Chapter One #4
Ana looked at the man standing behind Doris in the painting.
He had dark hair and dark eyes and a full beard that was beginning to gray around the edges.
He was tall and rugged; he wore a Stetson hat and boots with his gray three-piece suit, like a cowboy who had not fully surrendered to being a gentleman.
He was handsome, to be sure, and Ana could easily trace the family resemblance to his great-grandson, Ransom Towers.
But still, she couldn’t get over the predatory grip of his hand on the back of Doris’s chair, nor the immense age gap between him and Doris, however “normal” it may have been for their time.
Forty-nine years to Doris’s seventeen. Remington was nearly three times her age when they were wed and seemed better suited to be her father than her husband.
Ana peered into the young woman’s eyes in the portrait.
She couldn’t help but wonder: How had Doris felt about the arrangement? Had she had any say?
“This was Doris’s favorite room in the house,” Mrs. Talbot said, gazing wistfully at the parlor in which the painting hung, with its tall coffered ceilings, the large velvet tufted sofas, and the pianoforte near the picture window.
“It’s still arranged just to her liking,” Mrs. Talbot said. “She used to sit and play Chopin at that piano in the afternoons.”
Ana took a step forward, toward the room, and Mrs. Talbot grabbed her briskly by the forearm.
“You mustn’t go in,” Mrs. Talbot said sharply. “No one is allowed to step foot in this room, except the maid twice a week to clean.”
“Oh, I see,” Ana said. “Sorry.”
It felt absurd and outlandish to her—a room this large and grandiose, kept for an occupant who was long since deceased? The whole thing was appalling, really—a house this size, all for one family, and so much of it unused, unoccupied space.
Ana turned to follow Mrs. Talbot, who had fallen silent, only to realize that Mrs. Talbot had not moved.
She was looking at Ana appraisingly, as if waiting for her to offer some remark about the room.
Ana racked her brain. What compliment had she paid to the dining room?
She didn’t want to repeat the same thing and seem insincere.
Come to think of it, had she offered a compliment to the dining room, or had she simply nodded?
She certainly hoped that Mrs. Talbot wouldn’t be stopping at each room, as this house was huge and Ana could think of only half a dozen ways to say, “Wow, nice digs.”
She cleared her throat. “It’s lovely,” she said.
Mrs. Talbot smiled at her, but the smile did not meet her eyes. “Lovely,” Mrs. Talbot repeated, but on her tongue, it sounded belittling, as if Ana had referred to the room as cute.
“Yes, well, I suppose good taste is not a virtue everyone inherits,” Mrs. Talbot said. “This way to the family’s quarters, where you’ll be staying.”
She turned, and Ana followed her up the grand staircase to the second floor and then down another hall, unsure whether she should be grateful that Mrs. Talbot did not stop to show her any other rooms along the way or insulted that Mrs. Talbot clearly thought she didn’t have the requisite taste to admire them properly.
“Miss Saoirse’s room,” Mrs. Talbot said, nodding toward a closed door as they passed it.
They halted at the door just beyond it. Mrs. Talbot paused with her hand on the knob.
“This will be your room for the duration of your stay,” Mrs. Talbot said.
She nodded at the room across the hall from Ana’s.
“That is Mr. Ransom’s room. I trust I don’t need to impress upon you the extreme discretion you’ll need to practice living in such close proximity to the family. ”
“Is he home often?” Ana asked. “Ransom, I mean?”
Mrs. Talbot’s left eyebrow shot up at the question, and Ana felt like she had once again overstepped some sort of invisible line.
“Congressman Towers,” Mrs. Talbot said, enunciating his official title, as if Ana were not familiar enough to use his Christian name, “is not here when the House is in session, but he’s home as often as he can be. And when he is home,” Mrs. Talbot said sternly, “he is not to be disturbed.”
Ana nodded. It took her a moment to realize that Mrs. Talbot was waiting for some sort of verbal affirmation that she wouldn’t be a nuisance.
“Oh, um, got it,” Ana said. “When I’m not needed, I’ll make myself scarce.”
