The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

  I was tired of saying all the things I didn’t know about my own mother, but no one would flee a happy life. I nodded.

  “Helen!” a girl called from the counter. “Problem!”

  “There’s my cue,” Helen said. “Come see me, love. I’d love to talk more about your mother. I adored her.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I will.”

  I sipped my hot, sweet, milky tea, feeling myself settle, center. I couldn’t possibly stay in a state of high emotion, and there was a lot to get through in the next few days or weeks. Right this minute, I could enjoy this table in a bakery in a small English village. The place was clearing out, and the chelsea bun beckoned. It was a coil of pastry laced with currants and a hint of lemon zest, quite sweet. I gave it the attention it deserved, since a person couldn’t be pigging out on pastries and eggs and bacon all the time. Not me, anyway. Unlike my slender mother, I was built of rounder stuff, and I hadn’t been able to walk as much as was my habit.

  In the meantime, the tea was excellent, served in a sturdy silver pot with a mug that didn’t seem to match any other mug on the tables. The room smelled of yeast and coffee and cinnamon and the perfume of a woman who had walked by. Light classical music played quietly. From the kitchen came voices engaged in the production of all the goods in the case. A rich sense of well-being spread through me, and I realized that my leg didn’t hurt at all.

  As I stirred sugar into my second cup, a woman with dark hair came over. “I’m sorry to intrude,” she said, “but I am so excited to meet you, and Sam said you wouldn’t mind if I introduced myself if I saw you in town.”

  “Sam?”

  “I’m sorry—my brother. I’m Pavi Malakar.” Now that she said it, I could see the resemblance. Her hair was heavy and thick, though hers was straight, swinging in a bob that swept her shoulders. It was the same intense black, and she had the same enormous liquid eyes. “He said you were the editor of Egg and Hen magazine until recently. I am such a fan.”

  “Wow.” I grinned, taking her hand. “I am so happy to meet someone who wants to talk to me about that world—I can’t even tell you.”

  She grinned, and it gave her eyes a tilt. “I love your columns when you write about just one ingredient. The one about yams was amazing.”

  “Thank you. That was one of my favorites, too, honestly.”

  “I’ve always thought you should write one on coriander.”

  For a moment, I let the idea settle, then deflected. “Ah, that’s right—you have a restaurant, don’t you?”

  “I do.” She settled her second hand over mine. “You should come, let me cook for you.”

  “I would love that.”

  “How about Tuesday? It’s a slow night for us, usually.”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s great!” There was a musical lilt to the British accent that I hadn’t heard in Sam’s, and I wondered what made the difference. “Come at seven, yes? Do you know where it is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wonderful. I can’t wait.” She swirled away to the counter, sending me a wave.

  As I pulled on my coat, I wondered if Sam would be there. Samir, which he said he liked better.

  At any rate, it would be great to get out, have a glass of wine, eat some non-pub-style food. It had been a while since I’d had a social evening of any ilk.

  Haver’s office was located down a narrow alley that angled into an even narrower passageway. The pathways underfoot were cobblestones, uneven and slippery in the fog, and I kept a hand on the wall to be sure I didn’t lose my footing. It would be irritating to start feeling better and then reinjure the traumatized leg.

  Anyway.

  Haver’s office was at the dark end of the passage. The door was painted bright blue, as if to ward off the gloom. An older woman in a tidy, pale-yellow shirtwaist let me into the office and showed me to the two chairs tucked against a wall in the tiny room. “He’ll be right out. It’s been such a palaver getting caught up from the storm!”

  “I can imagine. Thank you.” I pulled out my phone for something to do, but there was no Wi-Fi, and data would cost a fortune, so I tucked it back in my purse. Maybe it would be wise to look into a local phone if I planned to stay any length of time. “Can you tell me if there’s an electronics store close by?”

  “Not in the village. You’ll have to go to Letchworth for that.”

  “How far is that?”

