CHAPTER NINETEEN

I reach the estate at quarter to two. I typically lunge around noon, and the trembling in my hands is caused by more than emotional distress. I'll make myself some food and some tea—chamomile this time—and spend a soothing afternoon on the back porch until the edge comes off. Perhaps in a more centered frame of mind, I'll be able to make a better decision when it comes to what to do next.

My relaxation is not to be. When I pass the wrathful Moses, I see the family gathered on the front porch of the house, talking to a stranger. I try to walk past them with nothing but a perfunctory greeting, but Elizabeth accosts me.

"Oh, Mary! Do join us. I'd like you to meet our friend, George Baumann."

I have no interest in meeting this George Baumann or in joining the family, but I can't refuse an invitation from Elizabeth. I see they have fruit and cheese on the table, so at least I'll get to eat. The tea is the abhorrent iced concoction they love so much, but it's better than nothing.

I smile and say, "Thank you, Elizabeth. You're very kind."

She beams gratefully at me, a rather odd reaction. "Thank you , Mary."

She turns around and addresses a short, pudgy, bespectacled man of around my age with thin, balding hair that he, unfortunately, chooses to wear in a combover that only exacerbates its loss. "George, this is our new governess, Miss Mary Wilcox."

The pudgy man gives me a smile that looks like he's smelled something awful, but that could just be the shape of his face through the filter of my own irritability. The voice, I am quite sure, would be annoying no matter how irritated I was. It's a high-pitched nasal whine that reminds me of a weed trimmer's motor. "How do you do, Mary?"

"Mary," Elizabeth continues. "This is our dear friend, Dr. George Baumann."

The way she emphasizes dear tells me that George is not dear, nor is he their friend. Why have I been asked to meet him? Why is he welcome in their house if they despise him so?

"George," she insists. "Mary is an absolute lover of history. Aren't you, dear?"

Before I can respond, Annabelle says, "Oh yes. She and I had such a lovely conversation about antebellum architecture, didn't we, Mary?"

She gives me a pleading look, and I understand why I've been shanghaied now. I restrain a sigh and say, "Oh yes. I find the style quite becoming."

"Well, you're in luck!" the weed trimmer voice exclaims. George puffs his chest and announces importantly, "I am the premier expert of antebellum architecture in the Greater Savannah area. I can answer any questions you have about pre-war design. And , I'm a fair expert in the immediate postbellum trend of…" he gestures to the house and finishes with, "shall we say, embellished Greek Revival designs?"

The family all laughs as though he's said the most hilarious thing the world has ever heard. I smile, but I don't try to fake laughter. I sincerely doubt I could pull it off.

"Well, I'm afraid we must be off now," Elizabeth says when her fake laughter subsides. "But I'm sure Mary would love to keep you company for as long as you'd like to stay. Do come visit us another time when we're not previously engaged."

George frowns. "Must you leave so soon? I was really hoping to discuss business with you."

"I know, dear, but it really can't be avoided. Can it, James?"

"No, unfortunately not," James agrees. He stands, and the children take their cue and stand as well. "I'm afraid we've made too many promises to Elizabeth's sister, and if we break another, they'll never speak to us again."

"But it will only take—"

"Thank you so much for visiting us, George," Elizabeth interrupts. She turns to me, hiding her face from George and mouths, thank you.

I return a smile that I hope isn't too irritated. Then the family rushes down the stairs. George watches them leave, making no attempt to hide his own irritation. I wait until the family has piled into James's car, then say to George. "George, I am more than willing to entertain you, but it'll have to be on the back porch. I'm going to make myself a sandwich and some tea that is hot and not seventy percent sugar."

He gives me a frank look. "You're not really interested in antebellum architecture, are you?"

I weigh the chances that George will confront the Greenwoods with my admission and decide to risk the truth. "No, I'm afraid not."

He sighs forlornly. "I thought not." He shakes his head. "The Greenwoods are lovely people, but they just don't understand… well, that's nothing you need to concern yourself with." He flips his hand and says, "I appreciate your kindness, Mary, but I really only came here for business. Since the Greenwoods don't seem interested in conducting business with me, I don't think I'll stay."

"What sort of business, if you don't mind me asking?"

"I don't mind you asking, but I'm afraid I can't say. It's crucial that it remains confidential. However, you may impress upon them that it is very much in their best interests not to keep testing my patience." His expression darkens. "They act like they're untouchable, like they're English lords or something." He looks back at me and reddens slightly. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be insulting. There's nothing wrong with the English. I only mean the Greenwoods act self-important and—"

"It's all right," I say. "I understand."

He scoffs. "I'm sure you do. You have to live with them."

I wonder if George might have some information I can use. It's a shot in the dark, but those are the only shots I have right now. I probe very gently. "They are a rather private family. Very secretive."

He chuckles bitterly. "You can say that again. They seem to forget that some secrets aren't meant to be kept. They stick their heads out regardless of how hard we try to bottle them in."

I probe a little further. "This secret isn't something… concerning, is it?"

"Not for you," he says dismissively. "Just stay out of their way, and you'll be all right."

"Stay out of their way? What do you mean by that?"

"I only mean it's nothing that concerns you. You're…" he stops himself and says, "I apologize. I don't mean to seem rude. I only mean that their business with me isn't something that concerns the household staff. I know that sounds horribly judgmental. I don't mean it to be."

"It's quite all right," I reply. "I understand." I try one more time. "I only hope that you don't get yourself into any trouble with them."

He laughs, then turns gleaming eyes to me. I shiver when I see the coldness in those eyes. "Trust me, Miss Mary. It's they who should worry about getting into trouble with me."

He nods his head, then says, "Good day. It was a pleasure to meet you."

Then he walks off the porch and gets into his own car, much smaller and less luxurious than the Greenwoods' car. I watch him drive away, unsure of how I feel.

It could simply be paranoia, but there was something in George's eyes just now that makes me wonder if he knows something about Lila Benson. Perhaps Lila's disappearance involves more than just the Greenwood family.