That seemed to satisfy Mrs. Talbot, because she nodded and turned the knob.
Ana let out a low whistle when they entered the room.
It was the biggest, most luxurious bedroom she had ever seen.
There was a four-poster bed dressed with silk sheets and piled high with throw pillows, a tall rosewood dresser, a full-length mirror, a writing desk, and, in the corner, a sitting area next to a fireplace, complete with a sofa and reading chairs.
There was a private bathroom with a soaking tub, a pedestal sink, and French doors that led out onto a veranda that overlooked the garden.
And somehow, her suitcase and duffel bag were already there, sitting neatly at the foot of her bed.
“I take it the room is to your liking?” Mrs. Talbot asked.
It’s a bit much for one person, Ana wanted to say, but she’d gotten the sense that Mrs. Talbot took great pride in the house and the family, as if they were extensions of herself, so she bit her tongue.
“The room’s love—” Ana said and then caught herself. “The room’s great.”
“The maid will be in every morning at ten a.m. to clean and bring fresh towels,” Mrs. Talbot said. “If you’ve forgotten anything, just let the maid know, and she’ll get it for you. Would you like a moment to freshen up before you meet Miss Saoirse?”
“Yes, actually, if you don’t mind,” Ana said. “It was kind of a long drive.”
“Very well,” Mrs. Talbot said. “I’ll meet you at the bottom of the stairs in fifteen minutes to make the proper introductions.”
“I’ll be ready,” Ana said, giving her a compliant smile.
Ana waited until Mrs. Talbot had left and closed the door behind her before hurrying over to her duffel bag.
She thrust it onto the bed and unzipped it.
Half in a panic, she pulled out her toiletries bag that was sitting on top and tossed it carelessly onto the bedcover next to her.
Her hands groped blindly through her pile of T-shirts and jeans until she found her nightgown at the bottom, balled up—or, rather, wrapped tightly around something small, compact, and heavy.
She pulled it out and unwrapped it—nested inside the cloth gown was a matte black snub-nosed revolver.
Ana placed the gun carefully on the bed beside her and felt around in her duffel bag for her socks next, searching for the only pair of thick wool ones she had brought with her.
When her fingers found purchase on the scratchy cloth, she pulled them out and released the fat, squat cartridges that she had tucked inside onto the bedcover—five in all, as many as the revolver would hold.
Ana surveyed the room. She needed a place to hide them, somewhere the maid wouldn’t happen upon while cleaning.
Across the room, next to the fireplace, she spotted a copper bucket piled with logs.
It occurred to her that this was the perfect hiding place—no one would have any reason to disturb that bucket this time of year.
It was in the dead heat of summer, after all. There would be no need for a fire.
Ana made quick work of removing the logs and placing the gun and the sock full of cartridges at the bottom.
Then she stacked the logs back on top just as she had found them and checked her watch.
Somehow, ten minutes had already gone by.
She had better make her way to the staircase to meet Mrs. Talbot; she didn’t want to be late.
She had already made too many missteps today—she couldn’t afford another one.
Ana could feel her heart beating in her chest, a loud thundering thud. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the fireplace and took a deep breath to steady herself.
“You can do this,” she told herself, but the girl staring back at her didn’t look like she believed her.
She had plaited her hair into a French braid this morning after her shower, when it was still wet.
It had looked immaculate then, her dark hair in crisp, clean lines, everything lying flat.
But since then, her hair had dried, and the braid looked messy now, a bunch of flyaways crowning the top of her head.
Her reflection disheartened her—standing there with her messy braid, in the striped shirt and overalls that were wrinkled now from the drive, and without a stitch of makeup, she looked so young.
And plain. And out of place with the Versailles-like background of the room behind her. What was she doing here?
Frustrated, she tried to pat her hair flat, but the gesture didn’t do any good—her flyaways defiantly stood up straight as soon as she took her hand away.
Ah, well. There was nothing she could do about it now.
There was nothing she could do about any of it, except to move forward.
She turned and took a step toward the door.
It was time to meet her charge.