Chapter 21. Jade
Jade
Good news: Maeve isn’t going to die.
She’s resting on the couch in Conrad’s office. The doctor is here. His name is Dr. Vernon Hill, but I’m told everyone calls him Vern.
Dr. Hill isn’t what I expected. He doesn’t look like a typical doctor with his fedora, Hawaiian shirt, and old-fashioned wire-rimmed glasses (back in the day, they would have been called spectacles).
He’s almost the same height as Conrad and moves like a much younger person.
But his gray hair, bushy mustache, and wiry eyebrows suggest he’s in his sixties.
He looks strong for his age—one of those guys who still thinks he’s twenty when he’s at the gym.
The doctor does all the doctor things: gives Maeve pills, checks her blood pressure and temperature, listens to her heart and lungs, applies a cold compress to her forehead, and checks her reflexes.
“Stop it! Stop fussing over me,” Maeve says, swatting at Dr. Hill as she pulls herself into a sitting position. “It was nothing.”
Conrad’s voice is heavy with concern. “It’s your third fainting spell in as many weeks. You should go to the hospital, get some blood drawn, and run more tests. And no more swimming. It’s not safe for you to be out in the ocean—especially alone.”
“Nonsense,” Maeve insists, her spine straightening. “I got a bit dizzy, that’s all. I’m perfectly fine.” She shifts her gaze to me. “You there, girl.”
Even though she’s pointing at me, I look around as if a person named Girl might be standing nearby. “Get me some iced tea, five ice cubes, two sprigs of mint, and a teaspoon of sugar. Be quick. I need an energy boost.”
I pull back, stunned. Um, no, I think you need some manners. But I keep that thought to myself as I head off to fulfill Maeve’s request, unsure how to find the kitchen.
Conrad takes my arm, holding me back. “Mother, this is Jade,” he says as if speaking to a woman with dementia.
“I’ve hired her to help you sort through Baxter’s belongings.
Remember? You agreed to this. She’s not the housekeeper.
” He pulls out his phone and sends a text.
“I’ve sent a message to Rose. She’ll bring your tea. ”
The mention of Rose’s name is enough to make Maeve’s ghostly pallor turn red.
“That woman is useless,” she says. Her rouged lips pucker in disgust.
“If you hadn’t fired most of the staff, we’d have other options. Unfortunately, you’ve gone through all the available help in town, so I’ve hired Jade to assist with some additional tasks that need to be done.”
He presents me like an offering. Where do they keep the altar for human sacrifices? Now I understand why he hired a shoplifting pierced rebel—no other options.
The doctor shines a penlight into Maeve’s eyes. She flinches as if he’s poked her.
“Enough, Vern,” she snaps, turning her head. “I’m fine. I told you that. What I need is some breathing room.”
“Dr. Hill, can you please talk sense into her?” Conrad asks.
Dr. Hill grimaces like a cowboy tasked with breaking a wild stallion. “Maeve, Conrad is right. You’ve been having fainting spells far too often. You really should have more tests done.”
A woman appears outside the office. She hovers in the doorway.
Nobody is blocking her way, but she refuses to enter.
Instead, she holds out a tall, dew-drenched glass of iced tea, which Conrad takes like a relay baton.
I examine the drink in his hand, and sure enough—five ice cubes and two mint sprigs float in the amber liquid.
“Thank you, Rose,” Conrad says, bringing the glass to his mother.
Rose—short, round, and in her fifties, with jet-black hair pulled into a tight bun atop her head and eyes dark with animosity—departs without a word.
“Rose and Mother don’t exactly get along, but I pay her well enough that she hasn’t quit—yet,” Conrad whispers to me while giving his mother a frustrated side-eye.
Maeve drinks her tea in a ladylike fashion, pinky extended, offering no comment about Rose.
They’re like feuding neighbors, trapped together and resigned to resenting each other.
If Maeve tries to turn me into her punching bag, I’ll be out of here faster than a bullet.
There must be a pawnshop somewhere nearby, and there are plenty of gilded goodies I can slip into my pockets on my way out the door.
