Page 2 of One Last Lie

The house is warm, but still I shiver.

CHAPTER ONE

I wake at six a.m., as I always do. The vague unease I feel the afternoon before when I arrive remains with me as I dress. I’m not sure at first what it is that leaves me still feeling uneasy. Inside, the house is not so forbidding as the outside would suggest. Still, I can’t shake the feeling of disquiet as I leave the room and begin my first day of employment with the Ashfords.

Today being my first with the family, I believe I will use it to acquaint myself with my employer and my charges. Mrs. Ashford stated in my interview that their personal chef would be responsible for the children’s meals, so I need only ensure that they are awake and ready for breakfast by seven-thirty each morning.

The children’s rooms are near mine, obviously, so in the future, I will be able to reach and rouse them quickly, but as it is still early, I choose to familiarize myself with the house.

From the outside, Ashford Manor appears very large. From the inside, those dimensions grow to cavernous. I am no stranger to wealth, having grown up in a very rich family myself, but while our family home was certainly far more spacious than most homes, it is absolutely dwarfed by the manor. Not that a person’s wealth matters. If anything, it’s only another shell that says more about a person than it hides. My parents were certainly no better than anyone else for all their money.

The home consists of a central home with two wings, one each to the north and south. I and the children are in the south wing. Mrs. Ashford, of course, has the master suite in the central home. The other servants reside in quarters in the north wing. All the bedrooms are on the top floor, it appears.

The second floor is dominated by a theater with a nineteen-foot-screen and seating for over sixty people. Its modernity is a striking and rather aesthetically unpleasant contrast to the overall aged appearance of the house. Behind this theater, the only other structure is a large, covered balcony which reveals the grounds beyond.

The first floor of the north wing contains a vast library that opens directly into a study with a massive mahogany desk and shelves full of even more books. Beyond that is a gallery with a surprisingly modest collection of paintings and sculptures.

I make my way to the south wing and find the kitchen. Like the theater, it is a thoroughly modern affair and it’s somewhat disconcerting to leave the dark hues of the foyer and enter the polished metal sheen of the appliances and countertops in here.

Beyond the kitchen is a grand dining room with a twenty-five-foot table surrounded by thirty chairs. Three massive chandeliers hang over the table, and the floor is of hardwood polished almost as brightly as the stainless steel in the kitchen.

After that dining room is a much smaller one with much more modest dining furniture arranged for six people. It’s at this table that I see Cecilia Ashford, sitting alone holding her cell phone, a cup of coffee cooling next to her.

“Now is not the time for this conversation, Elena,” she says into the phone. “Johnathan is barely a month in the ground, and you want to talk about a succession plan?” After a pause, she says, “The business is running itself quite nicely. Unless you’re telling me that the financial reports I’ve received from the board are in error.”

I clear my throat, and her eyes snap up to me. “I have to go, Elena.” She hangs up and frowns. “What are you doing here?”

I manage a smile and say, “I always wake at six. I thought I would familiarize myself with the house.”

She looks at me a moment longer, than says, “Come join me, Miss Wilcox.”

I find my voice and nod. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I sit across from her and smile. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“No need to be sorry,” she replies. “There’s nothing you could do to make my life any worse right now.”

I want to ask who she was talking to on the phone, but I don’t feel it’s my place. Instead, I only say, “I am so sorry for your loss.”

“You know, I’ve been hearing that a lot,” she says. “I’m sorry for your loss. I wonder, is anyone truly sorry?”

“I am.”

“Why? You didn’t know him. For all you know, he was a cold monster who terrorized my every waking moment and made the children’s lives a living hell.”

I smile compassionately at her. “Even if that were true—and something tells me it isn’t—the loss of a fixture in someone’s life is tragic and very difficult to overcome. Were Johnathan a monster, his loss would create a vacuum that you and your children would have to fill with no knowledge of how to do so. Were he, as I suspect, a loving father and a devoted husband, then he has left behind a hole that may never properly be filled. So, I am sorry.”

She searches my face a moment, then says, “You think yourself very wise, don’t you, Miss Wilcox.”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve just been around for a while. When you live life long enough, you observe enough that some things start making sense. Not everything, but some things.”

She says nothing for a moment. I’m about to apologize again for interrupting her when she says, “I’m sorry. I’ve been quite rude. Would you like some coffee?”

I stand and say, “I would, and I would like you to sit here while I bring it and some more for you.”

She gives me a look that might be a smile. I can’t tell if it’s motivated by gratitude or amusement. “Very well.”

I return to the kitchen and brew fresh coffee. If nothing else, I’ll have a moment to gather my thoughts.

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