My eyes widen. “University? No. No, I work for Cornelia.”
“In what capacity?” Dr. Reynolds asks, curious.
Cornelia steps in to answer before I can, no doubt because she realizes I would botch the answer.
“She’s my right-hand woman. She’s helping me run Rosethorn, and more than that, she’s a friend and guest in my home. I’ve taken her under my wing, so to say.”
“How lovely. I can only imagine how difficult it is to manage one of these Gilded Age mansions. I’ve been telling you for years that you needed to take on a conservator.”
Cornelia drops her hand to my shoulder. “Well, with any luck, Maren will fit the bill.”
On our way into the dining room, Tori bumps into me with a wink. “You didn’t tell me you work for Cornelia. I thought you were a family friend or grandniece or something.”
I blanche. “Sorry, yeah. Yup.” I rock back on my heels a bit awkwardly. “I’m her employee.”
She laughs. “There’s nothing to feel weird about.”
I arch a brow, curious to push the subject. “You don’t mind hanging out with the help?”
She looks horrified. “Do I seem that stuck-up to you? I’ll have you know I work too. I manage an art gallery just up the road.”
“That’s awesome. I should come by sometime!”
“Oh, you like art?”
I shrug. “I think I do. Paintings and stuff?”
What’s not to like?
“We deal primarily in contemporary sculptures.”
“That too,” I assure her, having absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.
We all take our places at the table, and I’m doing an internal victory dance over the fact that Nicholas couldn’t make it in time for dinner when I spot movement out in the hall. I look over, and my jaw drops. How? How is he here?! He’s walking down the grand staircase, cinching his black tie tighter around his neck. He smooths it down against his chest and glances up, finding all of our attention on him.
He looks freshly showered and shaved, tan and horrifyingly handsome in his black suit.
How did he possibly sneak in here without me knowing?
“I’m sorry I’m running late,” he says, strolling into the room and walking right behind my chair on his path to get to Cornelia. My breath catches in my chest, and I don’t release a slow exhalation until he passes back into my line of sight.
He leans down to give her a kiss on the cheek, and she stares up at him adoringly as he rounds the table and takes his seat beside Tori.
“Nonsense. We haven’t even started. You remember Dr. Reynolds, don’t you?” Cornelia asks, extending her hand toward her guest. “From the university?”
“Of course. It’s good to see you,” he says, nodding in greeting.
Cornelia continues, “And Lydia and Tori, you know, of course. That only leaves our dear Maren. I hope you two were able to get acquainted last weekend, at the ball? I saw you talking outside.”
My attention is on my place setting as I will my heart to slow down.
“Yes.”
One word from him and my blood threatens to burst through my veins. I can’t look up despite feeling everyone’s gaze on me.
Collins and Bruce save the day with offerings of wine and champagne. Nicholas asks for a finger of whiskey, and I sit there, numb.
“And for you, ma’am?” Bruce asks.
His voice shocks me out of my stupor.
“Oh, water is fine. Thank you.”
I don’t trust myself with anything else.
“Tell me more about your upbringing, Maren,” Dr. Reynolds goads. “I’m curious. What school did you attend in Providence?”
“I moved schools a few times,” I say with a tight smile, hoping someone will pick up the conversation and run with it.
Alas, Lydia pipes up. “St. Andrew’s is in Providence—didn’t you have a friend who went there?” she asks Tori.
“Cassie, yes. She liked it a lot.”
“I didn’t attend St. Andrew’s,” I say, putting the question to rest. “Or any other private school, for that matter.”
The table goes silent.
“And what about your parents?” Dr. Reynolds presses. “Did they not value your education?”
I laugh at the ridiculous question but then restrain myself once I see she’s absolutely serious. “Of course they did. They simply couldn’t afford to send me to any of those schools.”
“What do they do for a living?” Lydia asks.
Had I known I’d be on the receiving end of 21 questions, I wouldn’t have come down for dinner. Still, I force myself to answer, not wanting to offend Cornelia’s guests. Besides, they’re only curious. I would be too. It’s obvious I’m the odd man out in this room.
“My parents were bohemians, I guess you could say. My mother was a writer, though she never had anything published, and my father was a musician. Between them, I don’t think they had two nickels to rub together. I learned from them, though—more than I ever did at school. We were one of those odd families that didn’t have a TV at home. Looking back, they probably couldn’t afford it.” I look up, somewhat expecting no one to be paying me any attention, but everyone stares, enraptured, so I continue, “No TV meant there was more time for everything else, reading, mostly. We had stacks of old books lining the walls in our living room. My mom had an arrangement with the public library. Every few months, she’d buy a box of books they were trying to get rid of for $5, sight unseen. It was so fun to open that box because we were never quite sure what would be inside. Cookbooks, children’s books, old textbooks barely held together with tape, encyclopedias, erotica…” There are a few titters around the table and a pointed smile from Cornelia. “Anyway, we’d rifle through it together, laying claim. I wasn’t picky. I couldn’t afford to be, I guess.”
“Sounds wonderful. You must have really fostered a love for the written word,” Dr. Reynolds tells me with a smile.
“I did.”
“Reminds me of my Nicky,” Cornelia says. “He was such a voracious reader growing up. Sometimes we couldn’t even get him to come down to dinner he was so absorbed in whatever book had caught his attention that day.”
He doesn’t speak up to confirm the statement, his presence a silent force so easily molded by my own insecurities. I take his quiet perusal of me as judgment, his stern expression to mean he was disappointed to have arrived and found me still here, in his realm. I feel distinctly other sitting at the table with the rest of them, unsure of myself as I reach for my water glass, embarrassed to find that my hand is shaky with nerves.
I only work up the courage to glance in his direction a few times during dinner, and it’s only when I’m confident his attention is pulled elsewhere. I watch while he leans in to say something to Tori, and her resulting smile is an enigma to me. I want to lean forward and plead with her to share his words. Tell me what he said. Tell me what it’s like to sit there and have him lean in close to you like that. I don’t think I’d survive.
When the final course is cleared, Cornelia looks to me with a pleading expression. “Maren, if you’re feeling up for it, I was hoping you’d play a song or two for us on the piano.”