The Art of Inheriting Secrets

by Barbara O'Neal

  “Right. Floor below is where the fire was. Not sure what happened. It’s always been like that. Pavi and I think someone lived in here, like a homeless person, because it’s like a campfire right in the center of the room. Maybe it got out of hand.”

  “Lucky it didn’t burn the entire house down.”

  “Yeah.” He tapped a hand on my shoulder. “Let’s go see the good room. You’ll love it.”

  We turned left at the end of the tower and took a set of carpeted, littered stairs to the floor below. It was immediately more luxurious. We ended up near the grand staircase, but Samir zigged and zagged around corridors to get to the other side of the house, into the other long arm of the E.

  Again I had to stop to look over a railing, this one facing a room—a ballroom?—that was profoundly ruined by water damage and falling plaster. Looking up, I could see light through a substantial hole in the roof. The room was long and had once been quite grand, but it was practically empty aside from the rubble. “Again,” I said, “it seems like there would be paintings on those walls.”

  “It does.” He tilted his head. “There are some paintings in this room. Come see.”

  The hallway was a mirror image of the one upstairs, following the length of the E, but this floor was more luxurious, with more golden wood on the walls.

  “Here,” he said and pushed open a creaky door to reveal a room as lush and surprising in all the rot as a blooming bougainvillea in a desert. Time and ruin showed here, too, but even so, the colors were visible—patterns and embroidery and exuberant fabrics. Paintings of a dozen sizes crowded together on the walls, the frames thick with dust and strings of cobwebs, paintings of peacocks and tropical landscapes and portraits of exotic people—a sultan in a harem, a tall dark-skinned woman with dark eyes as mysterious as a deep lake, a tiger lolling on a carpet amid a crowd of beautiful women. More, too. Many, many more, in all sizes.

  “It’s like another world in here.” I turned in a circle, trying to take it in. Then I halted to look at Samir. “Don’t tell me—this was my grandmother’s room, right?”

  He nodded, looking up at the paintings. “She died wishing she was in India.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “My grandmother was her personal maid. What do you call it?”

  “You’re asking me? I’m American. Lady’s maid?”

  That slight, almost imperceptible lift of his mouth. “You seem like the kind of girl who’d know those things.”

  “Woman.”

  “Of course.” He dipped his head, but those dark eyes—deep as lakes—stayed locked on mine. He was way too young for me. I was entangled in a not-ended relationship. But I swore he was flirting with me. “Woman.”

  Don’t get delusional, Shaw, I told myself and moved away.

  “My grandmother talked about Lady Violet to my father her whole life. He knew her, I think, before she died, but there were all these things that happened right then—it’s sort of confusing.”

  “What things?”

  “Not sure of the order—he could tell you—but my aunt, his sister, disappeared. My grandmother was still alive then, but I don’t remember if your grandmother was or not. You’ll have to ask my dad.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “The sister never came back?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “No. They never found her. She was only fifteen.”

  “That’s very sad.”

  “Yes.” He wandered around, poking through things.

  “He still lives here, your dad?”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’m having dinner with Pavi on Tuesday.”

  “She said. That’s nice of you.”

  “It’s nice of her,” I countered. “It was his restaurant first, right? Does your dad still work with her?”

  “Sometimes.” He waved away a net of ancient spiderwebs and picked up a photo. “This is them, in India. Our grandmothers.”

  My heart lurched, hard, as I took the photo. It was of two young women, a black-and-white snapshot in an ornate frame. The Indian woman looked directly, unsmiling, at the camera, a long black braid draped over the shoulder of her sari. The white woman, my grandmother, sat in a chair, with her hand resting on the head of a large pale dog. She wore riding pants and boots and a crisp tailored shirt, and I knew her face instantly.

  Because it was my face.

  “Even our hair is exactly the same,” I said, touching my wavy hair. It fell below my shoulders, unruly and streaky, just like my grandmother Violet’s.

