Chapter 10
In one of my earliest memories, Daniel and I are on the beach when a colony of seals sets up a noisy barking that freezes me in place.
It is the same way now, only the seals are the present company, along with the racing of my own thoughts.
Why did Mr. Sanders leave his estate to me?
Much less the running of his business. What do I know of building ships?
And, more importantly, why not Nash? Of course, he is not a shipbuilder either.
Studying philosophy, I heard, of all the ridiculous things. But at least he is a blood relation.
Nash has kept to himself all evening, but now he glares at me, cheeks drawn tight, his look cold enough to freeze salt water.
He has never shown me more interest than one would give a passing rain cloud, aside from the tennis court incident.
Even after that, he’d barely spoken to me.
I figured he’d chosen to forget about it, maybe out of embarrassment or disgust. But in the last few days, I seem to have provoked much emotion in him, none of it good.
“What is the meaning of this?” Sveyn is sputtering, spilling brandy down his waistcoat. “Cosmos, explain.”
Mr. Cosmos coolly straightens his cuffs. “As long as my client’s wishes are lawful, it is my duty to uphold them, not question them.”
“Surely a girl cannot run a company,” Boots cries, the five stingy dollars he paid for my wages probably fresh in his mind. “She quit her position this morning. Hardly a role model for company loyalty.”
Sveyn swings his girth up to me. “I will not have a chit for a boss,” he announces, slurring slightly.
“No one will force you, Sveyn,” Mr. Cosmos adds. “One percent share, though generous, should not deter a man of his principles.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Mr. Cosmos wipes his glasses with a handkerchief. “Only that Mr. Sanders conditioned his gift to you on your agreement not to contest his will.”
Sveyn flicks his gaze to Boots, who gives an exaggerated shrug. “But how can we accept such an arrangement? We will be a laughingstock. The whole world is already watching us. That blasted phone was ringing so much, it burned out its wire.”
Boots grinds his wide feet into the carpet. “I cannot believe Mr. Sanders was in his right mind when he wrote that. It is illogical. It must be a joke. Ha ha.”
“Perhaps that girl was complicit in his death!” Sveyn stabs a finger into the air.
I recoil as the outrageous accusation flies. Sure, he is half drunk, but are more wheels set to spinning? My throat constricts; I can barely feel my feet.
“They already have their man,” Mr. Cosmos says coolly, setting his glasses back on his nose.
That does not stop Sveyn and Boots from glowering at me. Miss Jack presses a delicate hand to her even forehead, as if checking for delirium.
The priest adds, “Lucy is a godly creature.”
“I was his research assistant,” I croak, at last moved to speech. “I did not ask for this.”
“What does Nash think?” asks Boots, who is craftier than Sveyn. “He is the one who has been robbed.”
Nash, who has gone as still as one of Mr. Kagaoka’s stone garden monuments, shakes himself free of his stupor and rises. Then the would-be heir to the Sanders kingdom stalks out of the room without a backward glance.
My cheeks burn. I am hardly at fault for his uncle’s decision, one that seems like a bad idea for everyone, including me. I have never asked for riches—only for answers. And now I am in charge of an enterprise that will certainly fail with me at the helm.
Nash’s departure seems to snuff any remaining discussion. Father Pinnyhorne stands. “Lucy, congratulations are in order.”
Mr. Kagaoka, who has been studying me with the quiet patience of a gardener pruning a wayward branch, helps me rise.
His solid stance gives weight to my own.
“Garden box has grown bigger, eh?” A ghost of a smile visits his lips.
Though he is not a member of the Brain Trust, he is well regarded, his presence as calming to Nowhere as his garden.
“Mr. Kagaoka, why me?” I whisper, wiping my wet palms on my apron.
“Why not you?”
Several reasons fill my head, but before I can list them, Mr. Cosmos calls my name from across the room. He stands at the library entrance, where Mrs. Bonefat has suddenly appeared. “Mrs. Bonefat is ready to show you to your new quarters. We will talk tomorrow.”
I keep my head down as I pass through the library, though the grumblings of the men still follow me out.
“She’s a fraud and a phony, I say! Where is she going?”
“Calm yourself, Sveyn. We will get to the bottom of this.”
A minute later, I climb behind the wall of ferocious salmon, up toward the third floor. My head throbs.
Am I rich beyond my wildest dreams? Or have I inherited enough problems to fill the ocean?
Sveyn’s accusation clangs like a clapper in my head.
What if the others begin to suspect me? The headline writes itself: Maid Receives Windfall After Finding Employer Brutally Murdered.
Might as well paint a target on my back.
Even if I give it all away, seeds thrown to the wind will find a foothold somewhere.
Mrs. Bonefat seems not the least bit surprised by my change in circumstances, and no less frosty, either.
At the top of the stairs a vase holds lilies with red throats that appear to be screaming at me, their sharp smell making me wince.
A scarlet runner that now appears the color of blood leads to a set of doors.
I do not want to sleep in a murdered man’s bed.
“Mrs. Bonefat, I would like to sleep in my own room.”
“They are all your rooms. Get used to it.”
“But I need to tell Cookie.”
“I’ve already let her know.”
“But I can’t sleep in Mr. Sanders’s room.”
“Which is why I am preparing Mrs. Sanders’s room.
” She bypasses the double doors and continues down to the end of the hall.
The trout-mouthed housemaid who accused me of witchcraft exits a doorway, carrying a broom and a bucket in her short arms. She is as fierce with her scrubbing as she is with her gossip.
