“I did. She was a great, great woman.”
“Was Hale close to her?”
Marcus nodded. “He was.”
“I didn’t know.” Kat stared out the window. “He never mentioned her to me. Why doesn’t he talk about her?”
“The things that are the most precious to us are sometimes the most secret.”
Kat nodded and considered the thought. Her family was loud and cranky, a force of nature, moving around the globe like a storm. Hale’s family was quiet and fractured, their issues simmering under the surface like a sleeping volcano.
“Marcus,” she said, bolting upright when the car steered off the main road and onto a narrow path. “Marcus, I don’t think this goes to the highway.”
“No, miss. It doesn’t.”
Marcus wasn’t forgetful. He wasn’t the sort of man to make mistakes, and so whatever had brought them to that narrow, winding lane, Kat knew it was absolutely not an error.
“We’re not going to Brooklyn, are we, Marcus?”
“No, miss.” He gripped the wheel and kept on driving. “We aren’t.”
They didn’t go far. By Kat’s estimation they weren’t more than a half a mile from the main road when the car stopped. She could still see the smoke rising from the chimney of the big house hidden behind the trees, and yet it felt a world away from the tiny cottage with the white picket fence and perfectly pruned roses that stood before her. There were black shutters and flower boxes on every window. An ornate railing ran along a cozy porch, and the whole place looked almost like it had been made from gingerbread.
“Marcus, where are we? Who lives here?”
He turned off the car and reached for the door. “I do.”
Chapter 6
“I never knew you had a house.”
Kat crawled from the backseat of the car and looked up at the man who held her door. Maybe it was her imagination, but she could have sworn he didn’t stand quite as straight, there in his own driveway. He looked at her a little more squarely. He wasn’t a servant then, she realized. He was a man, welcoming her into his home.
“Oh, it’s not entirely mine. I share it with—”
“Marcus? Marcus, is that…”
A woman was standing in the doorway, a dish towel in her hands. She had steel gray hair and the same piercing eyes that Kat had seen reflected in the rearview mirror for years.
“Miss Katarina Bishop,” Marcus said, “please allow me to introduce my sister, Marianne.”
“You’re Marianne?” Kat thought about the way Hale’s mother had said the name, almost with a snarl. “It’s nice to meet you.” Kat extended her hand. But Marianne just gaped at Marcus.
“Oh, brother. What have you done?”
Somewhere in the house a kettle screamed. It made a sharp, haunting sound. The woman turned, Marcus at her heels, and Kat followed them into a tiny kitchen with white lace curtains and a tray set out for tea.
“I’m very sorry, Miss Bishop,” the woman said, her British accent even stronger than her brother’s. “I mean no disrespect. I’m sure you’re a very talented young lady. But this is a private family matter.”
“You were her family!” It was the first time Kat had ever heard Marcus raise his voice, and she had to do a double-take to make sure it was him and not some well-groomed imposter.
“You forget yourself, brother. And your place. If our father were alive—”
“He isn’t.”
“Marcus,” Marianne said grimly, “this is not our way.”
Marcus pointed at Kat. “It’s her way.”