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But after that, the wall is blank. What does it mean?
“Miss?” Mr. Carson’s voice startles me, and I jump before turning to face him, heart racing.
“Yes?”
“I laid out the book I mentioned at breakfast. It’s in the library.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson.”
He turns to leave, and I have a sudden insight that this could be the time to ask.
“Wait! Mr. Carson, what can you tell me about these portraits?”
He turns slowly on his heel and joins me in front of the last woman. “This is your grandmother, Lorraine Harridan.” His eyes are glued to her face, and intuition strikes me.
“She’s very elegant,” I offer.
“She was a very fine woman,” he agrees in his gravelly voice.
“Was? I assume she’s passed away?”
“Yes, miss. She’s been gone for some time.”
“And who are all these men? Are they other family members?”
He hesitates. “Yes, they were all members of your family, but they’re all gone now.”
“Aside from my uncle, do I have any other family left? Anywhere in the world?”
“To my knowledge, miss, you and your uncle are all that remain of the Harridan line.”
“Thank you, Mr. Carson. I was curious: since you knew my grandmother, did you know my mother?”
His gaze finally leaves the portrait, and he turns to me with sadness in his watery blue eyes. “I did, miss. I watched her grow up.”
“I was curious if any of her stuff was still around here, or maybe I could see her room? I feel like I know so little about her.”
Once again, he hesitates. “We cleaned her suite of rooms out to redecorate for you, miss. But I believe they moved all of her things to the attic for storage.”
My excitement drops, but then rises again at the second half of his statement. “Would it be possible for me to see those things?”
“I’m not sure it would be proper for you to go to the attic…” he looks distinctly uncomfortable, and I certainly don’t want him to rat me out.
I rush to ease his distress and throw him off the scent. “Okay, that’s fine, thank you very much, Mr. Carson. I appreciate the information. I’ll go check out that book now.”
With a relieved sigh, he nods. “Very well, miss, right this way,” and gestures down the hallway toward the library.
True to his word, there is a heavy-bound book sitting on the table, conveniently placed before the cushy sofa. As if expecting my needs, Mr. Carson has lit a fire in the fireplace, and its warmth has already chased away the chill from the drafty two-story windows.
I settle in and begin flipping through. It’s a slick book with glossy pages, clearly made by a publisher. It reads like a coffee-table book with interesting factoids, and plenty of Victorian-style photos of my ancestors.
I study a few portraits of more women who look like me in high-collared dresses with frilly details, examining their stern faces. There are photos of families with dolled-up children and grainy pictures of large parties standing on the lawn in front of the house.
I read the book cover-to-cover, only stopping when Mr. Carson interrupts me with a tray of lunch. I’d been so deep in my study of the book that hours had flown by without me even realizing it.
But even before I finished, I knew without a doubt that this book is more propaganda than actual history.
For one, it never explains the origin of the family or where they accumulated such wealth. Or why they chose this spot to live and build their mansion.
