CHAPTER TEN

When Thursday comes again, I decide to pay Clara Beaumont a visit. I learn from Wharton that the Beaumont estate can be accessed from the same private road that leads to the Greenwood estate.

"Most of the plantations in this quarter can be reached that way," he says as he navigates the gravel pathway. I insist on walking, but he ignores my protests with the good-natured cheer of a man whose spent a lifetime in service and refuses to do things any way other than the "way they're done."

In this case, that means not permitting a lady to walk unescorted outside of the property when there are perfectly good automobiles that can convey her in comfort. I really don't want Wharton to intrude on the conversation I intend to have with Clara, but I can't think of a polite way to insist any more firmly than I have. So, I relent and allow him to drive me the half-mile to the entrance to her estate, thinking ruefully along the way that Annabelle was right about my unfailing commitment to politeness. I don't mind snooping into a family's private history, but I can't refuse a gentleman's offer to drive me. Odd how some social niceties take on great importance while other, more serious ones can be bent at will.

I catch a break when Wharton stops outside the gate to the Beaumont estate and explains apologetically, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave you here. The Beaumonts and the Greenwoods aren't on the best of terms. I'm sure the family won't mind if you visit Miss Clara, but it would be better if I didn't ferry you all the way to her door."

Again, what a wonder it is that some social rules are inviolable while others are almost meaningless. In any case, I preferred to visit her alone, so I say, "That's quite all right, Wharton. I shouldn't be long." Then, before he can offer to wait for me, I say, "I can walk home too, if you don't mind. I am used to daily constitutionals, and I'm afraid I can be quite irritable when I don't have the chance to walk through nature for at least a few moments in the day."

"Of course, Miss Mary," he says. "If you change your mind, give the house a ring, and I'll come pick you up."

I thank him, then wait until the car turns around before reaching for the call box. The gate begins to open before I press the button. Clara must have been waiting for Wharton to leave before letting me inside.

I walk up the drive and can't help but compare the Beaumont estate with the Greenwood plantation. It is every bit as elegant as the Greenwood plantation, but far simpler in design. The tall oak trees of the Glens—visible to my left behind the Beaumont estate—are replaced here with rolling hills with carefully manicured lawns. The sprawling gardens with their Romanesque statuary are replaced with simpler flowerbeds arranged in a typical rectangular design with no hedge mazes or statuary to obscure any part of them from view. The courtyard has a fountain, but it contains no Gothic statues of angry prophets.

The home is in the same antebellum design, but like the estate, it appears sleeker and more modern. The pillars are a simple Doric design and not the more embellished Ionic design of the Greenwood house. They, and the home, are painted in white that lacks the yellow tint of the Greenwood home. The overall effect is to make the house appear newer, while the Greenwood home strives for timelessness.

It's refreshing but at the same time it's disconcerting. Refreshing because the estate doesn't appear designed to conceal. Disconcerting because it makes the sense of concealment given by the place of my employment all the more obvious.

I climb the steps to the front door and reach for the knocker, but once more, the door opens before I can announce my presence. I expect a butler or a valet, but instead, Clara Beaumont herself greets me.

"Welcome to my home, Mary," she says, smiling broadly. "I had a feeling you'd turn up sooner or later."

"Oh. You did?"

"Of course. You and I are far more alike than you care to admit."

I don't know how to respond to that, but thankfully, Clara takes my arm and leads me inside before I need to think of an answer. She takes me to the back of the house with little time to observe the interior of her home, but the brief glimpse I do catch shows a thoroughly modern living space with granite tile flooring, stainless steel appliances, and a living room dominated by a massive flatscreen TV. If it weren't for the neighborhood, I could easily believe myself in a coastal home in Southern California.

When we step outside, I see that she, like the Greenwoods, enjoys taking her tea—iced, of course—outside as well. She gestures to the chair across from hers and pours me some.

"Are you alone here?" I ask.

Not a polite question. I guess my selective sense of manners has decided to abandon me once more.

"Today, I am. I would like to claim that I am Bohemian enough to do away with servants, but I'm afraid at my age, I can't handle the demands of this house on my own. I keep Thursdays and Sundays to myself, though."

"I see. Well, thank you for seeing me."

"Of course," she replies, giving me a smile that reminds me of the shark-toothed grin she gets the first time we speak. "I'm sure you've picked up on the fact that I enjoy gossip."