Half of Maeve’s tea is gone when she sets down her glass with a thud. She quietly gets up, without assistance, shifting her weight from one foot to the other to test the strength of her legs, then smooths her skirt with her palms as if that alone can restore her dignity.
Dr. Hill readies himself to catch her should she topple again.
“Conrad, see to it this young woman has something productive to do—and keep her out of my hair. I’m going upstairs to work on the fundraising gala for the Beauport Art Association. This party has to be perfect. It’s the first one we’ve had in years, and it could be my last.”
Conrad squints, rubbing his chin. “Mother, I think hosting a party is too much for you right now. Can’t we postpone?”
Maeve’s smile comes off as a sneer. “I’m not getting any younger, and you’re not giving me any grandchildren. I need to create some sort of legacy before I’m gone. The Barefoot Beach Ball is going to make a grand resurgence.”
I’m reminded of Holly’s novel as Maeve heads out the door, breezing past like I don’t exist. Dr. Hill follows closely behind, his eyes wide with worry.
She might be dead at any moment. It’s hard to imagine that many people would mourn the loss.
Conrad invites me on a tour of the grounds.
I follow him along a narrow dirt path parallel to the sea.
The massive stone house with its imposing tower stands like a scar against the sky.
I know about homes like this only from books: opulent estates with a maze of rooms, lush manicured gardens—an oasis for birds and butterflies.
“This place is amazing,” I say, marveling at a graceful willow tree, its loping branches forming a shady canopy under which stands the cutest wooden bench, perfect for reading. “Is it historic or something?” What I really want to ask is: Is it haunted?
“It’s registered with the Beauport Historical Society, and I’ve given them most of the archives for posterity.”
He doesn’t ask if I know what posterity means.
“Are you a history buff?” he inquires.
“Not really,” I admit. “But I like castles and romantasy novels.”
I catch his slightly raised eyebrows. I must sound like a child.
“It’s a portmanteau,” I explain. “Romance and fantasy combined, like brunch—which is breakfast and lunch.”
He laughs. “I know the word. I just didn’t realize you’re a big reader. I thought kids your age were more into their devices than the written word. I’m impressed.”
I blush.
“Maybe, you’d be interested in the history of the house?”
“Of course,” I say, hoping it’ll be brief.
Conrad clears his throat. “Miramar is designed in the High Victorian Gothic style, inspired in part by Henry Vaughan, who likely trained under British architect George Frederick Bodley—a leading figure in the Gothic Revival movement.”
Oh God. I’m suddenly on a field trip. A yawn rises up, almost impossible to fight off, but I asked for this, so I listen.
“My great-great-grandfather was an industrialist and successful banker. After visiting the Washington National Cathedral, he was inspired to build a home that echoed its design. Fortunately for him, granite mining was booming here in the late 1800s and early 1900s. Most of the stone was quarried locally, though some of the rocks came from ruined castles and abbeys. Those were embedded into the walls.”
I nod like I’ve never been more fascinated, but dread creeps in.
I felt uneasy inside the house as if something more than old stones were buried in the walls.
Tragedy. Sorrow. The air practically hums with it.
Why is the outside kept pristine while the interior seems to have been neglected?
Maybe it’s a metaphor for the family, or perhaps I’ve simply read too many novels.
“Do you have a gardener as well as a housekeeper?”
“We had a gardener, but he quit. Now I hire a landscaping company for a lot more money. My mother is good at driving people away.”
I could see that after my first five minutes in Maeve’s company. At least Maeve is planning some kind of fundraiser, though I strongly suspect it’s more about showing off than a sudden flare of altruism.
Why did Conrad lure me into this job when he knows how his mother treats the staff? Is he that desperate? Or is he playing some kind of game? Rich people have twisted ways of getting their jollies when there’s nothing left in life to conquer.
“I’m not expecting you to be any different,” he says.
“Don’t hang around and suffer her abuse on my account.
I’m not trying to sugarcoat it, Jade, though I should have warned you up front.
I’m happy to pay you for your time today—maybe two hundred?
