Chapter 41
The walk to the gardener’s cottage was longer than she’d anticipated, and left Therese vowing to get back to the gym once she returned home—wherever that was.
A narrow gravel path had been carved through the thicket of trees, vines, and overgrown shrubs. When she shoved aside a branch with sharp briars she was rewarded with deep scratches on her face and arms after the branch snapped back.
NO TRESPASSING signs were tacked to trees at the beginning and halfway up the path, which led up a sharp hill, leaving her winded.
Finally, she crested the hill and spotted the gardener’s cottage that was home to the last of the Rossingtons.
Hardly a cottage to Therese’s way of thinking.
It was two stories, built of the same native gray stone as Tarrymore and the other outbuildings on the estate, and the facade was covered in ivy that obscured most of the windows.
Unlike the manor house, with its sweeping vistas, terraced orchards, flower beds, and splendid marble fountains and statuary, the cottage was hidden behind wildly overgrown shrubbery that hadn’t been maintained in decades.
A porte cochere on the north side of the cottage sheltered an aged silver Jaguar, but Esme’s new-looking pickup truck was parked close to the entry to the house.
“Looks like somebody’s home,” Therese muttered. As she got closer, she noticed that all four of the Jaguar’s tires were deflated, and the windshield and windows caked with what looked like decades of grime. The pickup truck’s tailgate was down, and the driver’s side door was ajar.
Suddenly, the front door of the cottage opened and she was greeted with a chorus of friendly barks as Esme’s cocker spaniel ran toward her, tail wagging furiously.
Now the dog was running circles around and around her and jumping up on her ankles.
She scooped the dog up and scratched its floppy ears. “Hello, Sinead. Hey sweet girl. I’m glad to see you, too.” The dog covered her face in slobbery kisses.
“I’m not.”
Therese looked up. Esme Rossington’s voice was loud and diamond sharp. She approached slowly, her right leg dragging just a bit.
“Put my dog down and go away immediately,” she said.
Esme stood five feet away, hands clenched on her hips. She was dressed in men’s denim overalls, a long-sleeved flannel shirt, and mud-spattered boots without laces. A tweed newsboy’s cap was pulled down over her eyes.
“But I brought you a delivery,” Therese said, flashing her most engaging smile and holding up a large white paper sack, which Sinead was already pawing at and sniffing.
“I didn’t order anything,” Esme said. “And you’re trespassing.” She yanked a thumb in the direction of the pickup truck. “You should know that I have a loaded rifle in my vehicle. And I’m an excellent shot.”
Therese set the cocker down on the ground, but she continued to whine and paw at the leg of Therese’s jeans.
“No need to fire shots,” she said, trying again. “I come in peace, bearing gifts.”
She extended the bag. “The manager at the bakery in the village said the apple tarts are your favorite. Maeve and I loved your butterscotch-rum candies so much we bought some to take home—and some to bring to you. And there’s a nice juicy marrow bone from the butcher shop for Sinead, too.”
Still unsmiling, Esme snatched the paper sack from Therese’s outstretched hand. “There now. I hope you weren’t expecting a tip.”
“Expecting nothing,” Therese said. “But the tart’s still warm from the oven. You should take a taste before it cools down.”
“Fine.” Esme reached into the bag and brought out a tart. She bit into it, sending a trickle of apple filling oozing out. She closed her eyes and chewed, her facial expression relaxing into something approximating a smile.
A moment later her eyes were open and glaring at Therese. “Why are you here? Haven’t I already made it clear that I’m not interested in idle chatter with strangers who violate my privacy?”
“But we’re actually not strangers. We’re family, you, me, and of course, Sinead.”
“Not possible.” Esme crumpled the bag with the remainder of the tart and shoved it into the bib of her overalls. “Come, Sinead. We’ve work to do.”
She limped over to the truck and with effort, lifted a cardboard box, stumbling a bit before grabbing onto the tailgate to right herself.
Therese looked around. “What happened to your helper?”
“I’ve given Reggie notice,” Esme said. “Good riddance to rubbish.”
“Here. At least let me give you a hand.” Therese stepped up and gently took the box from the older woman. Esme looked chagrined, but did not resist the assistance. Therese noted there were two more boxes in the bed of the truck, both cases of canned dog food.
“Come around to the kitchen then,” Esme said, motioning to the right side of the cottage, where a footpath had been worn down in the tall grass and weeds.
When they got to the rear of the house, she yanked at a rickety wooden door and stepped inside with Therese close on her heels.
Lights flickered on. The kitchen had walls of peeling egg-yolk-yellow paint, green linoleum floors, and appliances that looked like they’d been purchased during the Eisenhower administration.
