1. ~ Obscure Reality ~

CHAPTER 1

Geneva, Western New York, 1937

A meal of three-day-old bread crust and watered-down milk hardly stoked the flames of courage, and standing on the steps of Oak's Place in the drizzly rain, I needed every spark of spirit I could gather. Usually, a teeth-baring gothic door knocker would not give me goosebumps. Neither would unpredictable weather, let alone applying for a job, even at a house whose mysterious owner fueled the town's gossip storm. But hunger could wear down even the bravest heart, and a job opening was a miracle never to be slighted.

I stepped back and gazed up at the high brownstone walls and mortar chimneys of the house, its gables filled with ivy and signs of disrepair. Last summer, the estate fell into the hands of a retired British general. Who was he? And why select this part of the world in which to retire? No one knew. No one ever saw "the Shadow," as people called him, locked away in his mansion in the woods.

Naturally, my imagination went wild. Although Granny—Sister Dolores to the rest of the world—vehemently disapproved, I often tuned into the Detective Story Hour after supper, imagining the new owner of Oak's Place a silent yet fierce vigilante. A childish game to play, perhaps, but understandable when I'd spent my twenty years of life with my adopted granny—a saint at heart but devoted to making my life as dull as only a nun could.

A rustling brought my attention to the scrub where the trees clumped together, their branches twisted in serpentine patterns. There. Something moved but disappeared before I could make it out. I told myself it must be some creature of the woodland realm but then got the strange feeling that unseen eyes watched me closely. I quickly grabbed the door knocker as a wind rose, rushing through the ancient trees. Almost as soon as the metal collided with the wood, a gray-haired woman in a black dress opened the door, her catlike eyes gleaming from within the gloomy interior.

"May I help you?" The sharp British voice sounded oddly… familiar.

"Good morning," I said promptly. "I telephoned about the ad in the paper."

Her eyes quietly assessed me for a moment, and I wondered if she would invite me in. Just then, another gust of wind whipped around the yard and shook the door. "Come in. Come in," she said hurriedly as if compelled by the elements.

Brushing my fingers through my hair, I stepped into the unlit foyer and immediately noticed the thick silence. It greeted the tapping of my heels with a faint echo, as if someone invisible walked the long corridors. Yet I detected no one besides the dreariness residing there, the passages I could see beyond the foyer as labyrinthine as one could hope for so mysterious an owner.

Entirely lacking in furnishings, the foyer offered little in the way of color or encouragement, as inviting as the woman who had answered the door. And as she came up beside me, fresh goosebumps prickled my arms. The sensation told me that anything or anyone lurking in the forest would be a welcome companion compared to what might lay ahead in the shadows of the house. But instead of urging me to run, my fears kept me rooted in place.

"I am the housekeeper, Mrs. White."

Her voice brought me to my senses. "Florence Contini. It's a pleasure to meet you." I caught sight of the only glimmer of personality about her—the black rosary around her neck. Where had I seen this woman before? In the monastery chapel? Perhaps. But when?

I extended my resume, which she took with a slight tremor in her hand. She gazed at the print for a long while, a wave of confusion veiling her features.

"You are too late. Too late indeed." Her fingers trailed the beads of her rosary as if in silent prayer.

"Late? How can I be late? I drove here as soon as we hung up." I hesitated, hoping she said something encouraging.

"You can leave your resume. I'll make sure to speak with Mr. Sterling about it."

My stomach heaved as I desperately searched for the words to convince her I was right for the position.

"What's the matter, Deborah?" a man spoke, his voice blending with the bleakness of the passage ahead.

"Mr. Vines! Why the devil do you creep around the house?" Mrs. White shrieked, undermining the image of self-control she'd projected.

Mr. Vines stood a good foot taller than me, with an olive complexion and dark eyes that left me feeling disquieted.

"Me?" He laughed. "No one knows the art of creeping around more than you, Deborah."

"For goodness' sake, Mr. Vines, watch your tongue."

Mr. Vines laughed again, though it sounded more ill-tempered than merry. Then he contemplated me with such intensity I wondered if he also remembered some common past, a long-forgotten meeting of our paths.

"This is Florence Contini," the housekeeper offered.

"Florence Contini, indeed." He extended his hand. "I'm Mr. Vines, the chauffeur."

"Nice to meet you." I met his firm grip with my own, then swiftly let go.

"I hope you've come to stay this time," he muttered.

Come to stay this time? I opened my mouth to question him, my sudden courage more likely drawn from Detective Story Hour than my present reality, but Mrs. White quickly intervened.

"Actually, she was just leaving." The housekeeper reached for the doorknob.

"Oh, but she can't leave." Mr. Vines spoke with the same resolution that marked his British accent. "Mr. Sterling would like to meet with her."

