“How true,” Sara said as she picked up the last file. It was an old, white envelope. Bertram’s Drunken Stories.
It was the first piece that she actually wanted to read. She snuggled down in an overstuffed chair and began reading. Of course the stories were slanted. The reader was to see Bertram as a joke, someone to laugh at. He was stupid, while the writer was superior in every way.
There was a story about Bertram’s attempts to make money in horse racing. Byon had written Bertram as a buffoon, ridiculed by all the horse sellers—and by the young observers who did nothing but knew everything.
“He was trying to save Oxley,” Sara said aloud. “And Mr. Howland was paying for it all. He wanted his daughter to have the best. It’s just that he mistakenly thought Nicky and a falling-down old house were something to hope for.”
The last story caught Sara’s attention. The Sister I Never Wanted.
It was notes about something Bertram said when he was very drunk and very sad. He’d lost yet another race. “His words were slurred and hard to understand. He was giving up hope,” Byon wrote in a way that was supposed to make people snicker. Bertram’s lack of insight, his hope-without-a-reason, was meant to be humorous.
“She said she was my sister and I must let her run Oxley,” Byon quoted Bertram as having said. “I didn’t like her. She was too bossy.”
“She wanted control. I told her to get the hell out. But still, she made me worry that I don’t rightfully own the title.”
That was it. Just notes. Sara put the page down, frowning. What was written sounded familiar but she wasn’t sure why.
She glanced at her watch. It was ten to one. With the cook in jail, Sara had no idea what to do about food. She hoped the fridge was full, but she doubted if Bella had taken care of it before she left.
To Sara’s delight, Chris was in the kitchen and it smelled divine. “Ah,” she said. “Raised by two mothers.”
“Yes.” He was smiling. “I can cook and even iron.”
“Is it too late for me to hope you’d marry me?”
He smiled. “Sara, I’d be honored.”
She laughed and they sat down to eat.
For a while, they were both silent.
“Why do I feel that you’re dying to tell me something?” Sara asked. “The air in this room is fairly vibrating.”
“At home I take care of the finances. I should say that it’s not because I’m male and therefore better at numbers. Women are just as good at math as boys.”
Sara was smiling. “Those are stereotypes and not real.”
“I’ve been in the attic all night.”
Sara looked at him. Only youth allowed someone to stay up all night and look as dewy fresh as he did.
“Mom was against it, but I wanted to find out about my father.”
“I have some stories Byon wrote and they’re about him.”
“Wonder how they were missed? It seems like someone went through all the documents in the attic. I found diaries from the 1800s and land contracts written in the 1500s. But most of the records from the late 1940s until the early 2000s are gone. Years of journals are missing, packets of letters have had those years removed. I saw nothing about my father or grandfather.”
“Some of Byon’s stories were in a case that was hidden by Nadine’s old clothes.”
“So whoever took the other documents may not have seen them,” Chris said.
“You started this by mentioning finances. How does that relate?”
“I saw trunks full of dusty old ledgers, but I wasn’t concerned with how much Lord Renlow spent on bacon in 1843.”
“If I were writing a book set in that year, I’d be very interested in that. Money expenditure tells a lot about people.”
“Too right.” He pushed a spiral-bound notebook toward her.
Sara opened it. There were pages of notes about financial transactions, but Chris encouraged her to keep turning until she came to the heading Mary Williams. When Sara looked at him, he nodded, and she read aloud.
“Mary Williams, a widow, was hired as a maid at Oxley in 1948. In one year, she was promoted to head housekeeper and given three pay raises.”
“Sounds like she was really good at her job,” Sara said.
“So good that in 1950, there was a special allowance to pay for her new clothes. Twice.”
“Unusual that the house paid for them.”
“I thought so too,” Chris said.
“There could have been an accident,” Sara said. “One that the house was responsible for and they made amends.”
“True,” Chris said. He turned a page and ran his finger along a line. “December 24, 1950. A midwife was paid for delivering Mary’s child.”
“Ah. She was pregnant and the house paid for her maternity clothes.” Sara leaned forward. “As a fellow researcher, let me guess what you did next. You went to the chapel to see if there were any records of the birth.” Sara’s eyes were sparkling. Historical mysteries were her favorite kind. “What did you find out?”
He picked up his phone and showed her a photo of an entry in the Parish register. Bertram Nicholas Renlow born 24 December 1950. The parents were listed as Hume and Sybilla Renlow.
“Bertram...” Sara whispered.
He showed her another photo. It was of a couple standing by a Christmas tree at Oxley Manor. The man was fastening what looked to be a spectacular diamond necklace around the neck of the woman. She had on a 1950s dress with a portrait neckline that exposed her from the shoulders up. Her belted waist was tiny. Written on the photo was Sybilla and Hume. Christmas. 1950.
“And she gave birth to Bertram the day before? Ha!” Sara leaned back in her chair. “That had to be Mary’s child, but the Renlows claimed him. So what happened to Mary?”
“There was an expense for the burial of Mary Williams four months after she’d given birth.”
“I wonder if Bertram ever knew that his mother was actually the maid? He—” She halted. “But Bertram thought he had a sister?”
“He was their only child.”
“But what about Mary? She was a widow. Did she have any other children?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see any mention of that. There were expenses for children, but I assumed they were the kids of people who worked at Oxley.”
“Exactly,” Sara said. “I’m trying to piece this together into a story. Mary Williams, a widow, gets a job as a maid at Oxley Manor, then she was quickly promoted to head housekeeper.”