And yet, I think there’s more to discover.
One morning, when Collins brings in my breakfast, I ask him if he likes his job here. To me, it seems like an off-the-cuff question, but he stops in his tracks and turns to me with his thick white brows pinched together above his eyes.
“Of course. Why do you ask?”
“I’m just curious. I… Cornelia asks so much of you all, and I—”
“And if she didn’t ask, what then? I’d be out of a job.”
I blink rapidly, taking in his words.
“I didn’t mean to offend you.”
His expression softens and he nods. “My parents both worked at Rosethorn before me. My father was Edward Cromwell’s butler, my mother Cornelia’s lady’s maid. They were both rewarded handsomely for their servitude and loyalty, and I’ve found the same home for myself here. Cornelia might be traditional and formal in her home, but she’s also one of the most generous humans I’ve ever known.”
As if the universe isn’t done proving that point, Collins’ words are hammered home over the next few days.
On Monday, Cornelia opens her doors to the children of St. Michael’s Day School so they can use her blue drawing room for music lessons. All morning the sound of children singing fills the house. Tuesday, Cornelia welcomes the Historical Society of Newport for a luncheon and lecture about preserving the Gilded Age mansions along Bellevue Avenue, Rosethorn being among them. I sit in for the meeting and take notes. On Thursday, during tea, Cornelia sits down with a slightly hysterical woman. She’s stressed about the fact that the venue has fallen through for the Breast Cancer Research Foundation annual luncheon, and without missing a beat, Cornelia offers up Rosethorn’s gardens.
“We’ll host it here. Have your planners coordinate with Diane.”
“I can help too,” I volunteer.
The woman turns to me with tears in her eyes, and Cornelia nods. “Yes, perfect. Maren will sit in during our planning meetings and help me remember the details. She’s very good at taking notes.”
I can’t be sure, but I think she’s making fun of me for that historical society meeting. Then her wink confirms it.
“You two are absolute angels. You have no idea how much this means to me and to the organization.”
Later that day, I’m helping Cornelia organize her closet so we can pull a few items for Dress for Success, or at least that’s how it started. We did stack up a large pile of blazers and slacks and sensible heels, but now we’re just playing dress-up, putting on the most ridiculous accessories we can find.
“You look like a movie star in those,” she assures me as I tip a pair of cat eye sunglasses down the bridge of my nose and give her a teasing wink over the top of them. “You have to keep them.”
“No way. They’re Chanel,” I say. “Even I know that brand.”
“Yes, and I haven’t worn them in years. Better that you take them.”
I slide the glasses off and put them right back where I found them, pointing to a small box in the corner of the room as a way to distract her from the topic.
“What are those?”
The box I’m referring to is overflowing with plaques and awards. Two or three have actually tumbled out and are leaning against the side of the cardboard container. When I step closer, I see they’re from all different organizations: the Audubon Society of Newport, the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society, the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. Words like Top Donor and Woman of the Year stand out along with Cornelia’s name.
She shrugs like it’s nothing. “People love doling out accolades.”
“Maybe you deserved them.”
“Perhaps, or maybe it’s just one’s duty to give back and contribute to the world. I don’t think I necessarily need a pat on the back for doing so.”
“Cleary,” I say, dusting one of them off. “I can’t believe you have these stuffed in here like this.”
“And what should I do with them? Hang them around my neck?” She snorts, and it’s the most unladylike thing I’ve ever seen her do.
I can’t help but laugh.
She shoos me away from the box. “Now, go down and ask Collins for a bag for all these clothes. You and I can drop them at the donation center on our way into town.”
Later, when I return to my room to read before dinner, I find a small envelope sitting on my bedside table. I frown, at first thinking it might be a letter from Ariana—not that she’s ever written to me—but there’s no address printed on the front, only my name in swooping cursive.
Ms. Maren Mitchell.
Inside is a paycheck made out to me. The amount makes my heart drop: more than three thousand dollars for two weeks of work. Work—ha.
My hand trembles as I look at the dollar amount again. I think of how far the money could get me. I dream of all the things I could spend it on. And then the moment passes, my stomach squeezes tight, and I open my bedside drawer, depositing the paycheck and the envelope inside.
8
Nicholas
When I arrive at Rosethorn on Saturday afternoon, the grounds have already been taken over by delivery trucks and auxiliary staff, preparing the house for my grandmother’s ball. I was meant to arrive last night, but I couldn’t get away from work until this morning. I park on the gravel drive to the right of the house and step outside, breathing deep. I’m reluctant to leave the ocean breeze, but I’m hungry, and the first item on my agenda is to go down into the kitchen and see what Chef is whipping up for tonight. Surely he needs a taste tester.
I’m stopped by every member of the staff I cross paths with, hugging them and telling them I’m glad to be back. I stay away from Newport in the winters, like a bear going into hibernation, except instead of sleeping, I’m working.
I’m striding down the back hall, which is usually reserved for employees, headed toward the kitchen when I notice music drifting out from the blue drawing room. I stop and listen, finding the sound comforting after so many months away. It’s not uncommon for Rosethorn to be filled with music, and my grandmother has always had a soft spot for the piano. She forced me into lessons as a child, but I had no patience for reading music and sitting still. I’d clonk and clank my way through a thirty-minute lesson, always watching the clock and missing keys as my teacher chided me. The moment the hour hand announced the end of our time together, I’d escape to the gardens, running like a fugitive from the law.
When I make it to the kitchen, I spot Collins conferring with Chef, no doubt going over all the food they’ll have for the ball. There are a dozen more people in here than usual, staff they’ve brought in for today to assist in the preparations.
When Collins sees me, he smiles and heads over to greet me. We shake hands and pat each other’s backs—nothing overly sentimental, but I know it’s his way of letting me know he’s happy to see me.
“You look well,” he says, inspecting me from every angle. “Though that hair could use a good trim.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry, I plan on getting it cut before tonight. Has my grandmother started to allow St. Michael’s here on the weekends as well?” I ask, nodding in the direction of the music.