Chapter 16
“Welcome to Tarrymore Manor!” The tour guide was in her early twenties. She had a lilting Irish accent and a smile that Therese found unreasonably irritating, like the women handing out free samples at Costco.
Predictably, she said her name was Erin, but spelled “Aerin.”
Sus, Therese thought.
She was trailing along at the back of the tour pack. There were seven of them, including Maeve and herself, along with an older gay couple from Australia and a trio of Japanese tourists who nodded politely at everything the guide said.
Tarrymore Manor was, as Maeve had predicted, a mausoleum, with thick carpeting lain down over the wood floors in high-traffic areas and the doors to most rooms cordoned off with red velvet ropes, which made Therese want to sneak in and steal something, just for shits and grins.
Of course she would resist that temptation, because causing an international incident would only serve to prove Maeve right.
Also, she’d never be able to fit anything else in her carry-on.
The furnishings in the house were elaborate, like something out of Downton Abbey, and the guide’s voice echoed in the high-ceilinged rooms.
And there were So. Many. Rooms. They all seemed to blur into one set from a costume drama. She was starting to regret the whiskey and the Guinness she’d enjoyed earlier. Not to mention the gummy she’d snuck while Maeve was in the bathroom.
Her sister was being her usual honor-roll self, standing at the front of the group, asking inane questions.
Therese was just about to slip away from the tour. That lumpy mattress back in their room was calling her name. But her ears perked up when the tour guide said something about the family’s “world-class art collection.”
She edged her way past the Australians but had to employ sharp elbows when it came to the Japanese tourists, who seemed to move as a single unit and were now clotted up at the entrance to a wide hallway.
The hallway, which the guide said was the “picture gallery,” had unusually elaborate moldings, plaster pilasters, and a coved ceiling that was painted with a mural of floating clouds and flying, pink-cheeked cherubs.
The walls were covered in paintings of all sizes, all in gilt frames, each illuminated with a small lamp mounted to the wall above.
“The ceiling mural, which was inspired by a sixteenth-century work by Renaissance artist Brunelleschi, was actually painted by Valerian DeJongh, who married into the family in the 1870s,” the guide said.
“Could you repeat the artist’s name?” Therese piped up, which prompted Maeve to give her the side-eye. Which Therese ignored.
“DeJongh. Valerian DeJongh,” the guide said, loudly pronouncing each syllable as though Therese were either deaf or just plain stupid.
She leaned close to her sister’s ear. “Is that our Valerian DeJongh?”
Maeve nodded.
Now the guide was pointing at a painting of a bewigged man wearing a blue velvet jacket, with a ruffled dickey. “This is Godfrey, the fourth earl, painted in 1750 by Bennino Frascati.”
She moved on to a painting of a dark-haired woman in a pale pink gown with an alarming amount of cleavage.
Standing beside her was a blond child of maybe six, who was decked out in a ridiculous frilly green suit.
“This is Lady Caroline, painted with her son Taulton, whom the family fondly called ‘Toady,’ a boarding-school name, I presume,” the guide said.
On and on she droned, through landscapes of moors and forests, paintings of hunting dogs snarling at cornered foxes, and an endless assortment of dukes, baronesses, and earls.
Finally, Therese lost patience. “What can you tell us about the paintings stolen by the IRA?” she asked.
The guide’s face froze for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “I see someone’s been doing their historical research.”
“The IRA?” One of the Australians’ faces lit up. “Do tell!”
“It was back in the 1970s, a long time ago. But all the paintings were quickly recovered and the thieves were arrested and jailed, following an intense, countrywide manhunt. But after that unfortunate incident, the Rossingtons decided, for security reasons, that the stolen pieces, which were the gems of their art collection, should be donated to the National Gallery in Dublin, where they are still on exhibit.”
“Then what’s all this stuff?” the other Australian asked in an irked tone. He had a bristly gray mustache that reminded Therese of Captain Crunch from the cereal box.
“Oh, these are still some of the most amazing, valuable paintings in all of Europe,” the guide assured him. “Not copies. The genuine article.”
“But … I read that not all the paintings that were stolen were found,” Maeve spoke up. “Isn’t that right?”
The guide arched an over-plucked eyebrow.
“Don’t believe everything you read.” She waved the group toward the end of the hall.
“Now, let’s move on to the kitchens. In their day, dining at the Rossingtons’ was considered a coveted invitation.
You’ve already noted that the dining room, really a banquet hall, could comfortably seat eighty people.
So how did the cooks prepare all that food for such huge crowds? You’re about to find out.”
Maeve caught her eye, and the sisters let the others move ahead of them until they were momentarily alone in the picture gallery.
“What do you make of that?” Therese asked. “‘Don’t believe everything you read.’” She’d always had an ear for accents, and her impression of the tour guide’s smooth-tongued blarney was dead on.
“Interesting,” Maeve said.
The guide had paused at the entrance to the kitchen. “Ladies?” she said. “You don’t want to fall behind now.”
“Be right there,” Maeve called.
“Not me,” Therese said, yawning. “I’m out. If you need me I’ll be back in the room. But don’t need me, okay? I’m dead on my feet.”