  “My dad has a copy of this photo,” Samir said and came behind me to look over my shoulder. “It startled me when I met you. It felt as if you’d traveled forward in time.”

  I stared right into my own eyes, looking at my too-wide mouth, my own cheekbones and jaw, so much more aggressive than my mother’s delicate features. “I don’t even know what to think.”

  “Pavi looks like my grandmother,” he said, “but not as much as you look like yours.”

  His breath rustled the hair on my shoulder, and beneath the strange turmoil the photo stirred up, I was aware of his body along my arm, aware again of that elusively familiar scent.

  One thing at a time. I handed the photo back to him and moved away. “I’m feeling very unsettled.”

  “Understandable.”

  An inlaid dressing table covered with bottles sat beneath a painting of a lush nude reclining on a fainting couch. I picked up one of the bottles and pulled out the stopper. The perfume was dried up—all that remained were the harsh last notes—but it was unmistakably Shalimar. “This bottle is likely worth a fortune on its own. It might be Lalique.” Holding it, I looked around the room and felt the sudden weight of decisions that needed to be made. Paintings and junk and priceless treasures, mysteries and precious keepsakes, tumbledown walls and pristine museums of a lost time. “What am I thinking with this place? There’s so much . . . I don’t even know where to start.”

  “It doesn’t have to be decided today.” He took the bottle out of my hands and settled it back in the spot it had occupied—a perfect oval, empty of dust. “Perhaps that’s enough for one day, hmmm?” He nudged my shoulder, turning me toward the door. “One revelation at a time.”

  I nodded, looking over my shoulder at the extravagant room, then up to him. I wasn’t sure I could manage more revelations at the moment. “Do you have any idea which bedroom might have been my mother’s?”

  “Maybe.” He inclined his head, tapped his index finger on his mouth. “Down the hall.”

  He led the way past several doors. I peeked into the open ones, seeing one that was much the worse for wear, the ceiling lying on the bed, the paper peeling from the walls in great moldy strips. We passed the top of the exquisite staircase, practically glowing in the center of the house. I stood at the top, looking down toward the foot, then up to the gallery. “Can we get there?”

  “Sure. But maybe another day.”

  “Oh, sorry. I’m being greedy and monopolizing you.”

  His mouth quirked, ever so slightly. In the low light, his nearly black eyes shimmered, reflected, invited me to dive in, find out what might lie there. It had been so long since a man looked at me with such deep attention that it took me a while to realize what it was. “Be as greedy as you like.” His hand floated up; fingers brushed my elbow and fell away. “It’s more that you’re tiring.”

  “Am I?”

  “You’ve begun to limp a bit.”

  “Oh.” I realized that my leg was actually aching quite a lot. “I guess I am. But I really want to see my mom’s room if we can.”

  “Sure.” He offered his elbow again, and I had a swift, strong wish to lean into him, smell his shirt.

  I waved my hand with a little laugh. “Lead the way.”

  “This is the one I’d guess was your mum’s,” he said and pushed the half-open door wide. A cat dashed off the bed and ran underneath it, and as we came into the room, the creature broke for the hallway, a black-and-white streak. I wondered if
there was a feral colony living here and if so, what would happen to them if I actually decided to renovate.

  The room was less preserved than my grandmother’s and much less furnished. No paintings or perfume bottles. The bed was made, the floor relatively empty. A water leak stained most of the windowed wall, and part of the plaster ceiling hung precariously over the corner. I tried to open a bureau drawer, but it was swollen shut.

  Nothing much to see here. Move along. My disappointment was much larger than it should have been, and the same swell of emotion that had caught me in the shopping center earlier pooled in my throat and fell down my face as tears. I turned away, dashing them off my cheeks, embarrassed.

