Page 5 of One Last Breath

CHAPTER THREE

I wander through the estate, breathing deeply of the richly scented air. I have been on the estate for just over a week now, and I am still amazed at its beauty. The lawns are a rich, vibrant green, and the hedges are perfectly trimmed. The gardens are filled with colorful flowers of all sorts: tulips, roses, marigolds, and daisies. A central dais hosts brilliant yellow sunflowers, and I realize the intent is to represent the actual sun with the rows of colors arranged like the different beams of light the sun emits.

I wonder if James designed the landscape itself or if he hired a gardener to manage it. Of course, he has a full team of landscapers who maintain the massive estate, but is the layout his brainchild or that of the gardener? The Carlton estate that I work at before I work for the Tyler family is a similar work of art, and it is the gardener who is responsible in that case.

My smile fades slightly as I remember Niall, or more specifically, the card he gives me. I have yet to call upon the private investigator whose number he provides me, but the card still sits in my handbag. Perhaps that is why I push Annie from my mind. I’ve finally been given the resources to determine what happened to her, but I fear I won’t like the answers I find.

These thoughts are the same that plague me while I my flight, so I push them from my mind. I am here to do a job. The past is better off left in the past.

Whoever is responsible for the design of this estate is a genius, whether it’s James himself or the gardener. Gates and arbors formed of tall shrubs provide a sense of organization and structure. The statuary is particularly striking, following a Roman theme that adds an air of elegance to the already stunning estate.

The Roman theme to the statuary clashes with the Gothic Moses in the courtyard. It is elegant, but somehow less visceral than the fury in the prophet’s face. The sagacity of their faces seems almost bland compared to the fire of the upraised staff poised to strike the rock.

I sigh and try once more to pull my thoughts back to the present. I am determined not to become embroiled in melancholy here. I am done with that.

I focus on the flowers again, noticing different color schemes at play in the various flower beds, all as carefully planned and executed as the sunburst theme in the central garden. A burst of orange flowers catches my eye, and I approach to get a closer look. The vine they belong to also has deep green leaves and grows over a brick wall constructed to display the flowers. As I get closer, I am greeted with a delightful scent - honeysuckle. I draw in deep breaths, savoring the sweet aroma and letting it drive away the disconcerting image of Moses. Really, who commissioned that fountain, anyway? If the same person responsible for this beauty is responsible for that harsh gargoyle in the courtyard, then perhaps they are not the genius I think them to be.

I follow the hedge to an archway, but as I reach for the wrought iron gate, I hear whispering coming from within. I pause, unsure if I should continue on or turn back.

I should turn back. I’m not really unsure of that. I should turn back and quickly before I find myself confronted with yet another family’s secret.

I stand with my hand resting on the handle of the gate and wrestle with my own mind.

This is foolish. I did well with the Tylers. For the first time since becoming a governess, I was able to simply do my job and avoid entanglements. I accomplished this by being steadfast in my commitment. If I heard anything suspicious, I ignored it. If I caught a look in someone’s eye that suggested suppressed emotions, I minded my own business. I politely declined to take meals with the family, and when lessons were finished for the day, I allowed the Tyler twins to pursue their own activities without hovering over them like a hawk or trying to become some sort of surrogate aunt.

Yet here I stand with my hand on the gate, wondering if I should eavesdrop on a conversation I’m obviously not meant to hear or do the sensible thing and leave it alone.

Annie’s memory—her beautiful, terrible, persistent memory—worms its way into my thoughts.

“Do you ever wonder about mother?”

“About mother? No, why should I?”

Annie shrugs and looks out over the Atlantic. The setting sun lights her hair on fire and bathes her face in shadow. “I just mean, do you wonder about her?”

I sigh. Annie has a tendency to ask broad questions like this that could have thousands of meanings. “I wonder if she’s remembering to take her medicine on occasion. I wonder if she’d prefer the blue slippers or the teal ones when I buy her a fresh pair every winter. I assume that’s not the question you’re asking, though, so perhaps you can clarify.”

Annie rolls her eyes. “Why are you always so literal, Mary?”

I frown, a little miffed. “Why are you always so vague?”

She shrugs again. “I don’t mean to be vague. I just… not all questions are railroads to a definite answer. I only wanted to know if you ever wondered about her.”

I lift my hands and let them drop irritably to my side, then try to make a guess as to her meaning. “Do you mean to ask if I wonder about her health? Yes, I wonder if she takes her medicine. As for her sanity? Well, she’s a mean old witch, but I’m afraid she’s as sharp as she ever was.”

“Relax, Mary,” Annie says. “I was only asking.”

“I don’t know what you were asking, though,” I snap. “You do this all the time. You ask questions for which there are no answers.”

“So what?”

“So what? So, what’s the point of a question that has no answer?”

“What’s the point of needing answers to every question?”

I stand and brush the soil from my skirt. “I’m going home to start on dinner. Try to be back before it’s dark this time.”

Ordinarily, Annie would apologize for upsetting me and plead to walk me home. I would resist for a moment, then relent, and by the time we reached home, we’d be friends again.

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