  “Only a few miles. Half hour, perhaps.”

  I waited. Mulled over the information about the estate that I’d found online. Wondered how long it would take the prints of the paintings to arrive. I had an email that they’d been packed and readied for shipping. Nancy had arranged for a moving company to pack everything else in the house and settle it in a storage facility. The open house would be next weekend, Sunday. A week, then, to give myself a chance to figure out my next steps. I didn’t want to stay in the hotel forever—

  “Lady Shaw?”

  In my imagination, Jonathan Haver was a slight graying man with glasses. This guy was an athlete, no more than forty, with broad shoulders straining the fabric of his tastefully striped shirt and a foppish mustache. My intuition waved a flag of wariness. I adjusted my behavior accordingly.

  “Good to meet you at last,” he said.

  “You too,” I said and took his outstretched hand. A firm regulation grip.

  “Come in. You must be completely overwhelmed by all of this.”

  “That’s the understatement of the year.” His office was cold, without windows, the walls a thin blue color. It didn’t seem like the office of a successful lawyer, but maybe I was judging by San Francisco standards. He was, after all, a small-town solicitor. “I’m looking forward to actual details.”

  “Well, the happy news is we have a very good offer on the estate.”

  I raised a hand. “Whoa. Can we start somewhere else? I need some background here.”

  “Oh, of course.” He folded his hands. “What would you like to know?”

  “Everything. I don’t know anything. My mother never breathed a word of this to me. I gather there is an uncle?”

  “We assume he’s dead, I’m afraid.”

  “Where did he go?”

  “Unknown.” He reached for a pair of reading glasses, which only slightly humanized him, and opened a thick file. “My father managed her affairs until his death seven years ago, but he never gave any particular instructions about them. I sent your mother reports every quarter, but that’s the extent of it.”

  “Did she receive payments?”

  “Of course. We sent distributions each quarter. We retained her accounting firm, and they oversee the actual financials.”

  “I’d like that information, please.” I was typing into my phone quickly, making notes of his comments.

  “Absolutely.”

  I dropped my hands into my lap. “Tell me about the estate.”

  “Have you done any reading on the place?”

  “Some. I know the general history.”

  “Right.” He consulted the paper. “Rosemere is an estate of seventeen hundred and ten hectares, of which there are three hundred and fifty hectares of wood, eight hundred and ninety of farmland, and the rest allocated to gardens, lawns, et cetera.”

  “What crops on the farmland? Rebecca mentioned rapeseed and barley.”

  “Yes. I believe there has been some rotation, and I can assemble that information if you like, though I assume you’re not a farmer.” He glanced at me over the top of his glasses.

  “Well, no, but I’d like a clear picture.”

  “There is sheep, mainly lamb, for market. But you Americans don’t really eat much lamb, do you?”

  I thought of a long-form article I’d written a couple of years ago on the burgeoning lamb market in the US. My favorite recipe of that lot had been for a leg of lamb roasted with garlic and rosemary. When I had served it to my mother out on the deck of my apartment on a warm May evening, she’d practically swo
oned and eaten more in a sitting than I’d ever seen her eat. Ever.

  “More than we used to,” I said. “Who does the actual farming? I saw the cottages.”

  “Yes, those belong to the estate, but the tenants rent the land and the cottages and offer a boon to the estate on successful crops. Most of the families have been on the land for generations.”

  “Do you have the paperwork for that income?”

  “Of course. I’ll be happy to prepare a report.” He scribbled something on a notepad. “I’ll have Mrs. Wells pull it all together so you can go over it.”

  “Thank you.” I made a mental note to see about finding another lawyer to take a look at the assembled material. Maybe an accountant as well. “And what about the house?”

  “You saw it.”

  “I did. I’d like to go through it, see what’s there. What can be done with it.”

  “I’m sure that can be arranged.”

  I let that sit between us for a moment, then said calmly, “It’s mine, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, of course. You can do whatever you like.”