"Of course he would." Mrs. White pursed her lips, the same thing Granny did on occasion, but I had the distinct impression she summoned a great deal of restraint not to snap at Mr. Vines. "Well, then." She returned the resume to me and gestured to the first room off the foyer. "Have a seat. I'll check with Mr. Sterling."

"What's there to check?" Mr. Vines objected.

"Do hush." Her gaze fell upon him like a sharpened blade. "Come now."

I stared into the passageway where the couple vanished into blackness, amazed at how masterfully they kept courtesy to its minimum requirements. I wondered if the housekeeper's neglect marked the waiting room also, but as I entered the space, the blush of something different met me.

Faint daylight came through a window overlooking the woods, and in the gray softness, I discovered paintings of European architecture, pastoral landscapes, and vibrant forests. A mahogany desk with a wooden chair, a flowery armchair, and a grotesque armoire with heavily carved doors completed the decor. As I settled in the armchair, I again felt the urge to flee, but the memory of Granny using the same tea bag three days in a row encouraged me to stay.

That very morning, I could not have expected the secretary position in the employment column of the newspaper. Now, I believed it with the full force of the gossip that surrounded this place—gossip that placed Mr. Sterling as a mercenary, fugitive from justice, wartime spy, or, worse yet, some obscure creature who hunted the woods for his victims.

Despite the tales being so far-fetched, I couldn't blame the townsfolk for speculating. It was easy to feel resentful when our nation experienced the worst poverty in its history. The sudden fall of the stock market spared few, not the least the monastery. Granny's soup kitchen, the school for girls, the sisters, the trips—all lay desolate. And here was Mr. Sterling, uncaring and distant, hidden away with all his money. No wonder they disliked him. But idle prattle wouldn't put food on the table. I needed a job and was determined to see it through.

"Follow me, please." I jumped to my feet as the housekeeper approached, Mr. Vines's words ringing in my head. "No one knows the art of creeping around more than you, Deborah." I realized his statement was verified in every particular—the more so as I followed her into the corridor. Only the shifting of her beads and her quiet muttering broke the silence.

At a bend, we turned into another dimly lit corridor and followed the sconces to a door at the far end. Before knocking, Mrs. White ran her hands over her well-pressed dress. Instinctively, I looked at my blue blouse and skirt, leftovers from the monastery's charity chest, feeling too plainly dressed.

"Come in," a voice said in response to her knocking.

Mrs. White pushed the door open and signaled me to enter first. "Miss Contini, sir."

Mr. Sterling stood before the window in a swath of diffused light that spilled through the glass, his back to me. He appeared to be over six feet tall, with broad shoulders and black hair—not what I imagined.

When he didn't respond, Mrs. White said, "Very well. I'll leave you to it," then left, closing the door behind her in a way that transmitted her displeasure.

I glanced around at the wood-paneled walls, brown sofa, brick fireplace, pile of books on the floor, and large desk with leather chairs.

The motionless Mr. Sterling could have simply been one more furnishing. Wondering if I should say something, I looked past him into the yard, catching sight of a statue of a woman embracing a child. At that instant, time stood still, as if I had stepped into a dream—a forgotten dream that called to me from another world.

"Good morning, Miss Contini." Surrounded by the daylight, his face remained in shadow as he turned, his British accent calm and reassuring.

"Good morning."

My heart skipped a beat as he crossed the room. He was neither young nor old. In his early forties, his features bore witness that he had been remarkably handsome in his youth, and still was. The odd sense of familiarity rushed back with renewed intensity. Somewhere, I had seen those deep-blue eyes, dark brows and eyelashes, fair skin, and almost intimidating presence. No. How could it be? I hadn't seen him or his staff before. I had only envisioned him while bemusedly listening to the local gossip, but that man stood worlds apart from the one holding my gaze.

"I'm Alexander Sterling," he said brusquely, showing no inclination to shake hands.

"Pleased to meet you, sir." I suddenly became aware of my looks. The rain and wind had done a number on my hair, several strands escaping from their clips. At least my outfit complemented my auburn hair and brown eyes, or so I hoped. But under Mr. Sterling's silent judgment, I felt gauche and awkward. How on earth would I convince him I could handle the job so windblown and pale with nerves?

He pulled a chair from the desk. "Please have a seat."

"Thank you."

He strolled to his chair on the opposite side.

"Here is my information." I placed the paper on the neatly arranged desk.

Mr. Sterling retrieved it and began reading. Meanwhile, the morning grew darker, and soon the heavy clouds unleashed a torrent of rain that pounded against the window as if wanting to break through it. Though we were surrounded by bodies of water in the Finger Lakes region, precipitations like this were sporadic. And it didn't seem to bother Mr. Sterling one bit as he inspected my resume with a curious intensity. Was there something wrong with it—something wrong with me?

A minute or two later, his voice sounded above the drumming of the rain. "Have we met?" His eyes flitted from the paper to mine.