And you can move on if this isn’t the right opportunity. ”
“Opportunity? Is that what they’re calling verbal abuse these days?
” I laugh, making sure Conrad knows I’m kidding.
Luckily he joins in. The warmth of his laugh puts me at ease.
What could I get for a bonus if I last through the summer?
Considering how much he’ll pay me to leave after a few hours on the job, I’d bet a lot.
Keeping Mom out of Conrad’s hair has got to be worth a hefty payday. Challenge accepted.
“All I’m saying is, I’d understand if you decide this isn’t for you.”
“No, no, it’s fine,” I say. “I’m looking forward to it.” I almost believe myself. “So what’s that over there?” I point to some sort of ruin. This is the only part of the grounds they haven’t kept pristine.
The path is overgrown, with clusters of weeds sprouting around the remains of a stone structure.
The rocks look blackened, which could be from exposure to the elements—or something else more destructive.
It’s a lonesome, sad sight for such a beautiful location, that’s for sure.
Any building that stands here would offer breathtaking views of the sea, and I’m surprised someone hasn’t put the land to better use.
“What happened there?” I ask, pointing but keeping my distance. This spot feels sacred, as though we’ve stumbled upon an archaeological find that we must not desecrate.
Conrad goes completely still, almost spellbound, as though he can peer into the past. I look, too, imagining the building that once occupied this land—one made of stone, with a big bay window overlooking the sea.
His chest caves, his shoulders curling around him. Conrad’s eyes glisten from unshed tears, though I could be imagining that. He inhales a deep breath of salty sea air, which works as a reset. The very next instant, he is Conrad of yore—stoic, good-natured, and buttoned-up.
“That was our guesthouse,” he says in a heavy tone. “It was destroyed years ago, and I didn’t have the heart to rebuild it. So here it lies, a ruin on our castle grounds.”
He turns his back on the abandoned site and moves along the path, his hands clasped behind his back, a gentle cadence to his steps. I hurry to catch up.
The tower looms before us. “So cool you have an actual tower. I’d love to see what’s up there.” My tone is cheerful, but the moment the words exit my mouth, I regret them.
Something flashes in Conrad’s eyes. Rage? Fear? Either way, his glowering look gives me the feeling that the tower holds secrets he’d rather keep locked up.
We stop in the middle of the path. We’re all alone. The wind rustles the tall grass bordering what’s left of the guesthouse. Far below, ocean waves crash against the jagged rocks.
“Jade,” he says in a calm voice, his focus unwavering.
His dark eyes have taken on a cold, menacing quality.
“There are three rules for employment. They are non-negotiable. The job will pay you well—very well, I assure you. But you must never violate these three caveats.” He pauses, allowing his words to land.
My gut twists. This feels like an initiation into some cult.
A wiser, less desperate person might have explained the gig wasn’t for them and hightailed it out of here, but I can’t walk away.
I have no money and no other prospects, so my options are limited.
If we were playing poker, Conrad would be holding the far better hand.
“Sure. Ah, what are they?”
“One.” Conrad holds up a finger. “The tower is off-limits, always. No exceptions. Is that clear?”
I nod.
“Two.” He adds a second finger. “You are never, and I repeat, never, allowed on the grounds of this property before seven o’clock in the morning, nor are you permitted to be here after seven at night. This rule applies whether you’re employed here or not.”
“Fine by me. I’m not an early bird anyway.” My laugh is shaky.
The darkness in Conrad’s eyes only deepens. “What’s the third rule?” I gulp.
“Don’t steal,” he says in all seriousness. “Not one item, no matter how insignificant it may seem. Don’t even think about it. The old you—the thief—that girl no longer exists.”
His words land like a slap. That girl. He says it like I’m dead and buried, but I’m still here. Still me. And still wondering why I’m not running away.
“Are these rules clear?”
I nod again but don’t utter a word because I’m too afraid of saying the wrong thing. However, a little voice inside my head warns me: When it comes to Conrad and the Carmichael estate, any infraction, big or small, will result in serious consequences.