Page 24

“So if she said something was bad, I should still type it up.”

“Yes, type up everything. If you have a question, ask Mr. Coe. If he’s not there, call me. I’m at extension four.”

He exhaled deeply. “Okay, thanks.”

“You’ll do great.”

At the door, he said, “I won’t forget the wine.”

“Good. Be on the lookout for my text.”

He nodded and then he was gone. In the silence that followed, I found myself feeling quite calm.

Once I had everything out of the chest, and in stacks according to what it pertained to—household, family, artwork acquisitions, and personal correspondence—I went over the container again, pressing, pushing, looking for anything that moved. Many old pieces of furniture had hidden compartments. I even tilted it on its side and checked the bottom. Certain that I’d missed nothing, I tipped it back and only then noted the raised area on the top. What I had taken for a whimsical flourish by the designer actually lifted up and turned, like the bottom of a wooden staircase; a removable piece that a key or something could be left in.

There was a small compartment there, and inside was a leather-bound journal, the kind with an attached ribbon to keep your place, and on the front, an embossed lily. It was clearly well used, the pages filled, but still beautifully kept, and when I opened it and started to read, I quickly realized I was looking at a diary.

I loved diaries; they were so much more interesting than ledgers or maps. Even love letters weren’t as interesting as a diary. I got comfortable, ready to study the journal for hours, and after a few moments, I understood that what I was reading belonged to Wallis Sutton Wellington. She referred to herself as the “lady of the house,” a wife, and hopefully, before the end of the year, a mother. She was a good writer. It wasn’t dry, and she did a great job of describing what had happened in the course of a day, and who visited. She painted rich pictures of her neighbors, those she liked and others who she found common. As a beta, she was certain that someday, lupines would have rights as well as women. I liked her certainty.

I was surprised that after at least thirty pages, double-sided, she stopped writing, and there was nothing but different pressed flowers trapped forever in the binding. When I kept flipping, and saw that the ink had turned to blue, I was disappointed, imagining some newer relation had found the journal and begun writing in it, thinking to not let the bound journal go to waste. That made sense since paper was expensive, but then I realized the hand was the same. The loops were smaller, tighter. It seemed she was no longer as concerned with her penmanship. As soon as I flipped to the next page, I understood why.

Clay died today, she wrote, and I understood then why everything had changed.

The entry went on and on about Clay’s hunting accident, and how she had to be vigilant in watching over the child in her body, as now her little one would inherit the entirety of the Wellington Estate.

“You were sad,” I mumbled. It made sense that she’d probably been writing faster, and her writing had lost its precision. “I’m so sorry.”

There were entries about the funeral, about the flower arrangements, and how the carriage had jostled as it rolled her to the family mausoleum. The service was lovely, and when she returned home and the house was filled with mourners, Clay’s mother utterly inconsolable, she finally had a moment alone, locked in her quarters.

Then, and only then, did she cover her face with her pillow and laugh.

“Wait,” I said out loud, like I was watching a movie. “Plot twist.”

And then she wrote, No one will ever know that the child I am carrying is not of Clay’s blood. I will take that, and the events of his death, and why I had him killed, to my grave.

“Wallis!” I shouted, putting it down for a moment and staring at the diary for several beats of my heart before I picked it back up.

I read the passage again. Then again. After the fourth time, I moved on from that point and let her tell me all her secrets.

It hadn’t been hard for her to have an affair, as Clay went to his gentleman’s club nightly. She sent the staff to bed, and it was not at all difficult for her to slip out of the enormous house, then scurry back in before dawn.

They were not true mates, so their marriage was that of two families making a match to secure property, money, and the continuation of the bloodline. Too bad the Wellingtons never got what they paid for, as Clay’s line didn’t continue.

The diary ended when Richard Aldacott Wellington was born, inheriting everything: the land, the mansion, stocks, bonds, and most importantly, his father’s place in society, in the jarl. Wallis had everything she’d ever wanted, and she adored her perfect son. Everyone said the boy was the spitting image of Clay, and his grandmother doted on her grandson.

All is well, was her final entry, along with a small piece of what appeared to be a bloody bandage. It would have been really psychotic of her to keep some of Clay’s blood. I noted that it had been pressed, it looked like, over and over onto the page. I had to wonder how many times she’d touched it before she sealed the diary away in her hope chest.

I sat there for about half an hour when I was done, then rose, tucked the diary under my arm, and walked away from my station. I left the cold room, went to my desk in the main area, put the diary in my top drawer, and pulled out my phone at the same time.

There was only one person to call, someone with an encyclopedic memory of the jarl in Chicago and all the lineages. She loved history and family trees more than anyone I knew, which was very fortunate for me.

My mother, Valentina Norwood, was six hours ahead of me in Barcelona, and since she was probably at dinner, it took her three rings to pick up.

“Hello, my darling. You’ve caught your father and me out having drinks and dinner with friends. May I call you back in a couple of⁠—”

“Mom, I have a quick question and then I’ll let you go.”

“Of course. Let me walk out on the terrace. Hold on.”