On Sparrow Hill (2 page)

She returned to her e-mail, reading a message from a teacher who had visited recently and was thanking Rebecca for bringing their Victorian heritage to life for the two dozen children she’d guided that day. These were Rebecca’s favorite notes—ones that proved her work made a difference. If the Featherby were awarded, she could spend more effort in attracting such groups. They didn’t pay as well as business banquets or weddings, but to Rebecca, educating children was far more important.

“Good afternoon, Rebecca.”

Quentin Hollinworth looked tall and strong even with a massive doorway behind him. His broad shoulders filled out a casual, somewhat crumpled, beige linen suit, a stark contrast to his dark hair.

“Welcome home.” She quickly averted her gaze and shifted the chair closer to her desk. Her battlement, safe behind the mahogany. It had been nearly three months since she had spoken to him. He trusted her so thoroughly with the running of the Hall that he almost never checked in. If she was to have her way, though, that must change. She alone couldn’t prove the value of the Hall in its current public state. She would need his help.

“I see you’ve single-handedly held down the roof.”

“Hardly single-handedly.” Rebecca thought of William and Helen, who lived in the estate home on the grounds and supervised most household needs. And the education staff members who came on tour days to create an authentic Victorian atmosphere. Not to forget the many maids and repairmen going in and out, the land agent who oversaw the crops, nor the head gardener, who lived in the village but spent most of his waking moments making sure Hollinworth Hall lived up to its reputation as one of the finest garden spots in the United Kingdom.

“Without you,” Quentin said as he neared the desk, “I’m sure the place would fall to ruin, no matter how big a staff.”

“And how is your mother, Quentin?” Rebecca didn’t really want to know, unless Lady Elise Hollinworth had something to do with his visit. To close the Hall to the public? “She’s well, I hope?”

“Yes, she is well,” he replied. “At the cottage for the summer.”

Rebecca nodded. Despite the cozy term for the Hollinworth estate inherited from his mother’s aristocratic side of the family, the so-called cottage was anything but quaint. Less than fifteen kilometers away, the sprawling mansion surrounded by fifteen hundred acres of meadow, lakes, and woods was the center of Hollinworth country social life.

“The tour season is off to a healthy start,” Rebecca said. “We’ve received several calls for visits here before the next holiday.”

“The schedule is in your hands, Rebecca. I plan to be here rather than at the cottage most of the summer.”

Here? For the summer? To assess whether or not to keep the Hall open?
“I’ll be sure no one gets in your way.” How calm her voice sounded despite the blood pumping madly through her veins. “Guests still have access only to the usual spots, of course, depending on the event.” Myriad thoughts clashed with her effort to keep the conversation going. If he
were
here to evaluate the merit of keeping the Hall open, she must convince him—the sooner, the better. If he closed the Hall to the public, it wasn’t just a matter of losing a job she loved. Failing a dream came at a much higher price.

Taking a seat opposite her, Quentin appeared at complete ease. “I’ve no doubt you’ll keep me well protected.”

She caught his eye, then looked away. Protecting him from the general public was part of her job. “Yes, between me and a good security system, Quentin, that should be manageable.”

He said nothing, and Rebecca wasn’t sure what he was thinking. She might have known of Quentin Hollinworth since she was a child, but in reality he was no more than an acquaintance. Her grandfather had been the last in a long line of valets to Quentin’s male forebears, most of whom had been Hamiltons and members of the peerage. By the time Rebecca’s father was of an age to take up the position, valets had long since fallen out of vogue. So her father had taken on the role of houseman and resided in the very estate home William and Helen now occupied. Her father had stayed only long enough tofinish his graduate work in Victorian studies. When he decided to leave employment of the Hamilton/Hollinworth family—a Seabrooke tradition for no less than twelve generations—Quentin’s father might have been put out. Yet he’d revealed neither disappointment nor frustration over having to hire someone entirely new to the family to oversee household workings. Quite like the fine English gentlemen he’d been. Setbacks were to be expected; it was how one handled them that proved the true character of a man.

