dr. Reynolds asks, curious.
Cornelia steps in to answer before I can, no doubt because she realizes I would botch the answer.
“She’s my right-hand woman. She’s helping me run Rosethorn, and more than that, she’s a friend and guest in my home. I’ve taken her under my wing, so to say.”
“How lovely. I can only imagine how difficult it is to manage one of these Gilded Age mansions. I’ve been telling you for years that you needed to take on a conservator.”
Cornelia drops her hand to my shoulder. “Well, with any luck, Maren will fit the bill.”
On our way into the dining room, Tori bumps into me with a wink. “You didn’t tell me you work for Cornelia. I thought you were a family friend or grandniece or something.”
I blanche. “Sorry, yeah.
Yup.” I rock back on my heels a bit awkwardly. “I’m her employee.”
She laughs. “There’s nothing to feel weird about.”
I arch a brow, curious to push the subject. “You don’t mind hanging out with the help?”
She looks horrified. “Do I seem that stuck-up to you? I’ll have you know I work too. I manage an art gallery just up the road.”
“That’s awesome. I should come by sometime!”
“Oh, you like art?”
I shrug. “I think I do. Paintings and stuff?”
What’s not to like?
“We deal primarily in contemporary sculptures.”
“That too,” I assure her, having absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.
We all take our places at the table, and I’m doing an internal victory dance over the fact that Nicholas couldn’t make it in time for dinner when I spot movement out in the hall. I look over, and my jaw drops. How? How is he here?! He’s walking down the grand staircase, cinching his black tie tighter around his neck. He smooths it down against his chest and glances up, finding all of our attention on him.
He looks freshly showered and shaved, tan and horrifyingly handsome in his black suit.
How did he possibly sneak in here without me knowing?
“I’m sorry I’m running late,” he says, strolling into the room and walking right behind my chair on his path to get to Cornelia. My breath catches in my chest, and I don’t release a slow exhalation until he passes back into my line of sight.
He leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek, and she stares up at him adoringly as he rounds the table and takes his seat beside Tori.
“Nonsense. We haven’t even started. You remember Dr. Reynolds, don’t you?” Cornelia asks, extending her hand toward her guest. “From the university?”
“Of course. It’s good to see you,” he says, nodding in greeting.
Cornelia continues, “And Lydia and Tori, you know, of course. That only leaves our dear Maren. I hope you two were able to get acquainted last weekend, at the ball? I saw you talking outside.”
