Bri shifted in her seat to face me. When she caught my eye, she mouthed the words aim high.
I shook my head at her, trying to discourage any crazy idea she had about me mingling with the local aristocracy. That’s why she, the extrovert, was along. I was just here to return the books. She grinned at me and wagged her eyebrows. I got the feeling this was going to be a very long week.
We parked in front of the house and a butler—a butler!—came out to meet us. He appeared to be well into his sixties with thinning silver hair and a face full of wrinkles.
“Good afternoon, Daniels,” Tristan said.
“Mr. Somers.”
“This is Ms. Molly Graham and Ms. Briana Cho from the Museum of Literature in New York,” Tristan said.
“Nice to meet you,” Bri and I spoke at the same time.
Daniels glanced between us and smiled. “And you as well. I’ll have someone retrieve your luggage and, in the meantime, I’ll show you to your rooms. Luncheon will be served on the garden terrace in forty-five minutes.”
Bri and I exchanged a bemused look as we followed Daniels into the house.
“I feel as if I’ve stepped back in time,” Bri said.
“Right there with you,” I agreed.
The thick wooden front door in the shape of an arch opened into a vast foyer with a deeply-veined marble floor polished to a high gloss and an enormous vase of daffodils and paperwhite narcissi on a pedestal table right in the center. We walked around it to the stairs that curved up along the wall overlooking the large receiving room below. Daniels walked at a sedate pace, as if he knew that we needed to gawk and walk.
I thought my eyes were going to bug right out of my head. Huge paintings, primarily landscapes, ran up the wall along the staircase. The thick Aubusson carpet under our feet cushioned the noise of our steps but was so soft it almost felt like stepping on quicksand. I wondered if I’d just sink right through the staircase to the floor below. At the top of the stairs, there was a long landing, which split into three different corridors.
The butler nodded to Tristan and said, “Your usual room has been prepared for you.”
“Thank you, Daniels,” he said. “Ladies, shall I meet you back here at the top of the hour to escort you to lunch?”
“That would be lovely,” Bri said.
“Until then,” Tristan said. He sent Bri a look that positively smoldered before disappearing down the middle hallway.
Daniels turned and led us down the passageway on the left. Portraits of people I presumed were deceased Whitmores lined the walls. I don’t think I imagined their universal expressions of disapproval. At the very end, Daniels opened a door and gestured for Bri to enter then he stepped across the way, opened another door, and waved me into that room.
“You each have a phone to call for service. Please do not hesitate to dial the number one if I may be of assistance in any way,” he said. With a slight bow, Daniels departed.
Bri and I stared at each other for a moment and then we turned and went into our separate rooms. I took two steps and froze. This space was the manifestation of every historical romance novel I had ever read in my life. The walls were painted robin’s egg-blue with decorative white moulding framing each wall. Two large windows overlooked the garden below and both had bench seats big enough for me to lie down on. There was a standing wardrobe in the corner, also in white, and a large four-poster bed, with a canopy. The bedding was white but embroidered with tiny blue flowers the same shade of blue as the walls.
“Have we died?” Bri asked from the doorway.
I burst out laughing. “Right? Because this is heaven.”
She nodded. Her eyes were huge. “My room is exactly the same but in a pale dusty pink.”
“Yeah, we must be dead,” I said.
“Aren’t they going to be surprised when we refuse to leave?” Bri fell back onto the bed and sank fully into the luxurious linens.
I chuckled. This was some serious upscale living. My entire apartment could fit in here. I was quite sure I could never get used to something like this.
Our bags had already arrived, brought up a secret back staircase no doubt. Bri left to get ready for the luncheon and my nervousness thrust into hyper drive as I tried to decide what to wear. I had a feeling the first impression I made was going to be critical.
Since it was a garden luncheon, I went with a cotton-silk blend midi dress in blush. It was simple but elegant and best of all it made me feel confident. I paired it with beige pointy-toed flats and a simple silver cuff bracelet and plain silver hoops. My makeup I kept light with just a tinted moisturizer, mascara, and lip gloss. I found a pale-pink and cocoa-brown silk scarf in my bag and used it to tie my defiant corkscrew curls at the nape of my neck. It was a battle but with enough product, I won. For now.
Finished, I crossed the hall and knocked on Bri’s door. She opened it, wearing a lavender crepe midi dress, which accentuated her slender figure, with canvas wedge heels that tied around her ankles. Her hair was a sleek waterfall of black and her makeup and jewelry were minimal like mine.
“You look fantastic,” I said.
“So do you.” She beamed at me. “I think we represent the museum very well.”
I crossed my fingers and held them up. “I hope so. Director Macintosh was very clear that she wants us to build a rapport with the Whitmores so they’ll lend more materials to the museum. Rumor has it they have a rare book vault that is one of the best in the world. So, no pressure.”
“Right.” Bri bit her lip. We linked arms and strode toward the landing where Tristan was to meet us.
It might have been my nerves and introverted tendencies making me drag my feet, but I found plenty of reasons to stall on our walk to the garden terrace. Portraits of long dead Whitmores, objets d’art, like a vase I was quite certain came from one of the Ming dynasties, and other assorted items covered the walls and tabletops. When we passed the library, I dug in my heels.
“Molly, we have to go,” Bri said. “We’re going to be late.”
“I just want to peek inside,” I haggled.
“No.” Bri glanced at Tristan. “Help me. If she puts one toe in there, she’ll never make it to lunch.”
“That’s not true,” I argued. “You say that as if I don’t have any control around books.”
“You don’t,” Bri said. “Which is why we’re here to keep you on task.”
They each took one of my arms and I was escorted, much like a prisoner, down a long hallway and out the open French doors onto an immense raised terrace that was surrounded by wide garden beds, boasting gorgeous tulips in every hue I could imagine and some that defied my imagination.
Several tables were set with crisp white linens and colorful centerpieces of tulips freshly clipped, I suspected, from the surrounding beds. There were place settings with name cards at each seat and Tristan led us through them to a table that overlooked the immaculate gardens and verdant lawn.
Several guests were standing in clusters of conversation on the terrace while waiters in navy slacks and white shirts moved among them with glasses of wine and beer. A waiter stopped by our group, but I declined, knowing that a drink would have me snoring in my salad as I was fighting the jet lag that had me in a choke hold.
“I believe you’re seated here with our hosts, Earl Whitmore, and his grandson, Viscount Insley,” Tristan said.