Chapter 3
By the time we were finally allowed to leave de Bourgh Hall, the sun was beginning to set.
A dull ache throbbed behind my eyes as I drove down the winding lane to my home.
Rosings Park was always beautiful at Christmastime, but it was especially gorgeous this year, as we’d hired Caroline Bingley to decorate for the season.
The maple trees looked lovely wrapped in red ribbon, and glittery fairy lights lit up the drive.
At the end of the lane, the trees gave way to a sweeping, snow covered lawn and my majestic home, Rosings Park.
The house was perfectly symmetrical, with a crown of chimneys rising above the decorative trim gracing the roofline.
Each of the high, arched windows held a giant wreath with enchanted candles inside that would glow all season, casting a warm light on the pale ashlar stone.
I pulled my Volvo into my garage bay and turned off the ignition, but I stayed in the driver’s seat for a few minutes, preparing myself with deep, circular breathing. My mamá was going to freak out when I told her about Paolo.
Warmth flooded me when I walked into the house.
Maris, a brownie who had served my mother since before I was born, had prepared a butternut squash soup.
The scent of cloves filled the air, as did the low murmur of voices.
Mamá must be hosting again. As I shrugged out of my coat to hang it on the rack, my fingers caught on the rough wool. This wasn’t mine.
This coat was long and charcoal gray, but the material was wrong. This polyblend would be a nightmare to wear against my skin for long. In my shock, I must have grabbed someone else’s coat. I’d track down its owner later.
I stashed my violin in the music room, breathing in the scent of polished wood.
The space might have been imperious with its ornate molding and high ceiling, but I’d cozied it up with an abundance of rugs, throw blankets, and decorative pillows.
I was more at home in this room than in any other room in Rosings Park.
My fingers itched to pull my violin from its case. Playing music was the easiest way to calm my senses, and I was having a hard time putting a stopper on my abilities given the commotion of the afternoon.
But I left the music room, closed the door behind me, and headed down the garland-lined hall, past life-sized nutcracker soldiers who saluted me as I passed.
The living room was cozier than a lot of the rooms in Rosings Park, and I inhaled the lovely scent of pine as I entered.
Couches surrounded a large fireplace, and a giant Christmas tree stood off to one side.
Every room contained a tree during the holidays, even the kitchen and the bathrooms, though those were smaller and less ornate.
Mamá sat with regal stillness in an armchair by the fire.
She was tall, even for a fae woman, and her height, combined with her ramrod posture, made an imposing impression.
Her hair was a natural white-blonde, pulled up in an elegant twist. Though her face was unlined, nobody who had ever been pierced by those eyes would ever describe her as young.
Pastor Collins and his new wife, Charlotte, were seated on the couch, their hands twined together.
"Anne, it's so nice to see you,” Collins said.
“I was just telling Lady Catherine that the decorations at Rosings are rivaled only by her graceful daughter.
My Charlotte has been doing a remarkable job decorating our home as well, following the excellent example here at Rosings. "
Charlotte smiled, apparently used to his over-the-top flattery. "It is good to see you again, Anne.”
I ignored the dull ache in my head and sat next to the newlyweds. “It’s good to see you, too.” Mamá rang for a servant. Our butler, Mr. Jenkinson, appeared a moment later. “What can I get you, Lady Catherine?”
“Bring Anne an aspirin and a bottle of water.” She turned back to me. “Have you eaten, dear?”
“No.” I hadn’t been hungry, not with all the commotion of the investigation. “Something happened today at rehearsal,” I started, but she ignored me and turned back to Mr. Jenkinson.
“Bring Anne some supper as well.”
“I’d prefer to eat in the kitchen,” I said.
Mamá, stiffened, a tell-tale sign of her disapproval.
Mr. Jenkinson bowed slightly to Mamá. “I’ll be right back with a tray.”
I had the authority to make requests of any of the staff, but there was an unspoken rule that everybody understood: Lady Catherine’s word was command. And whenever her preferences clashed with mine, she won out every time.
“What are your plans for Christmas, Anne?” Charlotte asked.
“I’ll make tamales with my abuelo the week of Christmas, and Darcy and Georgiana will be here for dinner on Christmas Eve. How about you?”
Charlotte looked over at her new husband and a slight blush kissed her cheeks. “We’ll be starting some traditions of our own.”
“We are, of course, planning to come listen to your renowned orchestra’s performance,” Collins said.
A pang hit my chest as the memory of the murder came rushing back to me. “Thank you for your support,” I said. I took a deep breath, steeling myself, and turned to my mother. “Paolo Mariano was killed today.”
She froze. It wasn’t easy to shock my mamá, but this news stopped her in her tracks.
“He’s what?”
“He was murdered this afternoon during the sound check. Someone stabbed him in the back.”
Pastor Collins patted my hand comfortingly. “My deepest condolences,” he said.
“Thank you.
Mamá’s eyes narrowed. “Who killed him?”
I hesitated. “We don’t know. The police think Fred did it, but I’m sure it wasn’t him.”
She bristled. “Well, that is very disturbing news. Until the board of directors hires a new conductor to replace Fred, there will be no more rehearsals and no more performances.”
The whole idea of a board of directors was a sham. Mamá was the chairwoman and the board did whatever she bullied them into doing. If she said we couldn’t perform, then the board would back her on it.
My heart dropped to my stomach. “Mamá. It’s sad that he’s dead but there’s no reason to—”
Her gaze burned into me. “I’ve said all I have to say on the matter.”
No. I had to find a way to salvage the performance. “Please, Mamá. What if the real killer is caught and Fred is proven innocent?”
She set her jaw and I thought she was going to reject my plea, but her eyes snagged on mine and she must have seen the desperation there because she said, “Then and only then—the concert may go on.”
That meant the killer had to be found in the next ten days.
The doorbell rang off in the distance, and Mamá arched a perfectly manicured eyebrow. Whoever was at the door, she wasn’t expecting them. My curiosity piqued. Uninvited guests were a rarity at Rosings Park.
Movement caught my eye, and I turned toward the open door where Mr. Jenkinson ushered in the most exquisite man I had ever seen.
He was tall and lean, wearing jeans that fit like a dream and a black T-shirt that showed off sculpted forearms. His deep brown eyes met mine, eyes that I could lose myself in.
The hint of a smile played on lips that were meant to be kissed.
I knew this because I kissed a picture of them every morning on my way into rehearsal.
This couldn’t be real. I blinked, but he was still there, standing in my living room.
Ernesto Garcia.