“I can’t help but notice you didn’t bring any of your things with you today,” she says, holding my gaze. “Did Frank already take your bags?”
“Bags?”
“Yes, with your clothes and toiletries.”
“I didn’t know I was supposed to bring any of that with me.”
I’m still wearing my red purse. It’s all I thought I needed.
“Yes, well, no need. I would have likely had Collins toss most everything into the furnace anyway. What are those things you have on your legs?”
I look down in confusion.
“Jeans?”
Surely she’s seen denim before.
She furrows her brow. “They have so many holes in them. Is that because you’ve had them for so long they’re threadbare?”
I smile. “No, it’s the style.”
“Style.” She bats away the suggestion like it offends her. “No, dear, I’m afraid that’s not quite the right word.”
I can’t help but laugh. She’s clearly not much for subtlety. Maybe in some people that would rub me the wrong way, but with her I find it refreshing.
She reaches back to pick up her phone and dials out again. “Rita, can you come to the blue drawing room, please? I’d like you to show Maren to her suite.”
My mouth opens to correct her, but I wait until she’s hung up.
“I don’t need a suite.”
I’ve already put her out enough as it is.
That seems to upset her. “So you aren’t taking the job?”
“We haven’t even talked about a job,” I push. “Not really. You’ve fed me tea and cookies and mentioned I’d be your companion, but we haven’t talked about references or past job experience or…” I look away, slightly ashamed to bring it up. “Pay.”
“Of course. How rude of me not to mention that earlier. I think we’ll start with an allowance of one hundred a year and work up from there. Though if you think you’d need more, I’m sure we could figure something out.”
My jaw is gaping open so wide I’m surprised there’s no rug burn on my chin. “One hundred thousand?”
“Yes, dear.”
I blink rapidly as dollar signs swirl in my head. That’s more money than I’d earn in three years working at Holly Home. She can’t be serious.
“And as far as references, Annette had nothing but wonderful things to say about you, and I’ve witnessed your work ethic firsthand. I’m convinced you’ll make a splendid fit.”
A moment later, another maid appears in the doorway, and Cornelia turns to address her. “Rita, would you mind installing Maren in the rose garden suite?”
Rita is an older woman with bright red hair streaked with gray. Her round rosy cheeks become more pronounced when she smiles wide. “Of course. We prepared it for her arrival this morning as requested.”
None of this sounds right.
“Where does the rest of your staff stay?” I ask. They can’t all have their own suites here…can they?
“Women are up on the third floor. Men are down below,” Cornelia replies, as if it’s a completely commonplace explanation.
“Then I’d like a room on the third floor, please.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. I don’t need a room. I haven’t agreed to stay—I’m not staying. It’s just that if I were going to stay, I’d want to be with all the other staff members.
My request isn’t granted.
“I admire your tact. As a guest, it’s unseemly to overburden one’s host. That’s a lesson you’d do well to remember. But the rose garden suite is already made up, so it will do. Rita? Would you mind finishing Maren’s tour before you show her to her room? I’d like her to get the lay of the land so she isn’t reluctant to explore on her own if she should feel the urge.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Then Cornelia stands and tosses one end of her lightweight sage green scarf over her shoulder. “I’d do it myself, but I’m late for the club. Lydia is expecting me. You’ll meet her soon, and her granddaughter is about your age. I think you two will get along famously. Dinner tonight is at eight PM in the formal dining room. I’ll expect you to look nice. Rita will instruct you.”
Then she’s gone, sauntering out of the drawing room with regal confidence, and I’m left wondering if any of this is real. The house, the conversation, the amazingly delicious finger sandwiches—the sheer decadence of it all has cast such a dreamlike quality over the day that I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find myself right back on my bunk at the group home, late for a shift at Holly Home.
Outside the drawing room, I follow Rita through the marbled hall, past busts resting on ornate pedestals and underneath excessively large chandeliers, each more detailed than the last. In the front hall, where I originally entered the house, Rita leads me up a carpeted grand staircase that branches off in two directions.
She’s explaining the origins of one of the tapestries on the walls, and my mind can’t keep up.
“Would it be okay if we skipped the tour?” I ask tentatively. “I’m a little tired.”
She gives me an emphatic nod. “Of course. Your bed is made, so you can lie down on the settee in your room if you’d like. Or if you prefer, I can turn down the bed and you can rest there.”
I don’t even know what a settee is, but I still say, “The settee will be fine, I’m sure. Thank you though.”
She takes me down one of the long hallways that runs parallel to the cliffs outside. It’s the first time I’ve seen the back yard, and I realize now why all the wealthy families must have decided to build their houses here all those years ago. We’re right on the ocean. The manicured lawn sprawls forever until suddenly, it drops off to the cliffs below, the bright green grass giving way to blue ocean tinged with teal. Above it, a pale blue cloudless sky. It’s like stepping into an oil painting.
“Your room has a similar view,” Rita assures me, urging me along.
I follow after her, but my attention stays outside as I wonder how it’s possible that some people get so lucky. Cornelia wakes up to this view every day. I shake my head in wonder before hurrying my steps to catch up to Rita.
As promised, the windows in my room face the ocean, but they also provide a sweeping view of the rose gardens below, hence the name of my suite, I suppose. In early summer, the roses are in full bloom, but that’s only one of the things drawing my curiosity.
The room itself matches the ornateness of the rest of the house, and somehow, that’s shocking to me. The furniture in here looks old and breakable. Carved antique chairs sit beside a large armoire that could easily house everything I own.
The decor is not exactly my taste. It’s extremely girly and decadent with floral wallpaper covering all four walls. The pink striped drapes over the windows coordinate perfectly, as do the linens on the four-poster canopied bed. It’s a room fit for a princess.
“What do you think?” Rita asks, standing near the door as I turn in a slow circle inside the room.
“It’s really pretty, but so…fancy.”
She laughs lightly. “Most of the furniture are heirlooms, yes. That writing desk belonged to Cornelia’s mother. It was brought over from France.”