Page 36 of The Maid's Secret

“Consider it done,” says Beagle.

“One week from today, we auction the egg,” Brown says, “and, Molly the Maid, in a week’s time, you begin a whole new life.”

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Chapter 10

Dear Molly,

If you’ve been reading along, I imagine you’re shocked by the version of your gran you’re meeting in these pages. When I was a girl, I could be insensitive and cruel. I simply didn’t know any better, and my parents served as terrible role models. Because I lacked a sense of belonging, I often tried to steal self-worth from those who possessed it naturally, such as Uncle Willy’s son. But we reap what we sow, and if we do not cultivate kindness, malice springs from the soil and poisons everything. I did not learn this lesson easily, and I did not learn it on my own. For every loss I’ve suffered in this life, I’ve gained compassion, comprehension, and empathy. And if I had to do it all again, I wouldn’t exchange these riches for all the gold in the world.

Molly, you’re about to begin a chapter full of surprises, not all of them concerning me. Let’s open a week after the start of my prep courses as I returned home from a day of intense but fulfilling lectures. I was surviving the trials and tribulations of the classroom, and though my classmates made me keenly aware of my gender every single day, I refused to let it hinder me. I studied with relentlessresolve, ignoring taunts and provocations from other students. And as each day passed, I thrived on acquired knowledge, finding within myself deep reserves of tenacity I never knew I had.

Meanwhile, at Gray Manor, tensions continued to mount, and the susurrations about Gray Investments turned from vapor to a solid mass. My father’s business was in grave jeopardy. Some foolhardy financial decisions coupled with a market crash had left his firm vulnerable to attack for the very first time in generations. There was talk of liquifying assets, selling stocks, dissolving trusts. Never before had I seen my father—a lion of a man with the soul of a conqueror—so weakened as to be mistaken for a lamb.

In the corridors of Gray Manor, Papa mumbled to himself. Dark circles found permanent refuge beneath his eyes, and when I saw a button hanging by a thread on his normally perfect Savile Row suit jacket, I found Uncle Willy right away. He was washing the cathedral windows in the foyer. “You’re Papa’s butler,” I said. “Do something. He’s falling apart at the seams.”

Uncle Willy put down his spray bottle and cloth. “Flora,” he said, “I’m doing the best I can. Please recall that your father, in his infinite wisdom, fired half the manor staff some time ago. I’ve been filling in the gaps ever since, but he just put me in charge of the Braun Summit to be held at the manor in one week’s time. How much more can one man take on?”

“The Braun Summit?” I repeated, uncomprehending. I knew about the upcoming Workers’ Ball, but I had not heard mention of any other event taking place within the manor walls. I had, however, heard the name Braun bandied about by both of my parents, a name always voiced with fear and trepidation. Magnus Braun was the CEO of Braun Wealth, an up-and-coming investment firm that rivaled my father’s. The way my parents spoke of him, you’d think Magnus was Zeus himself, able to smite his foes with a single bolt of lightning unleashed from his all-powerful hand.

“Flora, next week, Magnus and his board of directors will descendupon the manor for a key meeting,” Uncle Willy revealed, “and if I’m not mistaken, your father intends to make one last-ditch attempt to convince them not to gobble up the family firm entirely. I’ve been given orders to create an illusion of grandeur, as though this estate weren’t running on fumes and a skeleton staff. I’ve hired anyone with a pulse—just for one week. I’m to dress them in service uniforms for jobs they’ve never done in their lives. So can you see how a button on your father’s jacket is not at this moment my foremost concern?”

Never before had I seen Uncle Willy so unnerved. This prompted me to make a rare and immediate apology. “I’m sorry,” I said as I stared at my feet. “I didn’t know any of this.”

He sighed and softened. “I’m sorry, too,” he said. “Things aren’t looking good.”

“But what does this mean?” I asked. “Could we really lose everything, even the estate?”

“It seems so,” Uncle Willy replied.

I heard his words, but young as I was, I didn’t really understand them. I’d been born into wealth, took it as a given. I could hardly comprehend that fortunes can shift unexpectedly, that pedigree and privilege can wither as quickly as a rose plucked from its stem.

“But don’t you worry yourself, Flora,” Uncle Willy said. “It isn’t over until it’s over. And in the meantime, you keep studying. Education opens doors. It’s the one thing no one can take from you. Remember that.”

I surveyed the foyer to make sure no one was around, then I threw my arms around Uncle Willy and hugged him tight. “Thank you,” I said.

I made my way deeper into the manor, walking through the corridor of family portraits, past the cavernous, lonely banquet room. I veered away from the entrance to the kitchen, with its stainless-steel work surfaces and Italian-tiled walls. A maid was on her hands and knees by the oven, scrubbing the checkerboard floor.

I looked away as I passed the main parlor, then rushed up the grandoak staircase toward my destination—the library. As I went, the idea of losing Gray Manor lingered in my mind. I tried to imagine what life would be like beyond the palatial manor walls. Having experienced nothing else, I assumed the estate would always be there for me, as would Mama and Papa. But as you know, Molly, it’s perilous to assume.

In my father’s magnificent library, I found distraction from the mood of doom and gloom in the manor by ensconcing myself in books, but for the first time ever, when I walked through the heavy walnut door, I was not alone. Halfway up the ladder, placing a leather-bound volume back on a high shelf, was a young man I never expected to find onmysacred ground—John.

“What exactly are you doing here?” I snapped at the lad, who, startled, nearly toppled off the ladder on wheels.

I stood imperiously, hands on my hips, staring up at him, to where his unruly head looked down at me from between the faces of two chubby-cheeked cherubs frescoed onto the ceiling. He gingerly stepped down the ladder to the safety of the herringbone-patterned floor.

“Hi,” he said as he wiped his hands on his worker’s trousers. “Don’t worry about me, I’m fine.”

I huffed out loud at the presumption—thatIshould be worried about him when in factheshould be worried about explaining what in heavens he was doing in Papa’s library. I glowered at him, directing laser beams of ire into his brooding brown eyes, until at long last he broke the silence and said, “So you’re desperate to know what I’m doing here.”

“Indeed,” I said.

“Your father talked to my father. And my father talked to me. Apparently,someone”—he said this mockingly, mimicking the same death stare I’d directed at him moments ago—“accused me of stealing books from this library, even though I was given permission by your father to borrow whatever I liked.” He paused then, and Iwatched as his jaw clenched. He walked over to an antique brass book trolley on which various leatherbound volumes were stacked haphazardly. He placed his hand on the top tome as though he were swearing on a Bible. “Think whatever you like about me,” he said, “but know one thing: I’m not a thief.”

“Really?” I replied. “And I should know that how?”

“I always give books back,” he replied. “You don’t remember?”

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