Even now, in this “drawing room”, as the housekeeper called it before she left me here, ornate statues stare at me from atop the fireplace mantel. I wonder with a silent laugh if they’re on loan from some fancy museum.
The furniture is traditional and old, all of it coordinated to blend into a combination of blues. I get the feeling it’s supposed to be an intimate space meant to put visitors at ease, and it is “quaint” compared to what I’ve seen of the rest of the house. However, I don’t think a room with four separate seating areas, a large marble fireplace, and a grand piano can ever truly be called intimate.
I glance over at the piano again, nearly salivating.
It’s more beautiful than any I’ve seen, black lacquered and in pristine condition from what I can tell at a distance. The tufted bench is angled invitingly. My stomach squeezes tight with longing, and then the door to the drawing room opens and Cornelia strolls in right past me.
She takes three more confident steps in, stops on a dime, and glances around, confused until she finds me back near the door.
She laughs. “What in the world are you doing over there?”
“Waiting for you.”
“Didn’t Diane tell you to sit down?”
I nod. “She did. She just didn’t tell me where.”
Cornelia smiles. “Of course. Right. This room does have a lot of options. I find that the couches are the most comfortable. Why don’t we sit over there?”
I do as she suggests, letting her take a seat first before I perch on the edge of the couch across from her. A flower arrangement with four white orchids cuts off our view of one another until she leans forward and pushes it a smidge to the side.
Then, with no preamble, she says, “Tell me about yourself.”
I jerk my gaze up to her. What does she want to know? My favorite movies? How I take my coffee?
“That’s so open-ended. Don’t you have something more specific you’d like to know about me?”
“Yes, of course. Let’s start with your childhood. Annette told me you lost your parents when you were quite young?”
I don’t really mind that Mrs. Archer divulged this information. I don’t get the sense that Cornelia is trying to use it against me. She just seems curious, so I answer her openly.
“When I was thirteen.”
She hums sadly. “Very young indeed. Were you close with them?”
I shrug. “I was a young teenager with strong opinions. We fought a lot and had grown apart. But when I was younger, yes, I was close with them. Especially my dad.”
I get the feeling she’s poised to ask me another probing question, so I speak quickly, before she can.
“Mrs. Cromwell—”
“Cornelia.”
“Cornelia, you mentioned on the phone that you had a job for me, and I’d like to know what it is.”
“Of course. You’ve come a long way, and I’m sure you’re exhausted.”
She leans over to a side table where a thin silver phone sits on a dock. She picks it up, presses a button, and then gives instructions to the person on the other end of the line.
“Rita, would you please have tea brought in? Yes, that would be lovely, and add a few of those little sandwiches you know I like—the same ones Chef made last week with the creamed salmon.”
Sounds disgusting, but I smile when she sets the phone back on the dock and glances back to me.
“Patricia will be right in with tea.”
Patricia? I thought she just said Rita.
“How many people work here?”
Maybe I’m not supposed to ask blunt questions like that, but I might be one of these people soon enough and I’m curious to know how many coworkers I’ll have.
“At present?” She waves her hand in the air like it’s a frivolous thing. “There’s a staff of fifteen, but that includes the groundkeepers and drivers and kitchen staff. In housekeeping, there’s Patricia, Diane, and Rita. Collins is the butler, and Bruce is the footman.”
Footman, right. Because apparently Frank didn’t just drive me to Newport—he also drove me back to the 1800s.
I smile nervously. “I don’t mean to sound ungrateful for the opportunity, it’s just that it sounds like you have everyone you might need.”
What could she possibly need me to do, wipe her butt? Yeah right! I’m sure she already has a team of servants doing that.
She narrows her eyes, studying me gently with a tilt of her head. “I’ll admit the role I have in mind for you is a little unorthodox. In fact, I’m not sure what to call it except to say you’d be my companion.”
“Companion,” I repeat.
I’ve heard that euphemism before, but only from seedy old men looking to get laid.
I try to clarify. “Do you mean I’d be your assistant?”
She weighs the idea in her head. “Occasionally you’d help me remember my appointments and that sort of thing, yes. My memory isn’t what it once was.”