I had no intention of appearing weak, but I felt captured by his eyes and had to force myself to look away, unable to hold his gaze. "I don't believe so." Interesting. He, too, feels a sense of familiarity.

"Are you sure? Maybe not here, but in England?"

"I'm afraid not. I've never left New York."

"Your name is Florence Contini."

"Yes."

"You were raised by Sister Dolores Perkins—a nun?" he asked, a brow raised.

"Yes."

"What about your parents?"

"My parents?" I shook my head, disconcerted. The resume stated it clearly—I'd been orphaned, and his question, if not intrusive, was irrelevant. At any rate, I clarified, "I know nothing about them. They left me at the monastery when I was but a baby."

"It says here you were trained at Higher Grounds, a private school for girls. Where is that?"

"It belonged to the monastery, several miles north of town. But it closed after I graduated two years ago."

"You were born in 1917. How can that be?" His gaze drifted as if he'd been transported to another place, another time. "Twenty years ago . . ."

Did he think I was too young for the job? I had to reassure him—convince him I could be his secretary. "After I graduated, I became the monastery's accountant and record keeper. So, in that regard, I'm confident I can manage your business affairs in a satisfying manner."

"You already have a job, then?"

"Not anymore. With the economy as it is, the church stopped funding the monastery and effectively eliminated my job."

"I see."

A loud crash came from the corridor, my ears ringing with the intensity of the sound. Again. Another blast. This time, I surmised that it must be an object being overturned.

"Excuse me." Mr. Sterling rose, visibly annoyed by the disturbance.

I nodded.

He stepped into the hallway, leaving the door ajar. After a moment of silence, I heard him and Mrs. White arguing in hushed voices. To my disappointment, I couldn't make out their conversation, but I feared I wouldn't get the job. It seemed both scrutinized me with an edge of distrust.

My mind raced, my hands compulsively opening and closing. Granny and I needed the income. She tried hard to conceal her anxiety about our financial state, but I had seen the stack of bills, overdue notices, and the multiplying payment plans. Thankfully, Mr. Sterling didn't take long to return and settled back into his seat. Distress accentuated his features.

"Miss Contini, I have one more question for you."

I braced for the worst.

"When can you start?"

I almost fell off the chair. Had I heard correctly?

"Miss Contini? When can you start?" he repeated.

"Right away." The words tumbled out of my mouth.

"It's settled, then." He smiled faintly. "Mrs. White will explain your tasks. She knows more about my affairs than I do."

"Thank you, Mr. Sterling. I won't disappoint you." My thoughts continued to race. I had a job, my first real job. I wouldn't mess it up, hopefully.

Like an unexpected whirlwind, Mrs. White burst into the room. Had she been eavesdropping?

"Welcome aboard, Miss Contini," she said, confirming my suspicions. "Please, follow me."

I started after her, feeling Mr. Sterling's eyes on my back.

"I'll introduce you to Zaira, our cook, and Mr. Snider, the groundskeeper, tomorrow. People in this house tend to vanish when one needs them," Mrs. White grumbled, moving briskly down the hallway.

A domestic issue could account for the tense atmosphere. It was a comforting thought. However, the word vanish didn't sit well with me.

We entered the room where I first waited.

"This will be your office." Mrs. White touched the light switch in passing, and the chandelier sprang to life. "Now, there is no better time to clarify your position. All rules must be understood and followed. Failure to do so will result in your termination." She paused as if she expected me to say something.

Rules. Growing up at the monastery, I was accustomed to rules, though not inclined to follow them. I nodded in acknowledgment.

Evidently pleased with my silence, she said, "Have a seat," pointing to the uncomfortable-looking chair behind the desk. "First, you'll refer to me for everything. Mr. Sterling suffers from an unknown disease. At times, he becomes violently ill and needs rest and isolation. He mustn't be disturbed."

A mysterious disease? Could this be why he didn't socialize and why he wanted his affairs in order? So much for being a bloodthirsty murderer. He hadn't looked sick to me, but why should I doubt the housekeeper?

"Second, you are not to discuss Oak's Place matters beyond these walls. Third, do not wander the premises. I'll show you the areas you are welcome to, and I strongly suggest you stay within those boundaries. Understood?"

"Yes, of course."

She handed me a notebook and pen. "Now, you may wish to write this down." She opened the doors of a large armoire, revealing a host of books from which she carefully extracted several leather-bound volumes. "The family's solicitor was in charge of this, but he retired when we moved to America." With a loud thump, she dropped the load in front of me. "Mr. Sterling owns quite a few properties. You'll find deeds, tax information, rents, and so on in these books. Like the ad explained, your job is to organize, update, and maintain." She slipped onto the armchair and launched into a lengthy harangue about my duties and her expectations as to how I should accomplish them. "I'll meet with you in the mornings to help you get started, but I hope you'll catch on quickly."

So do I.

With everything Mrs. White said, at least one thing was clear—she was both the lawmaker and enforcer at Oak's Place.