My internal warnings fall on completely deaf ears. It’s as if my brain and my body are on two different wavelengths. My body wants a break. My body sees this fancy room and that wonderfully large bed with all its fluffy pillows and it wants it, fine print be damned.
My brain decides one night can’t hurt. I’ll just give myself a little more time to think it over. I walk over to the desk and pick up the phone so I can call Mrs. Buchanan to tell her I won’t be there for my shift later, but it’s not as easy as it sounds. I punch in the telephone number to the nursing home but am met with a heavy dial tone no matter how many times I try it. Eventually, with a frustrated growl, I set down the receiver and give up, walking over to the pair of windows that overlook the back half of the property.
Cornelia’s rose garden is the largest I’ve ever seen. It’s situated on the left side, encompassing a good portion of the yard. It’s symmetrically laid out along a long gravel path, trimmed with tiny boxwoods that delineate one variety of rose from another. There must be more than thirty different kinds, ranging from vibrant orange to deep red to pale pink. A gardener is out there now, tending them with gloved hands.
I stand there watching him for a good while—paralyzed by indecision—before I give in, take the apple and the book out of my purse, and sit down on the settee to read.
As promised, Rita returns to help me get dressed. The poofy pink gown she has hanging over her arm catches my attention right away.
“Is that for me?”
She smiles. “If it fits.”
“Can’t I just wear what I already have on?”
Her smile fades, and it’s obvious she’s horrified by the suggestion. “Cornelia has requested dinner in the formal dining room, and guests are expected to dress appropriately.”
I don’t argue. I take a seat in front of the vanity at Rita’s suggestion and let her treat me like a doll. I never got my hair or makeup done for special occasions when I was growing up, so I’m not sure what to expect as she pulls out a curling iron, heats it up, and starts to brush out my long hair.
Then she opens the drawers of the vanity to reveal an array of makeup, all of which is brand new.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror as it slowly transforms. Green eyes, which I always thought were my best feature, are made to appear even bigger and brighter with the right shades of eyeshadow. Blush sweeps across my high cheekbones. A dusky red stain paints my lips. She leaves my hair down but pins it back on one side, pushing most of the long curls over the other shoulder.
“You’re so good at this,” I tell her, in awe. I don’t usually bother doing anything with my hair. It’s so long and thick, most days I just throw it up into a ponytail.
“I’ve done Cornelia’s hair for years, and when Judith was young, I styled her hair as well.”
“Judith?” I ask, trying to recall if I met a Judith today.
“Mrs. Cromwell’s late daughter.”
“Oh.”
I didn’t realize her daughter had passed away.
She meets my eyes in the mirror and smiles gently. “I think she’ll be very pleased by your appearance tonight. You’re a beautiful young woman.”
Beautiful.
What a word.
She’s right though; the person in the mirror does look beautiful. Oh, sure, I’ve thought I looked pretty before, but always in a thrown together sort of way. Never as beautiful as this, never quite so delicate and soft. I wonder what my parents would say if they could see me now.
“Now let’s get you dressed and hope that gown fits.”
Fortunately, it does, though it’s a little snug in the chest and long at the hemline. Rita doesn’t have any shoes for me to wear, so I’m forced to put my tennis shoes back on. Fortunately, the bottom of the dress conceals them most of the time. I think it looks totally ridiculous even still, but Rita assures me it’s fine as she ushers me out of the room.
“I’ll take you down to the dining room so you aren’t late.”
I follow after her, aware that we’re heading down a wing of the house I didn’t see earlier. More doors and hallways branch off on either side. Paintings, sculptures, floral arrangements—there isn’t a single wasted space in the whole house.
We turn down another hall, one with paintings in gilded frames all arranged at the same height on the wall. Most paintings I’ve seen in the house look like scenes from history or mythology. These are different.
“This is the Cromwell family portrait gallery,” Rita says, slowing her pace to match mine.
I pass women in huge vintage gowns posed in front of fireplaces, men wearing three-piece suits while dogs lie submissively at their feet. The portrait at the end of the row catches my eye more than the others, and I stop, curious.
The painting is of a young teenage boy standing at the front of a large sailboat with his chin raised and his eyes focused off into the distance. My first thought is that he looks like some great leader or conqueror, which is silly because he can’t be older than thirteen or fourteen in the image. At that age, I looked dweeby, I’m sure. Nothing like this.
“That’s Mr. Hunt, Cornelia’s grandson,” Rita says, circling back to stand behind me.
Ah, that explains the confidence. He was born into this world. He doesn’t need to conquer it; it’s already his.
“He wouldn’t sit for the image,” she continues, “so Cornelia had to send off a photo of him to the artist in Italy. Still, I think he captured his likeness well enough. Isn’t he handsome?”
No. He’s not. And it’s not just because I’m not attracted to boys barely starting puberty; it’s his entire demeanor. The haughty look in his eyes. The sharp cut of his jaw.
“He looks cruel.”
“Ah, it’s the hair. Jet black, just like his father’s.”
“Does he visit Cornelia often?”
“Oh yes. He’s a lawyer in New York City, but during the summer he’s here off and on. You’ll meet him soon enough.”
For some inane reason, a shiver runs down my spine.
“Right this way.” Rita prods me along, away from the portrait. “We don’t want to keep Cornelia waiting.”
In the formal dining room, Cornelia sits at the head of the table in a simple square-cut dark green dress with the same sage green scarf from earlier draped over her shoulders. She’s speaking to an older, well-dressed servant with a thin frame and stark white hair who’s standing beside her chair. Rita deposits me on the threshold and then excuses herself.
Cornelia gazes up at me from beneath her brows, and then my appearance forces her to lift her head and take me in fully.
She unfurls a wide smile. “Beautiful. Rita did such a wonderful job with you, but of course, you were marvelous to begin with. Come. Come sit.”
The man at her right pulls out the chair beside her and I rush over to take the seat, not wanting to keep him waiting. Once I sit, he pushes me toward the table, and Cornelia prompts him to bring the first course. I catch that his name is Collins—the man from the phone.
His footsteps carry him out of the room, and Cornelia smiles at me.
“That dress looks lovely on you. You have such a nice warm complexion. You can get away with wearing any color you want, though I still think you’d do well to stay away from yellow. I’d like to see you in green next, I think—something that matches your eyes.”