Rosalind opened her mouth to remind Portia that their father was dead, but she realized how cruel that’d sound, so she nodded. “I know there are a lot of priceless things in this house. At some point, we’re going to have to catalogue them for mother.”
“We?” Portia’s voice rose. “There’s only one person qualified to catalogue the items in this house. For instance, do you have any idea what this is?”
Her sister stalked to the bookshelf, grabbed an item from the middle, and held it aloft.
Rosalind blinked at the metal ball in Portia’s hand, knowing there was no right answer here. “It looks like a bronze pineapple.”
“That’s what I mean.” She waved the grenade-looking thing around. “This is the acorn George II gave Robert Summerhill after the Battle of Oudenarde, for his steadfast strength and loyalty.”
“So you’re saying it’s worth something.”
“It’s priceless to future Summerhills, Rosalind!” She carefully set it back on the shelf, in the exact same position as before. “It’s where we came from. You never appreciated that.”
“What are you girls doing here?”
They both turned to find their mother in the doorway. She looked as immaculate as ever, like she’d walked out of the latest Vogue. She held what looked like a journal against her chest, as though it was armor.
Portia turned around, her fingers playing with her pearl necklace. “I found Rosalind in here.”
Rosalind rolled her eyes at the accusatory tone. “We’re not five anymore.”
“You started it.”
Their mother looked around the study, her nose wrinkled with distaste. “I hate this room,” she announced abruptly. “It’s rather dreary in here, isn’t it?”
They gaped at her as she strode inside straight to the desk and picked up a framed picture set on the corner. She frowned, her fingers tightening on the wood casing. Then she threw it against the wall.
Rosalind jumped, her eyes widening. “Mum, are you okay?”
“Much better now.” Her mother smiled at her, her porcelain skin flushed. “Portia, Rosalind is helping pack up your father’s things.”
“What?” Portia exclaimed. She stepped forward, arms out as if to block their path to the desk. “It’s too soon to pack his things away.”
“It’s much past time,” their mother said, crossing her arms. “We all need to move on.”
Portia looked horrified at the thought. “He hasn’t been gone for more than a week. You’re rushing things.”
“Rushing things? I think I’ve shown quite a bit of patience.” Their mother picked up a paperweight and threw it, too.
“Mum”—Rosalind took her hand before she could destroy something priceless—”I’ll take care of this for you.”
Her mother looked like she was going to argue, but then she nodded with a faint smile. “Thank you, Rosalind. I take it that means you’ll stay here for a bit.”
She swallowed, torn between needing to escape and wanting to help her mother. The old longing surged in her chest—the desire to connect with her mom the way mothers and daughters were supposed to.
“I’m glad you’ll be here, Rosalind,” her mum said haltingly, squeezing her hand.
Rosalind blinked, startled by the contact. The Countess of Amberlin wasn’t a touchy-feely person. This was tantamount to her flinging her arms around her and holding tight.
Her mother patted her hand and let go. “Portia, perhaps you’ll want to help.”
“Definitely,” her sister said with a steely glance at her. Portia waited until their mother breezed out of the room to say, “You aren’t touching any of Father’s things without me. I’m not going to take a chance that you’ll throw away something valuable.”
Great. How was she supposed to secretly look for the will with Portia shadowing her? But she also couldn’t say no. “That’d be nice, Portia. It’ll make the packing go faster.”
“Good. We’ll start in here. But you can’t touch the books. And the curios on the shelf to the left.”
Mentally, she rolled her eyes, but outwardly she smiled pleasantly. Thank goodness for all the practice she had being agreeable with her clients. “Whatever you want, Portia.”
Her sister looked at her suspiciously, but her hackles lowered a little.
Just one week, and then Bea would take over the search. She could deal with Portia for a week, especially if it meant making sure her mother was taken care of.
Chapter Seven
“So this place is”—his business manager looked around the barren house, his nose twitching like he smelled something foul—”quaint.”