Charlock's Secret Read online

  I found the library to be unique. Mostly because of its quiet intimacy, but I also imagined the stories it could tell. Shelf after shelf lined the walls, with rows and rows of books, all of which were accompanied by beautifully upholstered furniture. Deep cherry wood end tables with custom lamps, rare tapestries, and an antique desk’s legs that we're carved into harps. The fireplace exceeded the size of my truck back home, and on the mantle, a row of lavish candlesticks bordered a beautiful painting of an 18-year-old Martha in her wedding gown.

  While the number of tour visitors varied daily, I quickly learned that weddings were the premier attraction beginning in April and ending by October. The elegant, picturesque gardens drew people from miles away and booked nearly a year in advance.

  Somehow, I overlooked this responsibility in the interview. Possibly due to nerves or fear, because I wouldn’t have been so eager to accept or even consider the position knowing this was such a major affair.

  “I looked up your manor on the internet,” Mom announced to me within a week of my arrival. My breath conveniently caught in my throat. I could hear the words being formed in her head as she waited for me to respond.

  “Oh, you did?”

  “It’s a lovely place, Kat.”

  “Yes, mom, it’s more beautiful in person. The pictures don’t do it justice.”

  Silence. Here it comes. . .

  “I saw that they host weddings there, nearly every weekend.”

  I inhaled deeply but said nothing.

  “Do you recall the last wedding you attended?”

  This was a low blow, of course, I remembered. I spent most of the night in the back of my Uncle Jack’s squad car.

  “Mom, don’t.”

  “I’m not trying to drag out an embarrassing memory unless you forgot—”

  “I haven’t forgotten, okay. I—I drank too much. Honestly, I shouldn’t have gone.” I sighed, “it was too soon.”

  “Yes, I suppose we pressured you to go, as close as you and Tony are, we thought it would be the easiest one.”

  “Have you spoken to Tony?” I stuttered, “I—I mean since they returned from their honeymoon and all? Are they still angry with me?”

  “No, Tony’s fine. It’s his wife that you must deal with when you come back to New York.”

  “Yeah, I feel terrible about what the way I behaved.” Tony had always been more like a brother than a cousin to me, so my actions that night were a humiliating event for everyone.

  “Well, do you think it’s a good idea to be around that many weddings?”

  “It’s my job.”

  “You didn’t mention this to me when you were deciding.”

  “I must have forgotten, sorry.”

  “You know I worry about you, Kat; about you being there alone.”

  “Maybe that’s what I need, mom . . . to lean on myself for once.” If only I believed that.

  Tony’s wedding was several months ago, and I hadn’t attempted attendance to any others since. The very thought of witnessing what others enjoyed, and I’d never have, ripped open my fragile wounds. Truthfully, I dreaded having to face this occurrence once a week. I feared not only the effect the images would have on me but the bitter attitude I could inflict on them. Only mom couldn’t know this.

  After I hung up, I stared at my phone for several minutes. The #1-speed dial button brought tears to my eyes as I fought the temptation to push it . . . then ultimately gave in. I held it to my ear. It went straight to voice mail.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Jeff. Leave a message.”

  The lump in my throat swelled. I hung up and pressed it again, afraid one of these times it would be disconnected. The next number I dialed was his mom.

  “Hi, Kat.”

  “Hi, Linda.”

  “How’s England?”

  “It’s rainy and cold.” I forced a chuckle. Conversation felt strained, though it had never been difficult before. She embraced me with open arms the very night we met. “It’s not Arizona.”

  “I imagine. How’s the new job?”

  “I’m still learning. The house and the grounds are amazing.”

  “Sounds great.”

  The elephant in the room grew exponentially.

  “How’s Jeff Sr?”

  “He’s—” She stumbled. “H—he’s keeping busy. We all are.”

  “And the 5k?” I choked out. “I’m sorry I missed it.” Though, I wasn’t sure I would’ve gone had I been there.

  “Quite successful, we had a decent turnout. The Boys and Girls Club received a large donation in Jeff’s name. He always loved that place.”

  “Yes, yes he did.”

  Silence filled the receiver until I spoke again. “I called his phone this morning.”

  “Me too,” she whispered. “I can’t bring myself to canceling the line.”

  I exhaled quietly. This meant I had more time, though the behavior only stirred excruciating pain.

  “I’ve got to go.” I mumbled, “but I wanted to say hi.”

  “Thank you, Kat, that means a lot. We love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  Chapter Six

  It wasn’t long before I learned that my direct involvement with weddings was minimal. Three years ago, the Gilford family trust contracted with a business in London that manages the entire affair through a wedding planner. Only one wedding is scheduled per week regardless of the day, and all details of the process go directly through Felicia Walker, the owner. My only purpose was to provide the oversight on the property in case of any emergency. This came as a tremendous relief. I wasn’t sure I’d last otherwise.

  Pauline was with me the night of my first wedding.

