Page 70 of The Maid's Secret

Juan gets up from the sofa and walks over to Gran’s curio cabinet. He picks up the skeleton key from the shelf where I used to keep the Fabergé. “It can’t hurt to try the key,” he says.

He returns to the sofa and passes it to me. I take it in one hand as I hold the diary in the other. I put the key in the lock—a perfect fit. I turn it once, and like magic, something clicks.

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Chapter 20

Dear Molly,

It is said that the easiest way to solve a problem is to deny its existence. I know this because I’ve lived it. Over the years, I’ve often thought about that date with Algernon and what would have happened if Mrs.Mead had not followed me to the drive-in, interrupting at just the right time. Would things have turned out differently? Would I have seen the truth about Algernon faster, averting all that came after?

I can almost hear your voice as you read this—Denial isn’t just a river in Egypt.You like that saying a lot—a pun, your favorite. But denialisa river, and after that date with Algernon, I found myself carried away on it yet again, convinced that Mrs.Mead, Uncle Willy, and John were busybodies and that Algernon’s actions at the drive-in had been entirely justified. Of course he would have stopped if only I’d asked him more directly; of course it was my fault for not making my boundaries clear; of course I’d spent a week preparing my outfit just to lure him, so how could I feel anything other than flattered that he’d found me so irresistible?

These thoughts were driven home the morning after my date,when my mother pulled back the curtains on my bedroom window. “Rise and shine, darling,” she said as she let the light in. “How was your night with the most sought-after bachelor in the land?”

Mrs.Mead stood in the threshold of my bedroom, her arms tightly crossed. She was the one who usually woke me and pulled back my curtains. “I doubt Flora will be seeing that young man again. Am I right?” Mrs.Mead asked, looking at me with such pity that it hit me like a tidal wave, flushing me further down the river.

“I can speak for myself,” I retorted. “And for the record, Algernon is wonderful.”

I knew it was what my mother wanted to hear. She squealed loudly, then sat on the edge of my bed, hugging me. “Oh, darling, this was meant to be. It’s a dream come true for all of us. Just remember,” she said, pulling away to meet my eyes, “men love the thrill of the chase. Give him a little, but not everything.”

“Yes, Mama,” I said.

In the doorway, Mrs.Mead watched, slack-jawed. But she didn’t dare say another word.

Things moved quickly after that. There were more dates with Algernon, and everything about him enchanted me. I set some boundaries, and I was relieved that he didn’t try to cross them, though he got petulant when I held my ground.

My parents assured me everything between the two families was going splendidly, perfectly—“exactly as it should,” said Papa—and because I’d never seen both Mama and Papa so happy and had never been lavished with so much of their affection, I remained in denial about any misgivings I had about Algernon.

All of us were caught up in the heady magic of the two families coming together—dinners at the manor or at the magnificent Braun mansion, with copious amounts of champagne and whiskey, and comments from both sets of parents about what a fine couple Algie and I made and how we were like thoroughbreds—a triumph of good breeding that would pay off in the future.

When we visited the Brauns, Magnus and Priscilla would lead us through vast white rooms filled with priceless art. They luxuriated in schooling my parents and me on the art world, referring to masterpieces as “investments” and making sure we understood that Picasso and van Gogh were worth more dead than alive.

Meanwhile, John lurked in my periphery as he always had. He admitted overhearing me at that drive-in when I urged Algernon to stop. He was the one who sent Mrs.Mead to the convertible. I was furious when he told me. I raged and accused him of jealousy.

“Iamjealous,” he admitted. “But that doesn’t mean you’re not making a terrible mistake.”

I didn’t listen. Not to him. Not to Mrs.Mead. Not even to Uncle Willy’s oblique petitions—his sideways comments about men with agendas and his cagey reminders about the importance of education.

Education. Oh, Molly, I’m ashamed to say that when it was time to sit my exams, my father made it clear he forbade me from taking them. “What’s the point?” he asked. “Your future is staring you right in the face. And university is a waste for a girl with your prospects.” And so, at the last moment, I told the headmaster I was backing out, and I stopped attending class.

And then one day, barely able to contain her excitement, Mrs.Mead broke the news—“My nephew,” she said, beaming, “he’s going to university!”

Not only had John passed the entrance exams but he was top of the class.

“Congratulations,” I said when next I saw him outside of Mrs. Mead’s cottage. “You’re going to be a scholar, likely one of the best.”

My compliment didn’t even register. He just stood, scratching his head and staring at me. “I don’t get it, Flora,” he said. “How is it possible that you didn’t even try the exams?”

“I’m just a girl,” I said with a shrug. “I don’t have what it takes.”

John shook his head and walked away.

With my dream of education thoroughly quashed, I devotedmyself to the full-time pursuit of Algernon. I took cues from my parents as they fell further under the Braun spell. My father worked hard to draw Magnus close. They shared postdinner brandy and cigars in one man’s den or the other’s, swapped stories and histories, drew up private paperwork—a quiet backroom deal between gentlemen and fathers, one that would seal not only my fate and Algernon’s but the fate of our two family firms.

When it happened—a marriage proposal—two short months after I had been swept off my feet by that boy in the ballroom, it did not go as I’d imagined it. We were at the Brauns’ that night, and after dinner, instead of my father and Magnus smoking cigars in the parlor, Priscilla suggested we all retire to the art wing, where she was eager to show off a newly acquired oeuvre.

We made our way to a modern room with streamlined white divans, on which we sat, digestifs in hand. Algernon, wearing a dinner jacket for once, put his arm around me and kissed my cheek. In front of our parents, he was always the very picture of tenderness, though when we were alone he was either distracted or demanding.

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