  It didn’t particularly help. Standing there, I was awash with missing her. Maybe this had been her room. Maybe she’d slept here a thousand times. Samir must have known I was weeping, but he wandered away, giving me space. After a couple of minutes, I took a breath and looked around. An ornate wardrobe stood against the near wall, and I tried the doors, blindly. They opened easily, and the tattered remains of a row of evening dresses hung there, held together by threads. I imagined what we might have talked about if she’d allowed me to know this part of her. The gowns would disintegrate if I touched them, but I spied something behind the clothes and, delicately as possible, moved the hems aside. It was a canvas, the colors unfaded, and I drew it out carefully. One of the dresses collapsed off the hanger, but it didn’t matter in the slightest.

  It was a small canvas, no more than ten by ten inches, and clearly the work of a young artist who had not yet learned all the techniques that would later mark her painting. The tone was very dark, with little of the whimsy that later showed up in the forest paintings, but it was undeniably the same forest, only malevolent. The trees, the grass, the coalescing shadows, the eyes peering from everywhere.

  “This is my mother’s work.” I handed it to him.

  He held it loosely, a frown on his face. “Grim, isn’t it?”

  “It really is.” I peered more closely. “What could be in the forest here? There are no wolves anymore, are there?”

  “No. Maybe boars, now and then. Maybe there was something else back then. One of the older people in town will know.”

  I took the painting back. “All right, I’m taking this with me, but I guess I’m ready to go.”

  “Right.” As we headed down the main stairs, he stopped, his hand on the bannister, and said, “You know what you should do? Call the Restoration Diva.”

  “Who is that?”

  “She has a program on television about restoring old properties. Goes into these old wrecks and figures out ways for them to make money.”

  “Really? Like a reality show?”

  “Yeah. Look her up on YouTube.” He stopped at the foot of the stairs, looking up, around the golden woodwork. “I bet she’d love this place. There’s a good story, a mystery”—he grinned up at me—“a pretty woman.”

  I half rolled my eyes. “Flatterer.”

  “Not at all.”

  Television. All the past revealed. My mother’s secrets, whatever they were, whatever had driven her away. Maybe she wouldn’t like that.

  But maybe it would be a way to save the house. My very practical mother would say, Do what you must, darling. “I’ll look into it. I can really use all the help I can get.” When I had made my way down, I said, “Why do you care what happens to this house?”

  He shrugged and looked up, first at the window and the high ceiling, then the paneling. “I dunno. It just seems a shame to let it fall to pieces.” He raised a hand, pointed. “Look.”

  Peering down at us from the gallery was a cat, presumably the same one who’d dashed out from under my mother’s bed but a different cat than the one we’d seen the first time, this one nearly all black with white on his face and paws. “Hey, cat,” I said.

  He didn’t move. His long tail swished over the edge. I clutched the painting to my chest, thinking of all the cats peering out of my mother’s forests. Again, the tears welled in my eyes, and I had to turn away. “This is all making me kind of emotional.”

  “It’s all right to miss her, you know.”

  I nodded. “I just wish she was still here.”

  He touched my arm, gripping it just above the elbow for a moment.

  We were quiet on the return trip. Parked back at the hotel, he reached into the back seat and pulled out my mother’s painting and then also handed me the framed photo of our grandparents. “You might like having this.”

  “Thanks. And thanks for showing me around.”

  “Of course.” He was quite close in the small car, his hair tousled from our explorations. Curls fell down over his forehead and touched his eyebrow on one side, where there was a streak of dust. He smelled like twilight and cool dew. For one small second, I indulged the pleasure of looking at his face, that strong nose and wide mouth and silky, very black goatee.

  It took me a little longer to realize he was gazing right back at me. On the radio, a woman sang something bluesy, and I knew I should go, gather up my things, but I just hung there, between moments, peering into the fathomless darkness of his eyes. The air around us condensed. Something earthy and green and fertile bloomed between us, twining like the vines through the windows of Rosemere Priory.

  It was too close, too intense, and I bolted, nearly flinging open the door before Samir stopped me. “Whoa.”

  A car whizzed by. From the wrong direction. “Sorry. I’m still not used to it.”

  “Takes time.”

  “Yeah. Thanks.” The back of my neck burned.