“We’re being considered for a Featherby Education Award,” Rebecca said finally. Her finest weapon, another award to prove that the preservation of historical English life should be valued not ignored, forgotten, sold, or kept hidden in the private lives of the elite.

“Yes, so I’ve heard. I received the notification at my London flat. It’s entirely due to you, Rebecca. Congratulations.”

She managed a steady smile. “We haven’t won yet.”

“As they say, it’s an honor to be nominated.” He caught her shifting gaze. “Actually, Rebecca, that was one of the reasons I planned to stay the summer. I thought I might lend a hand, talk to the judges, be immediately available if you need to consult about anything.”

Relief, surprise, and pleasure melted through her. He supported her effort to win the Featherby? If he wanted the Featherby, he couldn’t support his mother’s idea to close the very function that won the nomination to begin with. “That would be lovely. I was considering going through the vault again. Perhaps we can re-create new attire for the staff.” She turned to the monitor on her computer. “I have the vault’s inventory here. If you have the time you might take a look at it.”

He shook his head. “Helen tells me you’ve taken tours every day this week and have been working yourself silly. Can I have tea brought up for you?”

For a single moment she remembered her old crush, especially when she caught his eye as he waited for her answer. She shook her head. Now was certainly not the time to fall back into
that
old habit. “No, you go ahead. I’ll check my e-mail, catch up on a few things here.”

Quentin stood, nearing the door as she eyed message headers on her e-mail. An unfamiliar subject caught her eye.

“Quentin,” she said slowly, clicking on the note, “have you heard of a place called West World Genealogy?”

He stopped and turned to her. “No, I don’t think so. Why?”

“I’ve an e-mail from them with your name in the header. Shall I read it?”

He nodded.

“‘Dear Mr. Hollinworth, an American family desires to make contact with English cousins such as yourself. In our research we have determined the lineage to be accurate. They have in their possession a journal belonging to Cosima Escott Hamilton, of whom you descend, which you might find of great sentimental interest.’” Rebecca looked at Quentin. “Are you familiar with a journal by Cosima Hamilton?”

Quentin shook his head.

“Nor am I.” She looked again at the screen, noting the attachment. “There is a pedigree here. Would you like to see it?”

Without a word, Quentin rounded the desk. When he leaned over her, Rebecca could smell the faint trace of soap, the same pine scent he always used. The same brand Helen kept stocked in every bathroom in the Hall.

“The ancestry is correct,” he said. “At least I think it is, from what I recall of those portraits hanging in the gallery. You probably know better than I; you write the tour scripts full of my family history.”

“These names are right, even as far back as the first viscount. Some names I don’t recognize, though—Grayson, Martin. I suppose that’s the American side. We don’t have many records of families outside the direct line.”

“A shame we’re all such snobs,” he said with a grin. “What do you think then? It’s legitimate?”

She nodded. “The list includes Cosima Hamilton’s four children. I wonder if there is more family history that I don’t know about.”

“I doubt that,” Quentin said, and she smiled at his assured tone—one of complete and utter trust that she knew more than she actually did.

“I will contact them first if you like. Just to make sure it’s valid.”

“You’re my champion, Rebecca. Protecting me again.”

She studied the names even as she wondered why he’d used that word again. A reference to protecting him shouldn’t contain an undertone of disdain; she was paid to do that very thing—by Quentin himself. “I doubt this could be a hoax. They have too much of the correct lineage.”

“I’ve an idea,” said Quentin, leaning forward, “Since you claim not to need tea, why don’t we go down to the vault now? I can’t imagine Americans having the
original
journal belonging to one of my grandmothers.”

“Kipp Hamilton might have owned it. He was Cosima’s son, and he went to America.” She eyed him. “It would be fun to have a look, though.”

Quentin went to the door, holding it open. “To the vault?”

* * *

Nearly three hours later, Rebecca tucked an annoying strand of hair behind her ear. She should have it cut to shoulder length or at least go upstairs and find a hair band to pull it away from her face.

“Ready for some dinner at last?” Quentin asked from another corner.

Perhaps she’d sighed aloud when she had only meant to complain to herself about her irksome hair. “In a bit.”

