“Have my bags taken to the room to the left at the top of the stairs,” she said to Sara. “I’m Lady Nadine and I’ll be in the blue drawing room. Send Mrs. Guilford to meet me.”
She was at the doorway before Sara caught up to her. “I don’t work here. I’m Sara Medlar.” She had on cotton trousers and a yellow polo shirt. They were dirty from lying on the ground around the pit.
Nadine halted, again looked Sara up and down. Obviously, the name meant nothing to her. “Oh?”
“I’m the one who invited you here.”
“Did you? Yet you don’t consider that working here? How extraordinary.”
Behind them, Kate rolled her eyes. It looked like a Bitch War was about to begin—and she wanted no part of it. She picked up Nadine’s two suitcases and paused behind the woman. “Aunt Sara writes novels and she restored this place.” Kate’s tone showed that she didn’t like Nadine’s attitude. “Nobody’s here so...” She shrugged at the suitcases, then carried them between the women and up the stairs.
The first room on the left was large and beautiful.
Kate dumped the suitcases on the stand, then started to go down to be with her aunt. Instead, she turned away. Let Aunt Sara handle the woman. Kate headed toward the attic.
Downstairs, Sara did her best to smile. “Maybe we should go upstairs and I’ll explain what’s going on.”
“If we must.” Nadine went first. Inside the room, she looked around. “It’s been changed. It’s a bit gaudy now.”
“It’s for the tourists,” Sara said. “They want everything to be more English than the Brits do.”
Nadine’s face had a hint of a frown.
Restylane or Botox? Sara wondered. Something was keeping her glower from wrinkling her face.
“You own Oxley Manor?” Nadine asked.
“No, but I did finance the restoration from the sale of my novels.”
“And what is it that you write?”
“Women’s fiction.” Sara knew it was a cop-out but if she said “historical and contemporary romance” she always—always!—got smirks and dirty looks.
But Nadine wasn’t fooled. She gave a half smile. “The ones with the lurid covers? Sold in every grocery and petrol station on the planet? Those books?”
Sara clamped her teeth together, gave a nod and wondered why she didn’t leave her room.
“How quaint.”
Sara didn’t ask permission but sat down on a chair by the bed. “I’m writing a novel that will be based on the mysterious disappearance of the two people in 1994. I’m here to research.”
Quickly, Nadine turned away, but not before Sara saw the color drain from her face.
Nadine opened her big suitcase. It was a Hartmann, the kind people used twenty years ago: no wheels, no carry strap, no telescoping handle.
Sara watched Nadine pull out a jacket that could only have been made by Chanel and hang it in the big walnut wardrobe. Since she had commandeered the room, Sara guessed it was the one her father had refurbished for her. While the rest of the house rotted. Wonder if that’s the wardrobe where Puck hid? Sara thought.
* * *
“Mystery?” Nadine said, her back to Sara. “There was no mystery. Not even a disappearance, at least not in the true meaning of the word.”
“Then what did happen?”
Nadine turned around and the color was back in her face. “I thought Byon was going to be here.”
“He’s coming. You’re the first. They’re all coming.”
“What does that mean?”