The green Formica countertops were littered with cereal boxes, empty milk cartons, and stacks of magazines, newspapers, and unopened mail.
A huge wooden butcher block was centered in the room.
“Put that down there,” Esme said.
Therese did as she was told. “I’ll just go fetch the rest of your things,” she told Esme, who shrugged her resignation.
When she returned with the cases of dog food, she set them on the counter and looked around, to find Esme seated at a small wooden table in a windowed alcove, with Sinead on her lap.
“The place is a fright,” Esme said, looking around. “My housekeeper is unwell right now, and of course, I wasn’t expecting visitors.”
“Understood.” Therese casually leaned against the butcher block.
From the look of the room, the housekeeper must have been terminal. Trash was spilling out of a bin near the back door, a deep sink held unwashed pots and pans and dishes, and the floor was tracked with muddy paw and footprints.
Esme’s face was pale, and her breathing seemed labored.
“It’s pretty warm outside today. Could I get you something cold to drink?” Therese asked.
“There’s Orangina in the icebox,” Esme said. “I suppose you could have a glass before you go.”
The refrigerator seemed to be the newest thing in the room.
The shelves were fairly barren, except for a limp-looking head of cabbage, a carton of milk, and assorted lumpy foil packets.
She found the half-empty bottle of Orangina on the door rack and poured the juice into a couple of chipped glasses she found in a nearby cupboard.
She joined Esme at the table, uninvited, opposite her hostess, who sipped the juice noisily. Therese realized Esme wasn’t wearing her dentures. Maybe that explained her annoyance?
“Why do you persist in forcing yourself upon me?” Esme blurted the words so suddenly it startled the dog, who’d fallen asleep on her lap.
Therese had been waiting and hoping for an opening like this.
“As my sister and I mentioned, our great-grandmother, Kathleen Rose Connor, grew up here.”
“In the village,” Esme said with a dismissive sniff.
“In the manor house,” Therese said forcefully. “With the lord and his wife and their two sons, and his older sister Delia. One of those sons was your father, correct?”
Esme drew herself up straight in the chair. “My father was the oldest son, Edward, although he was called Teddy. And there was no one in our family named Kathleen Rose Connor. That’s just nonsense. Why would a village girl live at Tarrymore?”
Therese chose her words carefully. “Probably because your grandfather raped Kathleen’s mother, Bridget, who at the time was a seventeen-year-old virgin. He fathered Bridget’s child.”
“Impossible,” Esme said.
“It was hushed up very quickly. As soon as Bridget’s family discovered she was pregnant, the village priest stepped in and had a word with Lord Rossington, and Bridget was quietly married off to a personable village lad named Thomas Connor.”
“That’s utter rubbish,” Esme said calmly.
“Kathleen was quite young when Lady Delia saw her. She was immediately smitten with the little girl, and insisted on raising her in the manor house, as her ‘protégé’ or ward, or whatever Dickensian phrase people used to describe the lord’s bastard child.”
Esme made a dismissive gesture. “Village gossip. My grandfather was a well-respected man. A war hero.”
“A married war hero. Lady Fiona must have suspected Kathleen was her husband’s child. She couldn’t have been happy when her sister-in-law brought Kathleen to live under her nose, in the same house with their two sons.”
Esme sipped her Orangina, and color began to come back to her withered cheeks.
“My grandmother was a formidable woman. She would not have tolerated such an affront.”
“She probably didn’t have a choice in the matter. But Bridget didn’t have a choice either, did she? Neither did her daughter, Kathleen.”
Therese pulled out her cell phone and found the photo she was looking for. It was the picture Kathleen had sent her brother Tommy not long after arriving in the States. She pushed the phone across the table to the older woman.
Esme stared down at the image, squinting. She got up, scrabbled among the clutter of papers on the counter, and found a pair of wire-rimmed reading glasses.
“That’s Kathleen. My great-grandmother. She’s about nineteen in that photo, taken after she arrived in the States. Notice a resemblance?”
“Not at all,” Esme said. She shoved the phone away and finished her Orangina.
“Listen to me, young lady. You’ve some cheek, hounding me this way, and I’ve tried to remain civil.
But you’ve been going around the village, you and your sister, making disgusting allegations about my family,” she said, her voice quivering with barely contained rage.
“That girl, Kathleen, was a murderer. And a thief. Don’t you think I know about that?
She murdered my great-aunt, stole a valuable painting and priceless family jewels, and then fled the country to avoid being prosecuted. ”
Ah, Therese thought. She’d finally gotten the old lady riled up. Good. Because she was about to drop the other shoe. And Esme Rossington wouldn’t like what was coming next any better.