Page 73 of The Maid's Secret

“Are they really getting rid of all these things?” I asked, shocked that such treasures could be abandoned outside a gate. “Let’s grab the whole box!”

“Not without checking first,” Gran insisted. “We are not thieves. We take only what’s rightfully ours, remember? You wait here.” She went through the iron gate, walked up the driveway, and rang the doorbell of the regal mansion. A man stepped out, and she spoke to him for a moment, then returned a few minutes later.

“We’re free to take what we want,” she announced.

“The whole box!” I said immediately.

“No. We’ll choose one item, and we’ll leave the rest for others.”

“But why can’t we take it all?”

“Because, Molly,” she said as she looked me in the eye, “pride is taking less than you need. Generosity is leaving a gift for others.”

I nodded, taking in her words.

“What do you choose?” she asked.

I looked into the box again and held up the souvenir spoon from Ireland. “This,” I said.

“But that’s not the thing you most want,” she replied. It was true.Were I to choose for myself, I would have taken a teacup, but I knew Gran loved souvenir spoons. I knew she’d treasure it.

“Generosity,” I said, placing the spoon in her hand. “Meaning: leaving a gift for others. I do listen, you know.”

Her eyes became glassy, then she held me tight. I could not understand why she was suddenly crying.

“Have I done something wrong?” I asked when she released me.

“No,” she said. “You’ve done everything right.”

Now, as I polish the spoon, the memory shines. I think of my mother, Maggie, claiming that Gran was a thief, that she stole the Fabergé. How could such an honorable woman, good to a fault, do such a thing? I put the spoon back with the others, then turn my attention to the diary and key sitting on the top shelf of the cabinet.

Yesterday is history. Tomorrow is a mystery. There’s no time like the present.

I take Gran’s diary in my hands. I put the key in the lock and twist—click. It opens. I’m shaking as I make my way to the sofa, where I begin on page one—Dear Molly.

Just then my phone rings, and I jump. I put down the diary and answer my phone.

“Molly, it’s Mr.Snow. I’m sorry to bother you. I’ve asked Mr.Preston to pick you up and bring you to the hotel right away.”

“Of course,” I say, “I’d be happy to work today. I was worried about leaving you short-staffed.”

“It’s not that, Molly,” he says. “We’ve found something.”

“Found what?” I ask.

“The Fabergé egg.”

—

Chapter 22

Dear Molly,

I’ve always tried to impress upon you that your worth is not determined through the worldly goods you possess, nor will it ever decrease because someone refuses to see your value. Here’s what I’ve learned over the years: you can’t make people see what they don’t want to see. And the most precious treasures are often overlooked.

Once I was engaged to Algernon, I became privy to the many behind-the-scenes negotiations that had led to my betrothal. Mama and Papa eagerly shared the details, so proud were they of the outcome. Instead of swallowing Papa’s company whole, Magnus merged his firm with Papa’s to create Braun-Gray Investments. The new business married contemporary and traditional investment philosophies under a singular banner. My father was now in charge of regular investments, whereas Magnus handled a new arm dedicated to the purchase and sale of high-end artifacts.

It was my father who insisted that as part of the deal I be offered an engagement ring of immense value. “It must be worthy of my daughter’s hand,” he’d said during negotiations.

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