the attic of his family home. Most of the scenes he painted were born in his imagination. He could see like a psychic. Supposedly, he lived here while he did that painting. There are so many stories and legends about this house and the people and things in it that if you listened to them all, your head would spin.”
“Legends and fables are my favorite stories, especially about mysterious things.”
“Really? I don’t read as much as I should. Perhaps you’ll suggest some. Wait until I show you the library. My mother-in-law brags that there are over three thousand volumes, not that she reads anything but the social column. We’ll have nothing but time on our hands soon enough. I’m not a big television person, are you?”
“Not since I’ve been here. Had no time for it.”
“Oh, how dreadful. Everyone should have some time to relax.”
I looked at the table. The platters of salad, shrimp, and what was surely pieces of lobster were set before three prepared seating places, all facing the windows. There was bread, at least three different kinds, butter pats, and goblets of water. On a table this large, with two chairs at the ends with arms and a bit taller than the others, the food, although plentiful, looked diminished.
“I hope you love shrimp and lobster.”
“Yes,” I said. “Although my father usually frowned on the expense.”
“Is your mother a good cook?”
“Not a gourmet cook,” I said.
“Mrs. Marlene is. She doesn’t live in the house. She’s been with us only a year, but she is as dedicated to my husband as anyone can be. He did something that saved her husband’s life, although he’s been put on disability or something, which is why she has to work. She’s like you, only she’s Irish,” she said.
I had to laugh. “She’s like me? Don’t tell the Irish that.”
“Don’t tell the Irish what, now?” we heard, as Mrs. Marlene, a tall, attractive woman with reddish-brown hair and true kelly-green eyes, came in from the adjoining kitchen. She carried a platter of fresh fruit.
Instead of answering, Samantha laughed and nodded at me. “This is Emma Corey from England.”
“Oh, you’re from England. No one told me so,” she said, standing back after she put the platter on the table. “How long have you been here?”
“Not even a year,” Samantha answered for me.
“Is that so, now?” She smiled and looked at Samantha. “If you study on it, Mrs. Davenport, you’ll find the English have been here quite a while. Where is your hometown?”
“Guildford.”
“Yes, I know it. I have a nephew who attended the University of Surrey. He teaches dramatic arts in Cork now.”
“Emma is a singer,” Samantha said, and then looked at me. “Did you attend that university?”
“No,” I said, smiling. Didn’t she realize how old I was? “I came to America right after secondary school.”
“What school is that?”
“What you call high school here.”
“Well, you’ll have a lot to discover between you,” Mrs. Marlene said. “Is there anything else you might want?”
“We don’t, do we, Emma?”
“No, this is wonderful.”
“My husband is looking after his father. There was some sort of cardiac thing, so we’ll start,” Samantha said, indicating we should sit. “Thank you for doing this after working what I’m sure were two tours of the kitchen for my mother-in-law’s guests.”
Mrs. Marlene nodded but didn’t smile. She gave me a long, hard look and then left.
“She likes you,” Samantha said immediately.
“Really? How can you tell that so quickly?”
“I can,” she said. “Let’s eat, and then, if Harrison says it’s all right, I’ll show you his office and, of course, the library and the rest of the house. Go on, take what you want.”
I looked toward the doorway. It sounded like someone had entered Wyndemere and was hurrying up the stairs. I thought there were at least two or three people talking.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Something,” she said. “But nothing that will disturb us. Harrison will see to it.”
How protective, I thought. My father believed that love was compromise, but in my heart of hearts, I believed love was nurtured for a woman most when the man she loved wanted to do nothing more than keep her safe and satisfied. Maybe that was selfish. Maybe it was simply a reaction to my father’s insurmountable arrogance. He was truly lord of the manor, even if he had nothing like a manor, nothing like this.
I looked at Samantha as she chose what she would eat, the delight in her eyes, the simplicity in her smile. There was a grace