Page 16 of One Last Lie

I thought at first that Isabella might be the most difficult one to reach because of her vulnerable age, but now I wonder if Elijah will be harder. At sixteen, he is developing into a man, and he won’t accept the need for comfort the way Samuel does so easily. He isn’t desperate to talk the way Isabella is, so he won’t be motivated to open up the way she was once she finally accepted that I truly cared for her. His instinct is to run from others and hide his emotions away. That is an incredibly difficult instinct to overcome.

Wrestling with these thoughts has the opposite effect on me. I find myself utterly unable to sleep.

So, I choose to walk. While I consider myself a reasonably brave woman, my bravery isn’t such that I feel comfortable walking among the barren trees of the grounds alone. So, I explore the house a little more.

I find a new room on the second floor of the north wing. One of the storage closets—this one containing enough linens to coat the entire house in fabric—has a smaller closet at its rear. I open this one and gasp.

The room is small, perhaps the size of an ordinary closet. It is an ordinary closet, in fact. A rack stretches across the interior. On the rack hang over a dozen dresses, all of the finest silk and wool. The dresses range from low-cut evening gowns that stretch the limits of modesty to warm winter outfits that must cost thousands of dollars each.

I also find a box on the floor of the closet filled with jewelry. Diamond earrings, pearl necklaces, bracelets with all manner of precious stones. I don’t even want to think about how much money is represented here.

Where could all this have come from? Why is it here? The dresses are the wrong size to fit Cecilia. I can’t believe that Johnathan was cheating on her, but after all I didn’t know the man. My desire to think of him as a perfect father and husband is motivated by my compassion for the children.

I recall Cecilia’s words to me my first morning here. “For all you know, he was a cold monster who terrorized my every waking moment and made the children’s lives a living hell.”

But why would these be here in a storage closet in the servant’s wing? Could Theresa have stolen these? The woman is far from pleasant in my limited experience, but could she really have stolen from the family she’s worked decades for?

I shake my head. It’s late. I’m tired. Suspecting Theresa of theft is serious. It’s not an accusation I can make right now. I need to rest and approach this issue from a calmer frame of mind.

I close the box and carefully place it back where I found it. Then I head upstairs to my room. In the morning, I’ll have a better idea of how to act on what I’ve just discovered.

After what I’ve just seen, I fear sleep will be a long time in coming to me tonight, but exhaustion overpowers my concern, and I quickly fall into a dreamless slumber.

CHAPTER SIX

I finally meet Paolo the next morning at breakfast. I head downstairs at six a.m. as always to prepare myself coffee but find a swarthy, barrel-chested gentleman with long hair gathered in a bun in the kitchen.

He looks at me and nods very formally. “You must be Mary Wilcox.”

I blush a little. Given his exotic look, I expected him to speak with an accent, but his tone is that of a perfectly average New Yorker.

“I am,” I reply. “And you are the elusive Paolo.”

He chuckles softly and turns back to the coffee. I notice with gratitude that he’s measuring whole beans into a burr grinder so he can make the coffee in a French press. “We’re not used to new people here.”

“I can understand that. How long have you been with the family?”

“Eighteen years. Ever since Johnathan married Cecilia.”

“Ah. Were you recommended by her?”

“No.”

He offers no further explanation. It seems that, as usual, I must be the one to carry the conversation. “I suppose Johnathan simply wanted to impress Cecilia.”

“He cared for her. He wanted her to have the best. I am a classically trained chef. It takes a lifetime of training to cook like me.” His frown deepened. “Though it is wasted on the children.” He gives me a dry look and says, “I gave up a job serving duck confit to billionaires to serve macaroni and cheese to the children of a billionaire. I wonder sometimes what I am doing with my life.”

“I’m sure it’s the most delicious macaroni and cheese any child has ever tasted.”

He guffaws briefly and says, “Well, I tried. But they prefer the stuff that comes out of a box.”

“Good God.” My reaction isn’t entirely feigned.

He shrugs theatrically. “What can I do? They grow up watching their television and it tells them to eat what the children on the shows they watch eat. Never mind that it is not fit for swine.”

“Well, we can’t allow that. Miss Cecilia has entrusted the care of these children to me, and I won’t have them eating that swill. I insist that you make them roast duck tonight and serve it in a manner that befits a chef of your caliber. They must not live life eating only swill.”

He looks at me as though I am a goddess, and I must admit, I blush a little. Then he grins widely. “Madam Wilcox, I apologize for not meeting you sooner. I shall make these children such a dinner that they will never want macaroni and cheese again.”

---