He neared her, his long white sleeves covered in black butler’s wraps, his dark hair uncharacteristically unkempt from sifting through crates and boxes for the last few hours. “I’m not for throwing in,” he said, “just taking a break.”

She stood away from the box she’d been hunched over, feeling the pull of an oddly used muscle. “I hope you know I realize how ridiculous this is. I
should
know everything in this vault. Wouldn’t Cosima have left something here if she was prone to journaling?”

“Maybe she wrote only one journal and gave it to the child who went off to America as you said earlier. In any case, not being certain about what’s in this vault isn’t your fault, Rebecca. If anyone is to blame, it’s I.” He lifted a hand to take in their tall surroundings. “This is all mine and yet I’ve no idea what’s here.”

Rebecca glanced around the high-ceilinged room. Part of a 1920s renovation, it was a veritable bank vault of security with its steel walls, complete darkness when closed off, and more recently, a regulated temperature. “When your father hired me three years ago, one of the pledges I made was to update the inventory system.” She saw items she knew were catalogued. “I honestly cannot fathom how I could not know as much about Cosima Hamilton as another branch of your family—one not even English!”

Quentin’s gentle laugh echoed off the high metal.

“I’ve never seen you so perturbed, Rebecca,” he said. “I like it.”

“Like . . . what?”

“Seeing you as frustrated as the rest of us when looking for something.”

She raised a brow. “The rest of us?”

He nodded, leaning over to shut the curved lid on the trunk of china she’d been searching. “The rest of humanity, Rebecca. I’ve always thought nothing could irritate you and you were therefore set apart.”

“Never irritated? Perhaps that’s because you’ve not been home when the goats manage their way beyond the gate and rummage one of the gardens, or a nervous bride changes her banquet menu a dozen times, or a corporate manager expects a two-hundred-year-old hall to easily accommodate his electrical needs for an online presentation.”

“Perhaps I’ll be fortunate enough to witness something along those lines this summer.”

She returned his smile. “And may I say I hope not?”

“I’ll ring for dinner to be served on the veranda.”

Rebecca watched him walk to the telephone mounted just inside the vault door. The exchange line was a precautionary measure, since the vault locked from the outside. Turning back to the last trunk, Rebecca listened to Quentin’s voice as he directed Helen. A light dinner. On the veranda. For both of them.

She focused on the task before her. The latches on each side of this last trunk were stiff, but she managed to free them without marring the receptacle. Inside, a quilted dustcover protected the trunk’s contents.

This trunk was one of two they had found only a short time ago, hidden from view behind a large Chippendale chiffonier. The first of the two trunks had contained nothing more than a set of china. She’d recognized the pattern immediately; while a popular nineteenth-century style and the number of settings plentiful, it wasn’t particularly noteworthy except that it was Irish. It would be disappointing indeed if this second trunk contained only more of the same.

Instead of dishware, she found two small pouches, a set of books tied together with a leather strap, and a wooden box.

Rebecca heard Quentin approach from behind.

“Perhaps we’ve reached the end of the rainbow,” she said, taking up one of the leather-bound books.

But they proved to be Victorian novels, not journals. One was
Vanity Fair
by Thackeray, and the other,
John Halifax, Gentleman
by Craik. No pot of gold here, even if the latter was one of Rebecca’s favorite classics. Each looked like a first edition and was probably worth something, particularly the Thackeray novel with the author’s original illustrations.

“Let’s see what’s in these pouches,” Quentin said. He pulled the string on one, tumbling a handful of polished stones into his palm. “Nice specimens.”

“Perhaps some should go into the science hut,” she said. “I’ll have a look at them later to see what kind of stones they are.”

She pulled the box from the bottom of the chest. It was made of smooth wood, stained and varnished to a sheen, capped at the corners with dark metal brackets. On the lid were words burned into the wood in meticulous calligraphy:
Everything that is done in the world is done by hope.

“Isn’t that something Luther said?”

Rebecca nodded, tracing a finger over the letters, unable to resist touching them. “It’s lovely, isn’t it?”

“Let’s see what’s inside,” he said.