Chapter 2 - The Scent of Old Paper and Lavender
The water dripping from my dress onto the flagstones was the loudest sound in the courtyard.
I stood there, soaked to the bone, my knee throbbing beneath the wet blue fabric of my grandmother’s dress. Natalie was still smirking, her hand resting gracefully on her crystal-studded waist. Our mother, Evelyn, stepped forward, taking a small sip of her prosecco as though watching a mildly amusing street performance.
“Don’t stand there bleeding dramatics onto the stone, Marianne,” Mother said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Go to the service pantry, dry off with the staff towels, and change into something less... tragic. You’re ruining the tone of Natalie’s photos.”
My father, Arthur, shook his head with a booming laugh that echoed off the white marble arches of the estate. “Come now, Evelyn! The girl needed a bath anyway. Look at her—wearing that dusty old rag to a hundred-thousand-dollar wedding at the Ashford Estate. She looks like a washerwoman who lost her way to the laundry.”
A polite, cruel wave of chuckles rippled through the high-society guests.
I looked at Natalie. Her eyes held no remorse—only a gleaming, sharp victory. For twenty-four years, Natalie had taken everything she wanted: my parents’ affection, the trust fund my grandfather had set up, and the recognition for every project I had ever designed for our family’s ancestral property, the historic Ashford Estate.
They believed this estate was theirs to flaunt. They believed they owned every stone, every arch, and every rose bush.
They didn't know about the letter hidden inside the lining of Grandmother Rose’s blue dress.
I didn't utter a single word of protest. I didn't cry. I didn't scream.
Instead, I reached slowly behind my back. My fingers were cold and wet, but they were steady. I felt beneath the inner seam near the lower lumbar fold of the tea-length dress. The fabric here was double-lined with thick, waxed silk—a secret pocket Grandmother Rose had stitched herself sixty years ago when she was running the estate alone after Grandfather’s death.
Inside lay a small, flat, water-sealed plastic casing containing a single key and an oilcloth envelope. The fountain water hadn't penetrated it.
“Marianne?” Natalie tilted her head, her hand adjusting her diamond necklace. “Are you deaf? Mother told you to go to the pantry. Or do you need someone to push you toward the door, too?”
Her groomsmen snickered.
I looked directly into my sister’s eyes.
“I’m leaving, Natalie,” I said softly. My voice didn't shake. “I’m going to the north wing.”
Mother’s smile vanished instantly. Her eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, furious line. “The north wing is locked, Marianne! It’s private property under legal estate management! You have no right to walk through those doors—the historical society sealed it this morning for the property handover!”
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“It was sealed,” I corrected quietly, stepping backward away from the fountain, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the pristine flagstones. “For everyone except the executor.”
I turned my back on three hundred staring guests, on my mother’s rising shriek, and on my father’s confused frown. I walked straight past the string quartet, through the heavy iron garden gates, and toward the dark, stone manor house towering above the gardens.