  “Git a guid read and sittle down. Felicia whit efter if there be a muck up.”

  I nodded as my finger brushed against the spines of a few potential books.

  “Oh . . . ye don’t whit to miss tis part!” She clapped her hands and pressed her face against the back window. “Thon garden micht smashing wit lights.”

  Watching her from my peripheral view, I imagined the garden lit up like a fairytale. Moisture built on my forehead and nose. When I didn’t join her, she appeared at my side.

  “Ye look pure done in love, shoogly too! I’ll git a cuppa.” She guided me to the sofa and hustled out of the room.

  My hands trembled at my side. I wasn’t ready to explain.

  She reappeared with a wet hand towel, and a mug of tea. She placed the drink in my hands, then lovingly patted the towel on my cheeks. When she sat down next to me, her dainty hand grasped mine. I was surprised at first that she didn’t ask me what was wrong. Then again, she appeared to have this strange sixth sense and seemed to know more about me than I ever divulged.

  “Keep a fire roastin’ and bide yer time, twill pass, love.” Bide your time, it will pass. Simple words with a double meaning.

  Although the couch in the library appeared rigid and cold, it was remarkably comfortable and as Pauline shuffled in and out, my eyelids grew heavy . . .

  *****

  The moment I tightened the laces on my hiking boots, I knew there was trouble. It snapped before I could even get it around the first loop. The cord had grown thin in the last couple of months, and after the hike up Camelback last Saturday, I meant to get a new pair. I pushed my luck this time when I took them off to get the rock out.

  First, my water bottle slipped out of my sweaty hands and disappeared down a ravine. Now this—loose footing with the last mile to go. Having gotten used to the heat in the valley, I got careless thinking I could hike the Gold Mine trail alone. Kelly wanted to come with me, but her work called, and this was the first weekend I didn’t have a paper due on Monday.

  Luckily, it was February. The highs were only in the mid-70s, and it was still before 11 am. Brushing the building moisture off my forehead while I entered the last stretch, I leaped across a dry creek bed easily until my foot shifted and slipped on the opposite boulder. Even as I reached for the desert brus
h to hold on to, my body lost complete control and fell backward. The spines of a prickly pear cactus impaled my lower thigh just below my shorts. Excruciating pain seared through me, and the more I attempted to wiggle free, the more paralyzed I became.

  This quickly became one of those days that I should’ve never left the apartment. I reached for my cell phone. No service. I glanced around the eerie seclusion I found myself in because I chose to hike the more vigorous of the two paths. I passed a few hikers here and there, but at this very moment there was no one.

  I maneuvered barely enough to reach the first barb. From this angle, I couldn’t see how many punctured my backside, but more than a few. Tears built as the stings amplified. Normally, I wasn’t much of a crier, though the bleakness of my predicament spurned them forward. The emotion that stirred was less about my fate and more about being annoyed that my first real day off turned out to be a complete disaster.

  “Um, it looks like you could use some help.” A voice emerged around the bend as I twisted my body back from trying to free my skin.

  “No, actually . . .” I snapped sarcastically. “I prefer nature from this position.” What a stupid question.

  “Oh, okay.” The two guys stepped over my feet and continued down the trail. My mouth fell open. Seriously?

  “Wait, are you really leaving me?”

  “I thought you were fine.” The taller one stopped.

  “Do I look fine?”

  He smiled wide. “Actually, you do.” Out of nowhere, a deep dimple in his right cheek materialized. I couldn’t help but laugh at his flirty wit. Charming.

  “May I?” He knelt. His hands brushed gently behind my legs. “What’s your name?” His voice soothing and confident. Somehow, without taking his eyes off mine, he located the barbs, and although each tug painfully meant I was slowly disconnecting, my mind was no longer thinking about the cactus.

  “I’m Kat . . .”

  *****

  “I’m Kat.”

  “Kat, love. Ye wauken, its quattin-tyme.”

  I blinked rapidly. Did I fall asleep? My sudden lurch forward caused Pauline to take a step back. I scanned the room; the fire died down with only a few remaining embers alive in its steamy glow.

  “Oh no, are you kidding me?” What is wrong with me? I’ve never fallen asleep on the job. “I’m sorry!” I jumped to my feet and anxiously rubbed my eyes. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. I’m so sorry!”

  “Keep the heid, lass. Ye were corrie doon and ahum here.”

  I fought the urge to cry. I needed her to know I’m capable of managing the manor without her. She leaves in two days! The weight of my heart transpired on my face. She stopped and surveyed me.

  “Kat . . .” Her touch on my forearm was gentle. “It’s ye first weeks. Failin’ means yer playin’.” I lowered my head. She lifted my chin gently with one finger. “Dinnae feart, A know ye can dae ‘tis. Yer bums oot the windae. Yer can do it.” She patted my cheek and hurried out of the library.