"Well… we all enjoy a spot of good tea," I reply, lifting my glass.

She throws her head back and laughs briefly before exclaiming.

So, are you here to ask me about Violet or one of the Greenwoods?"

I hesitate. I wonder if I should feign ignorance and claim that I only wanted to visit my new neighbor. But that seems like a pointless exercise, so I choose honesty instead. "Well, all of them, I suppose. To be honest, I'm not sure. It's only… This is entirely inappropriate of me, but it seems like there are dark secrets haunting that house."

"Dark secrets haunt most homes," Clara observes. "But it's true the secrets that haunt the Greenwoods are darker than most. Have you looked into Deirdre McCoy?"

"No. To be honest, when you first told me about her, I… well, I didn't exactly believe you."

She smiles wryly. "You thought I was spinning a yarn."

"I didn't think you were lying," I assure her, "but I wasn't sure your information was accurate."

She laughs and sips more of her tea, sighing with evident relish. "To be fair, I don't have any information. Only rumors. Rumors are very easy to come by here. Information? Now that's to die for."

I don't particularly care for that pronouncement, nor do I care for the return of her sharklike grin when she says that. "I can assure you I have no interest in dying here. However, I would like to know if I'm sharing my house with a murderer."

"It would be an interesting case study to find out how many people have unwittingly shared their homes with murderers. But I'll stop teasing you. Frankly, I don't know what happened to Deirdre. I know that she was pregnant. I know that the father wasn't known, but that most believed—myself included—that the father was Johnathan Hendrickson."

My eyes widen. "Well, that thickens the plot."

"It does," Clara agreed. She sips her tea again before continuing. "I know that she was last seen leaving the Greenwood Plantation, but no one knows where she went or what happened to her after that. I personally believe that Violet had a hand in her disappearance, but I don't know that with any certainty. Either way, it doesn't matter at this point. Violet is in her seventies now, and her mind is hanging on by a thread. I don't think it would be worth trying to dig up that scandal."

"Those are my thoughts exactly," I agree. "Only…"

She lifts an eyebrow. "Only?"

"Only lately, I've begun to wonder if there are more disappearances that can't be explained."

Clara lifts her other eyebrow. "Do tell."

I sip more of my iced tea. "It's just that Elizabeth has been acting strangely, and I've discovered that the governess before me disappeared. According to Annabelle, it came as a surprise. She just disappeared one day."

"Interesting. Elizabeth told me she had taken a more lucrative position in California."

"That's just it," I say. "I can't tell what the truth is. The whole family seems to be hiding something. The other day, I came across Elizabeth in a secret garden on the estate. She was talking to someone who wasn't there."

"The Secret Keeper." I stare blankly and Clara laughs. "I feel bad. I think you came to me hoping I would have gossip for you, but I'm afraid I'm going to make this seem very mundane."

"You know about her garden?"

"No, I don't, but I know that she believes in the Secret Keeper."

"What's the Secret Keeper?"

"It's an old legend, very old. Supposedly, the Secret Keeper was a deaf-mute soldier in the Continental Army who was entrusted with the most important secrets of the revolution. As he was a deaf-mute, it was believed that he couldn't be tortured into revealing any information should he be captured by the British. He could only communicate by writing things down.

"After the war, he settled here in Savannah, and continued to serve as a Secret Keeper, although his role now was more that of a priest hearing confessions than an intelligence agent. People would tell him all of their darkest secrets, and he, of course, would keep all of them. Supposedly, when he was finally taken to Heaven, he was told to give an account for himself, but he wouldn't for fear of breaking the confidence of his neighbors. So, he was denied entry and cursed to walk the Earth to witness every horrible thing his neighbors and their descendants committed without being able to stop any of it. Supposedly, those who harbor guilt in their hearts see him from time to time as a ghostly figure wandering through their property. A few of the more active imaginations in our town believe that if they confess their secret to him, he'll reveal the answer to another secret, whatever the secret giver most desires to know. It's a silly rumor, but rumors like that do tend to persist, don't they?"

I absorb this information and try to reconcile it with Elizabeth's behavior. "But what secret could Elizabeth have shared in exchange for an answer?"

"Alas," Clara says with a dramatic sigh. "But consider this: if the Secret Keeper still refuses to answer Elizabeth, did she truly confess her darkest secret?"