A doorbell rang in the foyer.
“I suppose that’s him,” Mrs. Ramsden said.
“No doubt,” Merrow said. “I’ll let him in on my way out. In the meantime, if you need anything, please do ring me up. You have my card.” And then, smiling at Erin, “I’m sure you’ll be up and about in no time.”
“The house operates on a skeletal staff, sir,” said Cillian Harris as he led Charles through the salon. “Mr. Hollow kept just enough people on to maintain the property — groundskeepers and housemaids. It’ll be a bit of a lifestyle change, sir.”
Charles glanced at Harris. He looked more like a linebacker than a steward: mid-thirties, with a thatch of unruly dark hair and a crooked nose — not unhandsome in a rough-hewn kind of way. His eyes were bloodshot, and though the man seemed sober enough, Charles was almost certain that he’d caught the scent of whisky on his breath.
It was just past two o’clock.
“Mrs. Ramsden sees to the living quarters and supervises the housemaids,” Harris was saying. “She’ll arrive most mornings around seven. I’m always available. I live in the cottage. You may have noticed it from the breakfast room. I manage the estate.” And then, almost as an afterthought, he said, “Under your direction, of course.”
“Well, let’s work on a more informal basis, then. Why don’t you call me Charles?”
“I couldn’t do that, Mr. Hayden. All my life I served Mr. Hollow, and my father before me, and never once did I call him by his given name. Mr. and Mrs. Hayden you must be to me, by force of habit if nothing else.”
Charles reminded himself that he was an interloper in a foreign land. The custom of the country and all that. “If you insist.”
Harris nodded. “I understand that you intend to do research.”
“Yes, Caedmon Hollow, his book —”
“I know his book all right.” Then, hesitant, as though he felt he was overstepping his bounds, “Never should have written it, if you want my opinion.”
Not really, Charles thought, but he said nothing.
“Well, you’ll want to be back before the doctor arrives,” Harris said. “Let’s just have a glance into the library.”
“Tea?” Mrs. Ramsden said.
“Why not?” Erin said.
Mrs. Ramsden busied herself setting out the service: cookies on a platter, sugar cubes and milk, floral teacups and saucers. Everything had the pearly, translucent glow of bone china. “It’s been a long trip from America, I warrant. You must be tired.”
“Exhausted.”
“As soon as I set out your tea, I’ll leave you to rest.”
“Why don’t you join me instead? I’d enjoy the company.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am. I fear our different stations in life preclude such intimacies.”
“Oh, dear, Mrs. Ramsden, I am thoroughly middle class, I assure you.”
“Mr. Harris wouldn’t approve.”
“Well, Mr. Harris works for me now.”
Mrs. Ramsden offered her an uncertain smile.
“I insist,” Erin said. “We’ll finish up before he comes back. Charles will spend half an hour in the library alone.”
“I’ll have to get another cup.”
“Use that one.”
“Oh, that’s for Mr. Hayden, ma’am.”
“We can get him one when he gets back,” Erin said. “Please, sit down. What’s your first name, anyway?”
“Helen, ma’am.”
“Helen it is, then.” Wincing, Erin leaned forward to extend her hand. Mrs. Ramsden’s — Helen’s — was dry and cool. “I’m Erin. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
“Likewise, ma’am. Let me just pour the tea.”
“Sure. If you’d reach me that satchel, too, I’d truly appreciate it. I’d get it myself, but —” She laughed without mirth at her predicament.
“Why don’t I see about fresh ice?”
“It’s fine. Really. Just hand me the satchel. And please, have a seat. I mean it.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The “ma’am” was going to have to go, too, Erin thought. Baby steps. At least they were moving in the right direction. The satchel, on the other hand, was a mess: her sketchbook smeared with mud, her pens and pencils jumbled at the bottom. And the photograph, of course, the glass broken, as Merrow had said. It was unbearable to look upon it, impossible not to. She had to force herself to set it aside and dig out her meds, nearly two dozen jumbo-sized plastic bottles. She counted them, to be sure. She’d been doctor shopping, hoarding, afraid of not being able to get what she needed — wanted, her therapist would have said — in this benighted country. Effexor for the depression. Trazodone and Ambien to help her sleep. Her medicine chest, Charles called it. Her personal pharmacy.
Sometimes she hated Charles.
She shook out a Klonopin — she had half a dozen prescriptions for anxiety, Ativan, Xanax, you name it — and dry-swallowed the pill; then, impulsively, she shook out another one.
Mrs. Ramsden was right about one thing, though: the journey had been too much. The girl at the hotel. That small figure watching from the roadside. We see what we want to see, as her therapist had said, adding, Be careful or you’ll learn to love your chains.
She did not want this. She wanted to be free.
She would never be free.
Mrs. Ramsden — Helen — sat down at last. Sugar and milk, a shy smile across the table. She ignored the vials of medication. She cleared her throat. “You’ll want to know about the household, of course,” she said. “Mr. Harris handles most matters, but he generally gives me free rein in domestic affairs. In addition to myself, there are seven maids. They keep up the larger portion of the house. I’ll introduce you to them soon. I had hoped to do so today, but you’ll want to rest your ankle. I maintain the residential section myself, so you can expect to see me daily.”
“I hope we see a lot of each other. I imagine I’ll be lonely all by myself out here.”
Mrs. Ramsden hesitated. “I’m sure you’ll have plenty of company as soon as you recover from your fall.”
Which was hard to imagine. She and Charles hadn’t entertained in nearly a year now. Even the usual visits after … after Lissa … had been difficult affairs for all involved. While everyone had been generous and kind — their sympathies had certainly been genuine — the unacknowledged specter of Charles and Syrah Nagle had haunted every interaction, dividing her even from her closest friends in the end. You could not easily speak of it, yet you could hardly ignore it. So after the initial flurry of visits — the inundation of more food than she and Charles could ever eat, the follow-up phone calls, the two or three lunch invitations that she had declined — their social life had dwindled to nothing.
“Now, as to the matter of cooking —”
“We’ll cook for ourselves,