CHAPTER SEVEN

In my room that evening, I take a more thorough inventory of Lila Benson's old belongings. It occurs to me that I've neglected to tell Elizabeth about the chest and suitcase. I think even then I knew that I would eventually be drawn into the mystery surrounding this estate and kept these relics around in anticipation of that event.

Most of the chest is filled with lesson books. As nearly as I can tell, she was Annabelle's governess through high school. There is a lesson book with Christopher's name on it as well, but it is sparsely filled. It seems the elder Greenwood child had little need for a tutor.

Aside from the lesson plans, there are receipts for her pay, a rather modest number, I must say. I'm being paid considerably more without the obligation to tutor anyone. Perhaps the family considers the housekeeping work I do worthy of more compensation than the education of their children.

I'm not here to judge the family's priorities in that regard, however, and while I have a comfortable estate of my own, I am certainly not going to turn my nose up at the generous paycheck the Greenwoods are giving me, so I set aside Lila's meager sum and look through the rest of the belongings.

The suitcase contains clothing, of course. Fortunately, no underwear. I don't know Lila Benson, and it's almost certain I never will, but I have no interest in perusing another person's undergarments, known to me or not. There are skirts and blouses and one modest but elegant floral print dress.

The clothing is all a near perfect fit for me, or at least appears to be. Obviously, I don't try the outfits on. Still, it's interesting to note that their last governess was almost my exact size and build.

I have a laugh at myself for that. I'm five-foot-three and of average build. It's not as though I'm a unique body type. There are probably more women my size than there are women of other sizes. I'm chasing phantoms because I'm eager to find answers to…

To what? Why am I doing this?

I stop with the contents of Lila Benson's suitcase spread across the floor around me. There's no murder here. Clara alleges one from fifty years ago, but there are holes everywhere in her story, and I've already decided that even if some nefarious event occurred, Violet is too far gone to understand that.

There's no satisfying victory for me to obtain here. I'm chasing nothing more than a phantom, nothing more than a ghost.

So why is this so important to me?

"Why is this so important to you?" I demand. "You know how Mother is. Why do you fight for her to see reason when you know she's not capable of it."

"Because she must!" Annie insists, stamping her foot in a manner that was pretty when she was thirteen but is just exasperating now. "There has to be…" she searches for the word but doesn't find it, instead settling on, "something."

I sigh. "Annie, you're not going to get Mother to admit she's wrong. Not about anything. That woman will go to the grave snarling in your face that she was right about everything, even as Christ Himself tells her she was wrong."

"Don't blaspheme," Annie says.

"Now you're just being ridiculous," I scold. "Just… why can't you learn to live without this? I have, and I'm fine with Mother."

"I don't want to be ‘fine with Mother,' she says, spitting the name out like a curse. "I want Mom to lose. "

She hisses that last word, and the intensity of that emotion shocks both of us into silence. She stares at the floor for a long moment while I try to think of something to say to cheer her up.

"Annie—"

"It's all right," she says tersely. "Forget about it."

"Annie!"

She walks out of the apartment then. She won't be back for another three days. During that time, I am worried sick, enough that I am actually dialing nine-one-one when she walks through the door of our apartment, as cheerful and breezy as though she hadn't just disappeared for half a week. When I confront her about her behavior, she brushes it off and refuses to talk about it.

Three months later, she's gone for good.

I stare at the remnants of another life, this one belonging to a woman I don't know, and realize that I'm doing this, all of this, for Annie. Her disappearance has fueled this need in me to find closure, to find answers when others are content to sweep things under the rug.

Bullshit, Annie's voice counters in my head. You're doing this for yourself.

My lower lip trembles for a long moment. Then I take a deep breath and continue looking through the suitcase.

I nearly give up on finding anything useful when my hands close over a paper in one of the pockets. I pull them out of the suitcase and find that I'm holding a handwritten letter. The paper is yellowed but only slightly. It is years old but not decades. I'm not sure why this is important to me.

When I unfold the letter, the signature at the bottom jumps out at me right away.

It's from Elizabeth.

My eyes widen, and I release a sound that's almost embarrassingly gleeful. I am reminded of Clara's look of triumph, and heat climbs to my cheeks.

But I'm not like Clara. I don't want gossip for gossip's sake. I only want to know that those who deserve justice receive it.

I read the letter. The handwriting is elegant and flowing, but the words written are confusing. In the letter, Elizabeth says that she is trying hard to appease them, but they still won't talk to her. They won't answer any of her questions, and she still doesn't know where they are.

She doesn't say who she's trying to appease, what she's looking for, or what questions they won't answer. She doesn't address the letter to anyone, and when I examine the other side, there's no name to indicate who it might be meant for.

I look through the suitcase and chest again but find nothing else of interest. This letter is the only thing that indicates the presence of any sort of mystery.

But that mystery didn't leave with Lila. Elizabeth was pleading with someone in her garden the other day. She was begging them to tell her where they were. I have no idea who she thought she was talking with or what she was looking for, but I know that this letter refers to the same individuals and the same items.

This mystery revolves around Elizabeth.

I place the letter back into the top pocket of the suitcase, then replace all of her other belongings. It occurs to me for the first time to wonder why Lila Benson left without her clothes and lesson books. Perhaps the lesson books aren't important since they were created for Annabelle and Christopher, but the clothing? None of it is particularly expensive, but people don't just leave their clothing behind for no reason.

Could she have had no choice but to leave them behind?

Could she have left them behind against their will?

I think back to Nathaniel's statement about ghosts. I wonder if Lila Benson's Ghost haunts this estate.

A loud rapping noise startles me. I gasp and jump to my feet. I'm grateful for my petite stature because otherwise I would surely have bumped my head on the coat rack otherwise.

There's another rapping noise, and I realize that someone is knocking on my bedroom door. "One moment!" I call.

I push the chest and the suitcase back into the closet and close the closet door. After checking myself quickly in the bathroom mirror, I run back to the door and answer it.

It's Annabelle. She gives me a slightly exasperated smile and says, "We'd be pleased if you joined us for dinner."

"Oh. Of course." I remember to smile, then say, "Let me change into something more appropriate, and I'll be right down."

She nods with slightly exaggerated politeness and says, "Take your time. Knowing mother, the soup will be cold by the time she graces us with her presence anyway."

I don't know what to say to that, so I only smile. That seems to be enough for Annabelle. She leaves without another word.

I close the door to my bedroom and try to calm the pounding in my heart. I feel a powerful urge to simply forget what I've read and go back to believing that there are no mysteries on this estate, none that require my attention anyway.

But the pull to find answers is stronger than my anxiety.

What is Elizabeth looking for? Who was she talking to in her garden the other day? Why did Lila Benson have a letter from her, and why did she leave in such a hurry that she forgot a suitcase full of clothing for which she never returned?

I change for dinner and head downstairs, sure of only one thing: before I leave this estate, I will have answers to all of those questions.