“Didn’t you get my telegram?” she asks, whisking into the house and removing her gloves, plain Pauline at her heels like a loyal mutt. “I sent it on Tuesday. To remind you of our arrival. I asked you to send Aunt Marg’s driver to the station to fetch us. We had to hire a cab instead.”
I think of the unopened mail sitting on the tray in the parlor—a task I’d meant to get to but had also forgotten. “I must have overlooked it.”
“Oh well. We’re here now, aren’t we? Children!” Louise calls over her shoulder. A tumult of footsteps clatters across the porch, then three bright-blond heads emerge, pushing past Pauline as they run into the house. Dottie, Philip, and Katie, if I’ve remembered correctly. They spread out, shrieking, everywhere all at once. A crash comes from the parlor, and I wince, thinking of Marguerite’s priceless Ming vase.
“Louise ...” I begin, but she’s already off, sweeping through the rooms, peeking behind doors, running her hands over everything.
“I’d forgotten how simplygorgeousthis house is!” she coos.
“I’ll see if I can find something to eat for you all. You must be famished.” Another loud bang echoes from down the hall, followed by a childish giggle. “Shouldn’t you watch over them?”
Louise laughs. “Oh, they won’t hurt anything.”
I blink at her, incredulous, pasting a smile on my face. “Well. I’ll go see what I can rustle up.”
“Don’t you have a maid to do that? Or a cook?” Pauline asks.
“Our maid quit us last month. She had a death in the family. We haven’t found a replacement yet.”
Pauline sniffs and sits in Marguerite’s armchair, crossing her arms.
“I’ll just ... go make us some tea. Be back in a jiffy.”
I fill the kettle and place it on the stove, stoking the embers, my irritation rising along with the heat. My cousins and I have always had a contentious relationship, and I very much suspect Louise’s motives in coming here are similar to my brother’s. Everyone wants a piece of my aunt. They’re eager to get their hooks in now, before Marguerite passes away. Until she fell ill, she’d only ever been a name on a guest list for family weddings or a scandalous topic of conversation. While I’ll admit my own motives for coming here were in line with theirs, to some degree, at least at first, a fierce protectiveness has replaced my earlier designs. My great-aunt is still very much alive. She is a person with memories, feelings, and intrinsic worth, deserving of respect and dignity. This house, and whatever else Marguerite’s estate entails, should go to whomever Marguerite wishes. I need to find that deed—and a will, if it exists—and soon.
From the kitchen, I can hear Harriet and Marguerite outside in the gardens. I look through the window, watching as Marguerite bends to sniff a rose and says something to Harriet, who laughs. I’m bringing the tea service to the parlor when they come in. “Aunt Marg, we have company,” I call. “Louise and Pauline came with the children.”
“Who?” she responds, squinting at Pauline as they meet us in the parlor.
“Grace’s girls,” I say, motioning to my younger cousin, “Pauline and Louise, who must have gone ... somewhere.”
“Hello, Aunt Marg.” Pauline rises and kisses Marguerite on both cheeks, then assesses Harriet coolly. “So youdohave help.”
Harriet’s eyes dart to mine.
“She’s not a maid, Pauline,” I say. “She’s Aunt Marg’s nurse. Harriet Boyd.”
“I see.” Pauline smiles smugly, returning to the chair.
“That’s Aunt Marg’s chair, Pauline. Could you choose another seat, please?”
I place the tea service on the coffee table as Pauline vacates the chair with a dramatic sigh. Harriet helps Marguerite get settled, then hastilydeparts as Louise bustles in, clutching two children. The smallest, Katie, follows with a bedraggled palm frond in her hand, dirt smeared over her dress.
“I’m so sorry. She knocked over one of your palms,” Louise says. “There’s a mess in the hall.”
That would explain the crash I heard.
“Howareyou, Auntie?” Louise trills, letting go of the children and bending to kiss Marguerite on the cheek before perching on the edge of the sofa next to Pauline. The children paw at the tea biscuits, sending crumbs scattering all over the Turkish rug. I hide my clenched teeth behind a smile.
A look of confusion darts over Marguerite’s face. “Who are all of you again?”
“Oh.” Louise pats at the lace collar adorning her dress. “I’m Louise. Your great-niece? Grace’s daughter. This is my sister, Pauline. And these are my children.” She plunks Katie, naughty thing, on her knee. “Katie is my youngest. Dottie and Philip are the twins.”
Philip suddenly screeches and makes a beeline for the stairs. I run after him, anticipating the havoc he’ll wreak unattended. I grasp him around the waist as he reaches the second-floor landing, and haul him, kicking and screaming, back to his mother. “Goodness, Louise. How on earth do you manage the three of them?”
“Oh, I don’t, darling.” She takes a dainty sip of her tea. “That’s what Greta is for. Our nanny. She couldn’t come with us and I’m worn through because of it.”
More’s the pity. “How long do you intend to stay?”
