CHAPTER TWO

"Mary!" Elizabeth calls from downstairs, "Come meet the family!"

I feel refreshed after a shower and a moment to clear my mind. I've managed to process my feelings about the unusual introduction I have and I'm ready to endure whatever other awkwardness these other meetings will entail.

I head downstairs, and Elizabeth greets me with a smile. "Come with me. The rest of the family has returned, and I can't wait to introduce you."

"I would be delighted."

Elizabeth beams and leads me to the rear of the house. I can't tell if the smile on her face is genuine. There's a vacancy in her eyes that I don't notice in our first meeting. She exhibits the Southern charm form requires, but I wonder how much of her charm is natural and how much is learned. She certainly plays the role to perfection.

I don't really want to meet anyone else in the family. I want to meet the servants and their children, but I don't see any value in meeting the family members unrelated to my job. To them, I am nothing more than a housekeeper, and I'd rather keep it that way.

It's not them I'm worried about, of course. It's myself. Already I am analyzing and deconstructing Elizabeth's behavior, and I've known the woman for all of an hour or two. With the Tylers, I am able to keep my relationship strictly business without feeling a need to know every facet of their history and personalities. I suppose the unpleasantness with the Carltons and the weeks spent in fear for my life deaden me enough that I can quell that side of me, but it has risen again in full force.

It's Annie. I know it is. That's the reason for my inquisitiveness. With the Tylers, I don't think about Annie at all, and so I'm able to mind my own business, do my job and leave the family's skeletons—if any exist—to the family.

But Annie is back in my thoughts, and so is this almost supernatural urge to know. If I'm not careful, I'll land myself in trouble again, and I can't count on always being able to find a way out of trouble.

Elizabeth leads me through the back door to a porch that if anything, is even more elegant than the front. The table certainly is larger, with room for six rather than the four of the front table. I feel a twitch of irritation that a detail even that small should matter to me.

Then, my attention is pulled to the four occupied chairs. Three of the occupants stand to greet me. One remains in her chair, eyeing me distrustfully.

Elizabeth addresses the older man of the group. "James, this is Miss Mary Wilcox, our new housekeeper."

James smiles and takes my hand. He brings it to his lips and says with charm that seems far more genuine than his wife's, "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mary. I'm delighted to have you in our home."

His charm seems genuine, and I can't deny that I feel a slight fluttering in my chest when the tall, handsome James kisses my hand. Still, there's a hardness behind his blue eyes, and it's not simply his charm that makes my voice breathless when I say, "The pleasure is all mine."

He releases my hand, and Elizabeth gestures to the two younger adults. "This is our son, Christopher, and our daughter Annabelle."

Annabelle smiles and briefly touches her fingers to mine. She is clearly irritated by her mother, but I don't believe it has anything to do with me. I see in her eyes the same rebellious nature I see in my sister's eyes, the same chafing under the weight of family expectations, the same desire for freedom. I know that is a lot to deduce about someone I've only just met, but I am confident in my assessment, premature though it may be.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mary," she says.

Her tone is tolerant and somewhat apologetic, confirming that she isn't upset by my presence but by the charade her mother insists upon. I don't blame her. I find this whole game rather uncomfortable myself.

Christopher takes my hand with a smile as charming as his father's. Thankfully, his eyes don't show the same hardness. Just as thankfully, he chooses to shake my hand rather than kiss it. "It's wonderful to meet you," he says. "I do hope you enjoy your employment with us."

"Oh, Christopher," Elizabeth says, flipping her hand. "You and your business terms." She looks at me and says, "Ever since he received his business degree from Harvard, everything must be talked about as though it's in a boardroom."

A touch of irritation crosses Christopher's face. "Employment isn't a term for MBAs mother, and there's no need to bring up my degree to everyone who talks to you."

"Your mother is only proud of you," James interjects. "As am I. Still, perhaps Harvard is a subject we can reserve for another day."

"Yes, you're quite right, dear," Elizabeth says. She gestures to the older woman of the group, the only one still sitting. "Mary, this is my mother, Violet."

I smile and bow slightly. "How do you do, Violet?"

Violet gives me a sour frown. "What's happened to Leah?"

"Nothing's happened to Leah, mother," Elizabeth replies patiently. "Miss Mary is here to help her."