  “Good.” I made another note on my phone and then checked the list I’d made this morning. “Tell me more about it. How many rooms, how long has it been abandoned? All of it.”

  “All right, then.” He settled the glasses back on his nose and consulted another sheet of paper. “Rosemere Priory is, let’s see . . . thirty-seven rooms, with additional space in the converted carriage house, which has three apartments for staff. The caretakers live in one now, though I believe they’re on holiday at the moment.”

  “What are they caretaking, Mr. Haver? The house is falling down.”

  “They oversee the rest of the property—the ruin of the abbey, the gardens attached to it, and whatever issues or concerns might come up with the tenants.”

  I took that in, thinking about how vast the responsibilities were, how many moving pieces. It winded me. But again my mother’s practicality righted itself. “Why did they leave the house alone?”

  “I believe they expected someone would be coming back to give them instructions. Your mother let all the staff in the house go, so—”

  “No one knew what to do.”

  “Exactly.” He bent his head, flicked a thumb over the edge of the paper. “The history of that house is quite dark, Ms. Shaw. I believe your grandmother wanted it to fall down.” He paused. “A feeling a great many of us share.”

  I thought about the soaring center hall with its magnificent woodwork, the neglected rooms, the vine growing through the window with a rose blooming inside.

  “Why?”

  “It’s said to be cursed, and although I’m a practical man, the evidence seems to support that idea.”

  “I’m not a superstitious person,” I said and realized that I’d already formulated a plan while I’d been reading and supposedly resting. “I’d like to call in a contractor and see what they have to say about the house. It seems to have good bones, and maybe it’s sentimental of me, but I want to know what’s there before I let it fall down.”

  “Oh, dear.” He pursed his lips, and the mustache looked like a little animal, perched and prissy. “I don’t mean to pierce your romantic dream, but the costs of saving that house would be truly extravagant. The rents won’t pay for it, and once you pay the inheritance taxes, the funds will be thin indeed.”

  Ah, the infamous inheritance taxes. “What’s the tax rate?”

  “Forty percent.”

  I didn’t imagine the relish with which he imparted this information. “That is substantial. And what’s the most current valuation of the estate?”

  “I’ll include that with the notes, of course. And the offer.”

  “Thank you. I want the full picture before decisions of any kind are made.”

  “Understood.” For a moment, he took my measure. “These great old houses are white elephants in this day and age. Many of them have already collapsed, and the rest stand to bankrupt their owners. The offer we’ve had is remarkable. Perhaps you will want to consider that as well.”

  The reporter in me smelled a story. Who would be willing to take on the estate for a “remarkable” sum? What was to be gained? But I said only, “Absolutely. Include those details too.”

  “Anything else?”

  “No,” I said and stood. “I’ll look forward to those reports.”

  Chapter Five

  When I returned to the hotel, Sarah stopped me as I went by. “Lady Shaw,” she said with some excitement. “Something came while you were out.”

  She was practically vibrating as she handed me a modest square envelope made of heavy linen paper. The handwriting was old-fashioned and very English, with those square formations along the lower edge, as if it had been written along a ruler. It was addressed to Lady Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere.

  Inside was a note written in the same hand.

  Dearest Lady Shaw,

  I will be having a small gathering Sunday next, 3:00 to 6:00 p.m., in the garden as long as the weather holds. It is very short notice, but if you are so inclined, I will send a driver to fetch you at 2:30 p.m. I knew your mother and grandmother, and it would be my great pleasure to welcome you to the neighborhood.

  Sincerely,

  George Barber, Earl of Marswick

  Marswick Hall

  (01632) 960401

  Sarah still shimmered behind the counter, as if a fairy godmother might appear any moment and whisk her into another life. As mildly as possible, I said, “It’s the Earl of Marswick, which I’m guessing you knew.”

  She nodded. “It’s his crest, there on the back. And his driver brought it in a Bentley.” The last word was uttered in a whisper.

