Page 14 of One Last Breath

CHAPTER EIGHT

Dinner is, of course, as grand as the estate. If there's one thing all wealthy families have in common, it's a love of fine food. I am fortunate that the family chooses to serve itself because I can take small portions of each course and leave room for the next. It wouldn't do to refuse to eat part of the meal, even if it's because I'm too full to eat anymore.

There is a fresh green salad followed by a warm tomato bisque. For appetizers, we have spinach puffs with gorgeous, perfectly flaky puff pastry and just enough cream to lend the spinach filling a delectable texture. The main course is roasted lamb tender enough to fall off the bone, served with potatoes au gratin and baked green beans. By the time we reach dessert, a decadent peach cobbler, my efforts at moderation are barely enough to allow me a taste.

The conversation is somewhat less wonderful than the food. There is a palpable tension between James and Elizabeth that I can’t quite put my finger on. They smile affectionately at each other. James tells a joke, and Elizabeth laughs. He kisses her cheek, and she places her hand in his, but it’s all an act. Their shoulders are stiff, and were it not for her lipstick, Elizabeth’s lips would be colorless for how tightly they’re pressed together.

James’ eyes are as hard as diamonds, but it’s not the calculating hardness I see the day we met. Instead, there’s an almost defensive quality to his expression, as though he intends his walls of stoicism to protect him from some unseen foe that threatens to tear open his shell. There are a thousand innocuous explanations for this, but now that I’ve stumbled across proof of a mystery, I can’t help but wonder if the tension between the couple is somehow related.

I also wonder why I’m invited to this dinner. I’ve been here for nearly two weeks, and this is the first meal I’ve taken with them. Why now? Is this façade of affection for my benefit? It seems ludicrous to think so, but I don’t believe in coincidence, and if I must accept its existence, then I must accept a great deal of coincidence right now.

The children make an effort to include me in the dinner, asking questions about my past as a teacher and as a governess. I really shouldn’t call them children. They are twenty-five and twenty-two, grown adults for years now. Still, I share the fault of all middle-aged people in that I view anyone much younger than me as a child. I’m sure that to Violet, I must look the same.

Violet. I realize all at once that she’s not here.

“Is your mother all right?” I ask Elizabeth.

The conversation stops. The children look nervously at one another. James continues to eat stoically, but his forkfuls are only an obstinate refusal to acknowledge a problem. Elizabeth gives me a plastic smile for several seconds before responding, “Fine. She rarely dines this late. She retires early most days.”

“I see,” I reply meekly. “Well, give her my best wishes when you see her next.”

“Of course,” Elizabeth says, her words as brittle as glass.

The conversation moves to other subjects, but the change in demeanor when it comes to Violet isn’t lost on me. I begin to wonder if Violet may have more ghosts in her past than Deirdre McCoy.

Violet and Elizabeth. Mother and daughter. A senile old woman and a middle-aged daughter who talks to people who aren’t there. A cynical part of me wonders if the “secrets” of the Greenwood family are nothing more than generational mental illness.

What has become of my life that such an explanation would be a letdown to me?

After dinner, I head to the balcony for some fresh air. The balcony extends the entire length of the back porch and provides a stunning view of the Glens, the gardens and the city to the east. The view is breathtaking, but it’s the calm I seek right now. My head reels from dinner, and I hope to take a moment to collect my thoughts.

That moment is short. Less than five minutes after I walk outside, the door to another room along the balcony opens, and Annabelle walks outside. She smiles at me and approaches. This is the first time she’s looked at me without some sort of irritation on her face. None of that irritation is ever directed at me, but it’s nice to see that she isn’t always frustrated.

“I’m sorry about dinner,” she says. “I was afraid something like that would happen.”

“Something like what?” I ask.

“Oh.” She reddens slightly. “Something with Grandma. Mom’s very protective of her, but you had no way of knowing her condition, so it isn’t fair of anyone to expect you to know that Mom doesn’t like talking about it.”

I decide it’s prudent to feign ignorance in this case. “Her condition?”

“Senility,” she replies. “That’s the polite word for it. The correct word is dementia, but I advise you to forget that word exists when you’re speaking to my mother. Come to think of it, forget the word senility too. In fact, it might be best for you to just not talk about Grandma.” She smiles at me. “I’m sorry. I guess this is a sore subject for me too.”

“It’s very difficult to watch a loved one suffer.”

Her lips thin a little. She looks out over the grounds without responding. I wonder whether it’s her mother or her grandmother she doesn’t consider a loved one? Maybe it’s unfair of me to jump to that conclusion. Some people handle grief by withdrawing from the person for whom they’re grieving.

Some people seem like they look up every typical, documented response to grief and then do something else. Some people keep their grief all internal, never really understanding how much it manifests to the rest of the world. Others refuse to acknowledge it and move on stoically, adamantly refusing to accept that they can be affected by so unworthy an emotion as grief.

I want to press further, but it’s clear that Annabelle’s no more willing to talk about Violet than Elizabeth is. I move to another topic.

“I understand you had a governess before me?”

She looks at me quizzically. “For the servants? No, you’re the first.”

“For the servants, yes, but you had a governess yourself, right? You and Christopher.”

She frowns slightly. “Oh. You mean Lila.”

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