Violet scoffs. "What you should do is hire someone to look after those damned children."

Annabelle covers her face in a poor attempt to hide her laughter. Christopher shifts his feet uncomfortably. James just looks tired.

Elizabeth looks even more uncomfortable than Christopher. "She's here to look after the children too, mother." Then, pleadingly, as though willing her mother to behave politely without forcing Elizabeth to demand it, "She's come all the way from England."

Violet scoffs again. "Dreary place. You'll like it better here. No fog rolling it at all hours of the day, and no singing fools stumbling home from the bars at all hours of the night."

"Mother!" Elizabeth squeaks.

The family is clearly embarrassed by their brash and possibly senile grandmother. Oddly, though, I find the scene refreshing. It's decidedly normal, and seeing them behave like ordinary people and not aristocrats relieves much of my trepidation.

"I surely won't miss the drunkenness," I tell Violet. "One would think that grown men would learn to control themselves around whiskey, but sadly, that is a lesson few appreciate."

Violet looks me up and down. Her scowl deepens, but her shoulder relaxes. I can tell I'm passing whatever test she's putting me through. "You don't sound quite English," she says. "Where are you from?"

"I was born in England," I inform her, "but I was raised in Boston."

She scoffs once more. I get the impression that is her typical expression. "Even more dreary than England," she opines, "but there, the drunks are violent."

"Thank you, mother," Elizabeth says, finally unable to take more of the old woman's vitriol. "And thank you, Mary. I'm sure we all look forward to getting to know you better."

I take the hint and bow once more. "It was lovely meeting you all. Thank you for inviting me into your home."

I walk inside, leaving the family to enjoy their afternoon. If they can, anyway. I hear footsteps follow me, however, and turn to see Christopher following me. He gives me an apologetic smile and says, "Sorry about Grandmother. She's grown more unpleasant with age, I'm afraid."

"Aging is rarely pleasant," I reply. "Be grateful for your youth. It flees far faster than is comfortable." It occurs to me that he probably isn't looking for sage wisdom from me, so I quickly add, "And don't worry about your grandmother. I didn't take any offense."

He smiles and inclines his head. "I'm glad to hear it. I really do hope you'll enjoy it here. This place has its idiosyncrasies, but it really is lovely."

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll be quite happy."

He bows again, then returns to his family. I head back to my room, where I intend to spend the rest of the evening digesting what I've just experienced.

My room is, as promised, upstairs. I believe it was a guest bedroom before being converted into the governess's suite, but a guest bedroom in a southern country home is often as opulent as a suite in a five-star hotel, and this one is no exception. The bed is a queen with a plush mattress, silk sheets and a quilted comforter. The furniture is all of dark maple, polished to a shine and far more expensive than anything I'm used to so far.

The bathroom is new, not for me, but for the house. Its modernity clashes somewhat with the timeless elegance of the room, but then, it's a bathroom not a parlor. I am not of the opinion that every single room in a house needs to be palatial.

Still, it includes a full shower and a clawfoot tub, along with a curtained bay window that overlooks the gardens. I find it a little silly to have a window in a bathroom—I am not an exhibitionist, after all—but perhaps I can watch the stars from here one of these evenings.

As I've already showered, I spend the rest of the evening unpacking. That is how I come across a chest and a suitcase in the small walk-in closet attached to the room.

The chest and suitcase are embossed with the name Lila Benson. I open the chest and the first thing I see is a lesson book. The book is worn and the dust cover is somewhat frayed. I open the cover and see the name Annabelle in flowing cursive on the first page. It seems this Lila Benson was once the Greenwoods' governess.

I feel an urge to look through the rest but close the dresser before I can succumb to that urge. I am not here to involve myself in anyone else's business. Tomorrow, I'll alert Elizabeth that Miss Benson left some of her belongings behind, and she can choose how to dispose of it.

I retire early that evening, but my best intentions don't bring sleep to me any more easily. I spend several hours staring at the ceiling and wondering if I've walked unwittingly into another mystery.

I'm being foolish. Nothing I've experienced today hints at a scandal. Still, before sleep finally takes me, it leaves me haunted by the vacancy in Elizabeth's eyes and the hardness in James's.

"It's not my business," I whisper. "Leave it alone, Mary."

If only I were good at following advice.