  “So I should accept his invitation to a gathering next Sunday, then, if only for a ride in that car?”

  Her eyes widened. “Oh, yes.”

  I tucked the card back into his envelope, feeling absurdly shy and panicked. “I have no idea what to wear.”

  “Oh, it won’t matter.”

  “Thank you, but I’m sure it will.” I took a breath. “I doubt I brought anything with me that would be appropriate. Where should I go shopping?”

  “London is the only possibility, Ms. Shaw.”

  “Maybe.” I inclined my head. “What do people wear this time of year?”

  “Perhaps you should ask Mrs. Poole.”

  Rebecca. Maybe she would even be attending. I had her number but again felt hobbled by my telephone and the logistics of what I was doing here. “I need to go to Letchworth. Is it Mr. Jenkins who brought me here? I’d like him to drive me over there this afternoon. Will you call him to see if he’s available?”

  “Of course.” She picked up the phone. “I’ll send Allen with a pot of tea, shall I?”

  “That would be wonderful.”

  I made my way back to my room, feeling pampered by her solicitousness, and warned myself not to get too comfortable. It would be all too easy to get used to being attended.

  With a pot of tea at my elbow and a low fire offering warmth, I opened my laptop and made notes of my conversation with Jonathan Haver, along with a list of questions.

  And following Haver’s suggestion, I also made notes on the research I needed to do—had anyone saved a manor house like this successfully? What methods were used to keep estates going? I didn’t know who I’d meet at the earl’s gathering, but there might be some help there. I picked up the phone in my room and dialed the number on the bottom of the note.

  A woman answered, her voice high and fluting. “Marswick Hall.”

  “Hello,” I said and suddenly felt my mother beside me, lending me grace. “This is Lady Olivia Shaw. I received a note from the earl just now. I’d love to accept his invitation to the gathering at Marswick Hall next Sunday.”

  “Very good, my lady. I’ll have a car sent to the hotel at two thirty, if that would be acceptable.”

  “Yes, thank you.” I hung up. Staring into the fire, I realized I was startin
g to feel a little bit more like myself, which made it easier to trust my instincts.

  I didn’t trust Haver. Or Rebecca, for that matter. Even before Samir had warned me, there had been something a little too friendly about her. She might just be a social climber. Not exactly an attractive trait, but it wasn’t criminal.

  Now there was the earl and whoever I’d meet at his party. At this point, it would be wise to assume that almost everyone had an agenda and proceed with caution. I’d have to keep my wits, especially considering the challenge of interpreting English culture.

  By the time Mr. Jenkins, who insisted I call him Peter, picked me up, the rain was beginning to clear. Fingers of sunlight poked through the clouds, glazing the green fields, the roofs of the odd village in the distance. It always amazed me how empty the countryside of England felt, when in reality it was crowded with people, especially so close to London. “How many people live in Hertfordshire County, Peter? Do you know?”

  “Oh, more than a million, I reckon. Going to be twice that if they keep building up housing estates in every field.”

  “Are there a lot?”

  “Too many,” he spat. “We get far too much traffic now in Saint Ives, thanks to the one south of town. Have you seen it? Line at the bakery is a mile long of a Monday, everybody stopping before they head out to the train in Letchworth.”

  “I did see it.” I thought of West Menlo Park, where my mother’s other house was, the price of a single lot because of location. “Is the village convenient to London?”

  “Aye, right down the A1, or by train though Letchworth or Baldock.”

  Very easy access to the city. I thought of that “remarkable” offer on the estate and the two thousand hectares. How many houses could be built on that much land?

  A lot, I guessed.

  At Letchworth, Peter took me to a shopping center. “I’ll be here waiting, my lady.”

  “You don’t have to sit in the car,” I said. “It’s going to take me a little while. Get a cup of tea or something. I’ll ring you on my new phone when I’ve got it.”

  He grinned. “Right, then. Maybe a wee scone.”