A moment later, another maid appears in the doorway, and Cornelia turns to address her. “Rita, would you mind installing Maren in the rose garden suite?”
Rita is an older woman with bright red hair streaked with gray. Her round rosy cheeks become more pronounced when she smiles wide. “Of course. We prepared it for her arrival this morning as requested.”
None of this sounds right.
“Where does the rest of your staff stay?” I ask. They can’t all have their own suites here…can they?
“Women are up on the third floor. Men are down below,” Cornelia replies, as if it’s a completely commonplace explanation.
“Then I’d like a room on the third floor, please.”
I have no idea what I’m saying. I don’t need a room. I haven’t agreed to stay—I’m not staying. It’s just that if I were going to stay, I’d want to be with all the other staff members.
My request isn’t granted.
“I admire your tact. As a guest, it’s unseemly to overburden one’s host. That’s a lesson you’d do well to remember. But the rose garden suite is already made up, so it will do. Rita? Would you mind finishing Maren’s tour before you show her to her room? I’d like her to get the lay of the land so she isn’t reluctant to explore on her own if she should feel the urge.”
“Of course, ma’am.”
Then Cornelia stands and tosses one end of her lightweight sage green scarf over her shoulder. “I’d do it myself, but I’m late for the club. Lydia is expecting me. You’ll meet her soon, and her granddaughter is about your age. I think you two will get along famously. Dinner tonight is at eight PM in the formal dining room. I’ll expect you to look nice. Rita will instruct you.”
Then she’s gone, sauntering out of the drawing room with regal confidence, and I’m left wondering if any of this is real. The house, the conversation, the amazingly delicious finger sandwiches—the sheer decadence of it all has cast such a dreamlike quality over the day that I wouldn’t be surprised to wake up and find myself right back on my bunk at the group home, late for a shift at Holly Home.
Outside the drawing room, I follow Rita through the marbled hall, past busts resting on ornate pedestals and underneath excessively large chandeliers, each more detailed than the last. In the front hall, where I originally entered the house, Rita leads me up a carpeted grand staircase that branches off in two directions.
She’s explaining the origins of one of the tapestries on the walls, and my mind can’t keep up.
“Would it be okay if we skipped the tour?” I ask tentatively. “I’m a little tired.”
She gives me an emphatic nod. “Of course. Your bed is made, so you can lie down on the settee in your room if you’d like. Or if you prefer, I can turn down the bed and you can rest there.”
I don’t even know what a settee is, but I still say, “The settee will be fine, I’m sure. Thank you though.”
She takes me down one of the long hallways that runs parallel to the cliffs outside. It’s the first time I’ve seen the back yard, and I realize now why all the wealthy families must have decided to build their houses here all those years ago. We’re right on the ocean. The manicured lawn sprawls forever until suddenly, it drops off to the cliffs below, the bright green grass giving way to blue ocean tinged with teal. Above it, a pale blue cloudless sky. It’s like stepping into an oil painting.
“Your room has a similar view,” Rita assures me, urging me along.
I follow after her, but my attention stays outside as I wonder how it’s possible that some people get so lucky. Cornelia wakes up to this view every day. I shake my head in wonder before hurrying my steps to catch up to Rita.
As promised, the windows in my room face the ocean, but they also provide a sweeping view of the rose gardens below, hence the name of my suite, I suppose. In early summer, the roses are in full bloom, but that’s only one of the things drawing my curiosity.
The room itself matches the ornateness of the rest of the house, and somehow, that’s shocking to me. The furniture in here looks old and breakable. Carved antique chairs sit beside a large armoire that could easily house everything I own.
The decor is not exactly my taste. It’s extremely girly and decadent with floral wallpaper covering all four walls. The pink striped drapes over the windows coordinate perfectly, as do the linens on the four-poster canopied bed. It’s a room fit for a princess.
“What do you think?” Rita asks, standing near the door as I turn in a slow circle inside the room.