  I pondered her words. She believes in me. Pauline was odd, cluttered, and possibly colorblind, but filled with compassion and wisdom. She knew exactly what to say at the right time, not only with me, but the staff and guests as well. I finally realized why Mr. Chill kept her here, she was a genius at relationships.

  I contemplated this realization. I was practically her complete opposite—I can’t stand chaos, I have little patience, and I don’t have her keen intuition or natural kindness. I even lack her energy or ability to buoy the staff, and now I have this insufferable desire to cry over the smallest things. How in the world am I going to succeed and do what she does?

  I glanced around the now darkened room. The only light that streamed in came from the gardens. I stumbled reluctantly towards the glass. It was late, and although I feared what I would see, I peeked anyway.

  The guests had vanished. Only the cleaning crew remained. I thought about my dream. How wonderful they always start— Jeff’s face, his smile, his touch, and how awful they usually ended. It wasn’t too often I woke up before the nightmares began, but it happened tonight.

  Rubbing my eyes once more, I reflected on my uncertainty. I wasn’t the type of person who found contentment in the unknown. I craved answers. Placing my book back on the shelf, my mind wandered. Something strange was happening here . . . something unexplainable.

  Chapter Seven

  May 2010

  Ms. Campbell left for Scotland two weeks to the day I arrived. While I felt more comfortable leading the tours on my own for the last few days, I still used notecards afraid I’d leave something of great importance out. My struggle didn’t go unnoticed . . .

  “Miss, you talk funny.”

  “You look odd.”

  “Has anyone croaked here?”

  “Are there ghosts?”

  Much of the human interaction, especially the juvenile kind, I needed to get used to. Then there were some of my responses.

  “Oh, please don’t let your son slide down the railing.”

  “Please don’t pick up the vases.”

  “Stay together please, it’s easy to get lost.”

  “Please don’t jump on the bed.”

  “What did you say your child was wearing before he disappeared?”

  The bigger the group, the more chaotic it became. On those occasions, I enlisted the help of Oscar, the daytime security guard. Although, on average, the size rarely exceeded twelve.

  Eager to have the house to myself, I was determined to flourish. I still managed a staff that barely spoke to me, minus Gretchen, who wanted to know everything about America and Helen, who sheltered me like her little chick. At least the others let me believe I was in charge and in a way that worked for all of us.

  Privileged to have a weekly phone call from ‘Mr. Chill’ each Monday morning, I braced myself, precisely at 9 a.m. for a boring conversation. Week after week, the repetitiveness reached the point I could have engaged in it without him and still said it word for word.

  “Good morning, Miss Shelton.”

  “Yes, Mr. Gilford?”

  “How was your week?”

  “Very good, and yours?”

  “Pleasant enough.”

  “What was last week’s total?”

  “$11,680.” The number varied a bit each week, but it was always in this general range.

  “Acceptable. Any concerns I should be acquainted with?”

  “Not at all, Mr. Gilford.”

  “You have my contact number, correct Miss Shelton?”

  “Yes, and you would be the first one I’d call if there was a problem.”

  “Very well, email me a copy of the spreadsheet by 10 o’clock please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Until next week, Miss Shelton.”

  “Goodbye, Mr. Gilford.”

  It was easy to forget I was talking to someone who was only a few years older than me. There were times it felt as though I was having a conversation with a college dean. He seemed too stiff and proper to be young.

  I knew it was by nature wealthy families had an air about them. In New York, I’d seen it all. From the wealthiest along Park Avenue to the slums of Harlem. Both claimed equal percentages of good and bad, regardless of their zip code.

  I knew little about the British elite. Their caste system, entitlement, power, and control were foreign to me. Their reputations of being distant or snobby, came from my readings of history books and fictional novels. Although everything I’d learned about this family, ‘Mr. Chill’s unfriendly character seemed to be an isolated attribute.

  Widely known for their charity and kindness, the Gilfords kept much of their staff for generations. Their children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren continued to serve Frederick and Martha’s posterity willingly and lovingly for many years. That kind of loyalty was rare and impressive. So, what happened as time wore on? Where did the chain of compassion break? Where along the Gilford line did empathy became scarce, or in my current employer’s c
ase, extinct altogether?

  “Do they still have grand balls here?” One tourist questioned after scanning the exquisite décor.

  “No, the last year of the annual ball at Charlock was the same year Martha died.” I pointed to the hallway, although the portrait could not be seen from our angle. “Martha was the social base of the family, and while they remained high society by financial standards, the Gilfords descended to a very private lifestyle from that time forth.”

  After the tour ended, I sat on an entryway settee and stared at the portrait. This masterpiece was painted over a hundred and thirty years ago, yet its color and detail showed extensive preservation. The way Frederick touched his wife showed a gentleness that’s rarely captured in this era, and though Merritt, the son, held his profile proudly, there was an element of sadness communicated through his eyes. Although the time between the painting and Martha’s death wasn’t exact, I wondered if they knew something was coming or if it caught them completely off guard.