Her face unfolds like a sail feeling the wind at the sight of me, a mole on her forehead staring like a third eye.
The dour expression adds several years to her age of thirty.
“What’s she doing up here?” Her annoyance kicks her English accent into a high gear.
“I already done me job, drew the bath, started the fire. I hardly need anyone checking me work.”
“Tersa, Miss Lucy is our new mistress.”
Tersa nearly drops her bucket, and I relish the moment. Her ice-blue eyes don’t know where to focus. “But—that can’t be true?”
“Stop gaping. She will need her bed turned down when you return. Don’t just stand there. Move, woman.” Mrs. Bonefat’s eyebrows flex, osprey wings poised to dive.
Tersa rushes away, bucket squeaking, skirts rustling. Now the whole household will know.
Koa. He must be annoyed at me for missing our meeting. He will be shocked when he hears this news, maybe fall off his horse.
Will it change things more between us? I hope not.
The university now seems thousands of miles away.
The ridiculous notion that I could probably buy the university crosses my mind.
But I cannot entertain such thoughts. Boots is right.
This must be a joke. Just like Daniel, Mr. Sanders liked a good prank.
Like the time he moved all the clocks ahead to fool the two other island bosses, Gotze and Tavernish, into ending their annual meeting early.
I must simply watch my back so that I am blameless when the clocks are corrected.
My head buzzes, and my eyes ache as if they’ve grown too heavy for their sockets. I follow Mrs. Bonefat into my new quarters and sneeze. As far as I know, the rooms are never used.
Ship lights illuminate a rose-colored oriental carpet with cream curtains—strangely tender shades in this otherwise masculine haunt.
The sitting area gazes through floor-to-ceiling windows onto the sound, with another set of picture windows facing the marina.
Built-in shelves lead to a bathroom and closet, where what seems like an unbroken wall conceals a door into the servants’ hall.
My satchel has been placed on a chair. My picture of Shadow and Scull did not damn me after all.
A portrait of Mr. Sanders and his wife, Lydia, watches over a bed with a cream-colored quilt. Lydia’s oval face is serene but mysterious, her black hair tied with a violet ribbon that matches her eyes. She died of influenza when I was ten.
“They were a lovely couple,” says Mrs. Bonefat, softening. Is she thinking of her secret beau? I have not seen her dolled up since that dreadful day. She runs a finger over an expensive-looking Tiffany table lamp with a butterfly design, testing it for dust.
I clasp my hands behind me, as if to stop myself from pilfering. All this finery feels borrowed, a stage set on which a curtain will soon drop.
Yet Mrs. Bonefat seems willing to take me seriously. I must do the same if I am to defend myself from accusation of wrongdoing.
“Tersa will help you until you can hire a permanent lady’s maid.”
“I don’t need a maid.”
“Nonsense. You are mistress and master now. A lady’s maid will dress you, prepare your toilet, bring your breakfast, and do the hundred other things you’ve no notion of.”
The thought of Tersa with her prying eyes watching my every move so she can blather about it later sticks pins in my skin. Anyone but her.
My mind churns like an overboiled pot. While Mrs. Bonefat explains an elaborate panel with call buttons—all the main rooms have such panels, though I was never allowed to touch them—a recently thrown bone surfaces. You might have to go back to nursing your crippled brother, Dora said.
Flossie. I doubt she, being fifteen, has any experience being a lady’s maid. But I don’t have any experience being a lady, so that evens things out. Plus, she is clever. Once, when we dropped a cake meant for a luncheon, she turned the ruins into a trifle.
Cookie would be shorthanded unless, of course, Dora did a full day’s work.
“No one has stayed here since our dear Mrs. Sanders passed.” Mrs. Bonefat breezes by a fireplace with its round tiles of green bottle glass and pulls open a dresser drawer.
“You may as well wear her clothes, since they now belong to you. You cannot wear Daniel’s all the livelong day.
If you need anything else, push this button and Tersa—”
“Actually, I would like Flossie to be my maid.”
Her pupils become pinpoints. She folds her arms, bony fingers with their blue veins gripping her sleeves. Her jag of silver hair gleams like a bolt of lightning.
If I am to survive here, I cannot go offending key members of the household any more than I already do. “I’m sorry if I—”
“Sh!” She swipes up a hand, her utterance cutting like a whip. “Very good, Miss Lucy.”
Without another word, she disappears out the door.
The scent of gardenia drifts from the bathroom, stubborn reminders of death.
As I enter the white-tiled chamber with its mahogany framed mirror, a swamp hag stares back at me.
I gasp. My skin is blotchy, my lips chewed.
A rat’s nest has replaced the smooth bun of this morning.
Something sticky smears the side of my cheek.
Quickly, my eyes fall to the pedestal sink. Stop staring in that mirror or it will swallow you.
I wriggle free of my damp dress. Why, Mr. Sanders, why me?
The words so recently read by Mr. Cosmos echo in my mind. Only now they are spoken with Mr. Sanders’s hale voice, a voice that always had a plan. May the nest ever prosper under her watchful guard.
The parting words were strange. I don’t recall Mr. Sanders ever referring to Nowhere as a nest. The Great Tree, at times, or even Paradise when he was feeling sentimental. But never a nest. Was it a message? You don’t just leave your fortune to a nobody without providing some clue as to why.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, a murrelet kirrs.