Say You Will(18)

Her sister unlocked the door. A few rays of light peeked through the heavy drapes, illuminating the particles of dust floating in the air.

Rosalind strode to the windows. “Do you mind if I open the curtains?”

“I—”

She yanked them open, one by one, until the room was bathed in weak December sun.

“Go ahead,” Portia said sarcastically. Shaking her head, she sat at their father’s desk, almost tentatively. She ran her hands along the top. “John Summerhill, the fourth Earl of Amberlin, brought this desk back from Paris, after his time in the Sixth Coalition. Supposedly, he pillaged it from Napoléon’s home.”

“How do you remember all this?” she asked as she surveyed the wall of books her father probably never touched.

“Father used to tell me the stories. He said I was the only one who understood the value of the Summerhill name, even if I was a female.”

Trust their father to make a compliment also a criticism. Rosalind took the first book off the shelf, flipped the pages to look for any random pieces of paper, and then set it aside.

“When do you think the American is going to come claim his title?” Portia asked, lifting a pen from the desk and inspecting it. “I’m glad that he’s not getting anything more from the estate, especially Suncrest Park. Do you think anyone would mind if I went to live there?”

“Why would you want to live in there?” she asked as she went through another book. “It’s drafty, rundown, and in the middle of nowhere.”

“I love Suncrest Park. I wonder if Mother would let me take the gallery with me.”

“I don’t see why not.” It was full of ancestral portraits, dating back to the first Earl of Amberlin in the 1700s. Rosalind had always hated the gallery. Some people went to great lengths to discover their ancestry and the stories behind their forefathers. Rosalind had always felt eclipsed by hers. Looking at the paintings of generations of Summerhills, she’d always felt their weighty disapproval.

“Father loved those portraits.” Portia sighed, and then she stood up. “Let’s go.”

“What?” Rosalind frowned over her shoulder. “Where?”

“Out of here. I have a historical society meeting to attend today.”

“Then go,” she said as she took another book. Once her sister left, she could go through the desk’s drawers.

Portia shook her head. “You promised you wouldn’t go through Father’s things without me.”

“You aren’t seriously going to lock me out of here, are you?”

“You agreed.” She lifted her chin mulishly.

As Rosalind put the book away, she silently called her sister all sorts of names. But being reasonable was more in her self-interest. “Maybe we can come back after your meeting.”

“Maybe,” Portia said.

Fortunately, the creaking sound of the door locking covered up the grinding of Rosalind’s teeth.





Nick wasn’t answering his phone, so Rosalind decided to search more of the house. Since the study and the earl’s suites were both locked, thanks to her sister, she headed to the gallery.

Normally, Rosalind avoided it at all costs, but she kept hearing Portia’s words in her head. Father loved those portraits.

Now, she stared at them thoughtfully. Portia was right—their father had revered his ancestors. Would he have trusted the will to one of them?

Definitely.

She walked up to the painting of a stern-looking matriarch and reached up to peek behind the frame.

“What are you doing?”

Rosalind looked over her shoulder, surprised to see Viola’s daughter. “Looking for something,” she answered.

Chloe watched her through the feathery bangs that covered her eyes, her garishly bright red lips pursed. Then she said, “The only thing that’s ever behind paintings is hidden money or stolen diamonds.”

Close enough. Rosalind glanced at her niece, wondering how much she knew about what was going on. “Where’s your mum?”

The sullen teenager shrugged. “Out. She dumped me here so Fran could watch me.”

“Do you need watching?”

“Mum thinks so.” She said it dully, but Rosalind could tell that the fact that Viola didn’t think she was grown up enough to stay at home on her own chafed her.

Rosalind looked at the piercing in Chloe’s nostril. It was at odds with the dark pleated skirt of her school uniform. It made her wonder if the once angelic child she remembered was a wild child now.

“Want some help?” Chloe asked with the disinterested drawl of a bored teenager. “It’s not like I’m doing anything, anyway.”