Chapter 1

one

B riar

Overgrown vines blanket the castle as it sleeps on a bed of ten seasons’ worth of fallen leaves.

Am I in the right place?

Of course, I am. I’m certain this is the correct address. The photos posted on the official website must be older—maybe from fifty years ago—but this is definitely the place.

If nothing else assures me that I’m not lost, there’s the fact that the security gate at the foot of the hill opened when I arrived. Esme is expecting me.

From the looks of it, I’m glad I drove myself from the airport rather than accept the offer of a car. If this internship goes sideways, I’ll need to hightail it out of here.

The art deco “B” carved in the copper flashing along the central peak of the roof is the final confirmation that I’m where I’m supposed to be. The old railroad baron had his initials inscribed all over this place over a hundred and twenty years ago.

I sit behind the wheel as more pieces come together to form what I know about this castle. To the left of the main residence is the carriage house. Beyond that, the stables. To my right is the creek, with its iconic footbridge where the patriarch, George Bryant, proposed to his wife, Elinor, in 1899.

I park my rented hybrid near the crumbling front steps and exit the car, then retrieve my luggage from the trunk.

Although I’m not expecting anyone to carry my bags for me, I would have thought someone would be here to greet me.

I scan the building and then I spot her; she appears like a ghost in a window of the western turret. She wears all white and stares at me, her face blank. Gasping, I take a step back, staring up at the figure.

That’s her. Esme.

I smile and wave tentatively as my stomach cartwheels. This is really happening. My first brush with fame.

The huge front door opens with a loud clank. A startled squeak escapes me.

The shadowy space there reveals nothing. “Who’s there?” I look away with a shiver as I grip my keychain, my keys laced between my fingers. I know nothing will happen to me, but this place is starting to freak me out.

When I glance back up at the turret, the woman is gone.

With a trembling breath, I ascend the stairs, trying to identify who it might be that opened the door.

Leaves rustle in the overgrown hedge. I swallow and turn that way, but it’s only the squirrels having a field day with the fallen acorns.

When I turn my head back to the door, a pale figure of a white-haired man suddenly appears like a specter against the darkness.

“Holy shit!” I gasp, clutching my heart. “You scared me.”

I didn’t mean to curse, but my god. Warn a girl. Cough or something.

“You rang at the gate. I’ve been waiting for you to come inside.”

The older man’s tone suggests I’m in the wrong for being startled so badly. He has the look of a humorless grandfather with little patience for anyone younger than 45.

Well, hopefully, I won’t be dealing with him for long. I’m sure Esme and I will get along perfectly. I get on better with women in the workplace anyway.

Relax, Briar. This is probably the butler. He’s not supposed to be the welcome wagon.

I smooth down the front of my new wool shacket, which I smartly wore instead of my usual peacoat. It’s warmer here than in Indiana this time of year. Breathless and smiling as I lug my suitcase up the stairs, I extend my hand. “You must be Mr. Frye.”

As it was a Mr. Frye sending the emails to me regarding the internship, this is a safe bet.

The sixty-something man nods, a sloped, pink chin dipping down. Unsmiling, he accepts my offer of a handshake. “You must be Ms. Fenwick.”

My smile is unfailing. “You can call me Briar.”

After a quick pause to consider what I’ve said, Frye says, “Right this way for your orientation. We have to make this brief; I’m headed out of town for a long weekend.”

What follows is not a tour so much as Frye handing me a map and explaining in general terms what the job entails.

Ms. Bryant must have her coffee upon first waking up. She practices yoga early every Saturday morning. That’s tomorrow. She sees a visiting doctor each Monday at noon.

“Her doctor makes house calls? That’s sick,” I say.

“Mistress Bryant is not ill, and I would warn you not to spread such rumors.”

Wow. OK.

“That’s not what I meant; it was just an expression.”

“Do you have something to write all this down?” Frye says, glancing at my hands as if I’m expected to whip out a pad and paper on command as well as haul my luggage around as I follow him from the foyer into the grand hall.

“Oh,” I say, confused. “I figured you were just giving me a quick rundown before I meet Ms. Bryant.”

He blinks at me, his eyes giving nothing but the smallest flicker of contempt. “A quick rundown? No. I’m telling you your job.”

My job? I thought this internship was meant for me to assist the heiress in maintaining this historic property. I was promised access to the Bryant’s art and antiquities collection. I’m also here to study and write about Gilded Age architecture, lifestyle, and historical anecdotes.

When I blink at Frye confoundedly, he gives a harassed, impatient look.

“Your letters of recommendation from the university’s history department claimed you were a quick learner, Ms. Fenwick. Were your professors mistaken?”

Wow. I’ve known him 90 seconds and he’s already the most insulting person I’ve ever met.

I swallow down the urge to say something rude. “They were not mistaken in recommending me to Ms. Bryant.”

“Maybe your professors were not clear about one thing. You are here to assist Mistress Bryant. But you report to me.”

“You?” I say, shocked.

Frye seems to grow taller and redder by the second.

“Perhaps you cannot read an email signature. Or, bless your heart, you don’t understand how major estates operate. I am the house manager and have been for thirty years. You will answer to me first and foremost.”

I think back to the application process, poring over the details given to me by the head of the history department and all the materials sent to me via email. I don’t recall anything that said I was answering to anyone but Esme.

Frye grows increasingly impatient with me.

“We have a lot of ground to cover, so if you are having second thoughts, I hope you will not waste my time. If you leave now, I’ll be able to have another intern here to replace you in time for me to catch my flight.”

I’m so taken aback by this that it’s all I can do not to reply with a snarky attitude and put him in his place.

I drop my head and study the tile floor. I need a minute to think.

If I leave now, I’ll have to go into debt by booking a last-minute flight back to Indy. But it might be worth it to avoid three months of misery.

When I said goodbye this morning to my on-campus apartment and my suite mates, I was bubbling over with excitement for this opportunity. And now this asshole is ready to toss me away like garbage.

Just like everyone else in my life before college.

I have a decision to make, and this is going to hurt either way.