Page 5 of One Last Secret

“Nonsense. I can’t let a lady lift such heavy suitcases up the stairs by herself.”

I am about to insist, but the suitcasesarevery heavy, and the staircase is one of those narrow circular ones that I find quite beautiful and also quite challenging to navigate. “Thank you. You’re too kind.”

He rushes down the stair, making so much noise I wonder how her daughter can sleep through it. He returns just as fast, seeming not to feel the weight of the suitcases. He might be thin, but he’s far from frail.

I can see that he intends to carry the suitcases straight to the room, so I rush ahead of him to avoid being stampeded. I open the door, and he sets the suitcases next to the bed, then turns to me and grasps my hand, shaking vigorously.

“Good night, Mary. A true pleasure to meet you.”

He rushes from the room before I can reply. I chuckle to myself and open the suitcases. As I unpack, I feel high hopes that this stay will be a break from the sorrow and intrigue of my other positions. Yet the images of those statues, not-quite-human, intrude on my mind as they intrude on the perfection of this house.

It’s as though they say to me that they are perfectly at home here. It is I who don’t belong.

CHAPTER TWO

I wake early, as I always do. The morning light filters gently through my windows. They face the west, so the light is soft and gray, made softer and grayer by the dense cloud layer that has moved in over the night.

I don’t like gray, but I feel a sense of peace come over me as I dress. My bedroom walls are paneled with the same varnished gray hardwood as the exterior of the house, and the floor is a softer brown than the living room. Despite the varnish, the texture is muted rather than bright. The furniture is of oak and like the walls and the floor is unstained but coated in a thin layer of varnish. The bed is a plush queen, and the quilt is filled with down and immaculately hand-stitched. The pillow is a gel foam that makes me regret leaving it. It comes with a private bathroom as well, floored in sensible white tile with somewhat less sensible granite countertops. It is small but has enough room for the toilet, sink, shower and small vanity.

Overall, the room, like the house, is cozy. I step onto the balcony to see if the view can match it.

It’s beautiful, but I wouldn’t say it’s cozy. Looking down, I can see that the lower floor’s deck extends for several yards beyond the balconies of the upper floors. A wooden fence encloses each deck, and the lower floor’s has a gate that leads to a steep path with wooden steps set in the dirt. The path leads down to the cove, a narrow but deep inlet that extends for half a mile beyond the house on either side, widening considerably when it reaches the ocean. Rocks at its more distant end moderate the crashing waves, leaving the water that enters the cove far calmer. I don’t see sand or a beach of any sort near the bottom, but from this angle, it might be hidden.

It's peaceful, but with the ocean crashing a half mile away and the path so steep with no sign of a plateau or landing, I feel the same sense of foreboding that comes over me during the drive. I head back inside, keeping my eyes firmly fixed ahead. I am determined not to allow superstition to cloud my thoughts.

Downstairs is still empty. I head to the kitchen to see what’s available for breakfast. My compensation includes board, so I’m not stealing or trespassing.

I am greatly relieved when I look at the statues and no longer feel disturbed by them. They’re out of place and perhaps a little garish, but they’re not omens of darkness. I laugh at myself a little as I start coffee. Sometimes I am as imaginative and flighty as a girl.

I make eggs and toast with jam for breakfast. When Celeste wakes, I’ll make her food as well. She retires early the night before, so I assume she’ll wake early.

She doesn’t. Neither does Victor. Neither does Evelyn, the housekeeper I have yet to meet. I finish breakfast and coffee and wash my dishes alone.

I check my watch. Eight o’clock. Not late, I suppose, but I will want Celeste ready for breakfast no later than seven-thirty during the school year. We’ll work our way there, I suppose.

I head to the second floor to prepare the study for today’s lessons, and when I walk in, Celeste sits at the small desk, hands folded, face fixed on the ocean visible outside of the window. She is tall, like her father, and just as thin, but where his hair is nearly as gray as his eyes, hers is jet-black and hangs in loose waves below her hips. Were she standing, it would reach down to the small of her back.

She turns to me, and I stifle a cry. For a moment, her eyes appear to be empty black holes. I blink, and my vision adjusts to reveal eyes that are perfectly normal, albeit with very dark brown irises.

I remember myself and smile. “You must be Celeste.”

“I must be,” she replies.

Her face doesn’t change. I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “I’m Miss Mary, your governess.”

“Hello, Miss Mary.”

Once more, her expression doesn’t change. Her eyes focus on me with a disconcerting steadiness, and when I walk to the front of the larger desk, they follow me.

“You don’t want breakfast?” I ask.

“I’ve eaten,” she replies. “I usually eat in my room.”

“Ah. You enjoy the view?”

She looks beyond me at the ocean beyond. “No. Not really.”

“You’re not a fan of the ocean?”

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