  “Listen, this might be a bit . . . er . . . there’s a manor house an hour’s drive from here that might inspire you. I’d drive you out there if you’d like, Sunday next.”

  “Sunday next? I’m sorry; I can’t—the Earl of Marswick is having some garden party or something.”

  “The earl.” His tone flattened.

  “What?” I allowed myself to look back at his face.

  “He’s one of the richest men in England.”

  “Oh, great. That makes it easier.” I sighed. “Thanks for sharing.”

  “You really haven’t yet grasped all of this, have you?”

  “Grasped what?”

  He shook his head. “Never mind.” He looked though the back window. “You’re clear now.”

  “Thanks again,” I said and opened the door.

  “Sure,” was all he said, and he drove away. I clutched the painting and photo and made my way to my room, aware that I’d stomped very hard on that new green thing.

  Intentionally? I didn’t know.

  Chapter Six

  I showered and washed the cobwebs from my hair, suddenly aware that it had been a very long day. My leg was aching, and my emotions were all tangled over the revelations of the house, and—

  All of it.

  Wrapped in a cozy bathrobe, I opened my laptop. In the search bar, I typed, “Restoration Diva.”

  Google returned hundreds of related results. At the heart of them all was a dark-haired woman in her fifties, Jocasta Edwards. She was tall, with a direct gaze and an appealing expression, brisk with a helping of whimsy, as if she could get things done but wouldn’t be opposed to a good belly laugh. I went through the results, skimmed a couple of her shows and blogs. Her enthusiasm for her subject—saving the old houses of England—was palpable. She also used a set group of experts on architecture, art history, gardens, and restoration, and that could be enormously valuable to me.

  After all the feedback about how much money it would take, what white elephants the old houses could be, she offered a wisp of possibility.

  It couldn’t hurt to reach out. I clicked on the contact link on the BBC page for the show and began typing.

  My name is Olivia

  I backspaced.

  Lady Olivia Shaw, the new Countess of Rosemere. I’ve only just learned of my inheritance, which includes a wreck of an Elizabethan mansion. I’m not at all sure the p
lace can be saved, but

  Suddenly I realized part of what appealed to me.

  I feel I’d be letting down the women who’ve come before me if I don’t at least try.

  I was skilled in pitching ideas. What would set this property apart?

  As you may know, the house has been vacant since the late seventies, when all the members of the family deserted it. My mother went to San Francisco, where she raised me without saying a word about her past. There seems to be no trace of her brother, and it is quite unclear when my grandmother died. The locals seem to think she cursed it because she never wanted to leave India to live in England, but she was forced when she inherited the house.

  I am a native Californian, a food writer with no experience in any of this, but Rosemere Priory has a long and storied history, woven with women’s lives, which I find compelling, and perhaps you will too. I’d love to meet with you if you think there might be potential for your show. My telephone number is (01632) 961796, or you may contact me at this email address.

  Sincerely, Olivia Shaw, Countess of Rosemere

  I pressed send. And as if to reward me, an email popped up from my publisher.

  Dearest Olivia,

  Heir to an estate? Whyever would you need us anymore?

  Love both pieces, as well as the idea of a series of essays on English food and cooking. I’m open to discussing an issue devoted to English food but would like to involve Lindsey. Let’s talk early next week. Wednesday? Let me know a good time to call.

  David

  My overwhelming response was relief. If I could convince him that an entire British edition would make sense, I’d buy myself a fairly substantial amount of time. Lindsey, the acting editorial director in my absence, would probably eat raw goat eyes to keep me out of the city awhile longer, so that would not be a big problem. I flipped my notebook to a new page and scribbled a few ideas—the cake-shop girl, the lamb industry (take care with the ick factor), and maybe craft beer. Thinking of my upcoming meal with Pavi, I added, “British Indian food?” I sent a quick email back offering a selection of times we could Skype and leaned back, setting pots of possible ideas to simmer on the back burners of my imagination.