She dropped her gaze to the papers again, signed one of them with a flourish. “He will tell you that his behavior does not matter. Do not believe him.” The page disappeared with a flick of the wrist, and another replaced it. “It does not matter that you were Alex’s wife. If you give Robert even the slightest encouragement, I will dismiss you and you will no longer be connected to this family.”
It was absurd, insulting—that she thought I would somehow misbehave with her husband under her roof. But I could see the misery carefully disguised in the lines of Dottie’s face. It pained her, humiliated her, to speak of this at all. She had become more tense and unhappy the closer we traveled to her home. This homecoming, I realized, was not exactly going to be the joyous one she’d likely described to Mrs. Carter-Hayes as we crossed the Channel. It gave me a jolt to think that hers might be a family even unhappier than my own.
“I understand,” I said.
She signed another paper, flipped the page again. “Martin arrives tomorrow morning.” Again, her voice was grim, so unlike the cloying tone she’d used when she’d shown her son’s photograph on the boat from Calais. “He had a health problem that affected his nerves after the war and has been in a spa in Switzerland.”
So the husband was a lech, and the son was a madman fresh from the asylum. No wonder Dottie had been sparse with details until now, when she had me captive in the motorcar, unable to run screaming. And I still knew nothing about queer cousin Fran. “It’s nice that he’s coming home,” I managed.
“I do not want any distressing subjects raised in the presence of my son,” she said as if I hadn’t spoken. “The war is not to be mentioned. Alex is not to be mentioned—Martin liked Alex a great deal and found his death upsetting. If he asks you about it, I expect you to deflect him and change the subject.”
“All right,” I replied, unable to think of anything more repellent than discussing my husband with a man who had lost his senses. The conversation with Mother had been more than enough. I studied my thumbnail, scraping a fingernail along it and rethinking my decision not to live in poverty in London. “What exactly will my duties be?”
She glanced at me for the first time, then directed her gaze back down to her papers. “You are to accompany me throughout the day and assist me. I expect you to report to me at eight o’clock every morning, at breakfast. I will be meeting with artwork buyers and negotiating with them. You are not expected to make conversation—in fact, the less you speak, the happier I will be. Your job will be to serve tea and help me manage my correspondence. I understand you have typing skills.”
“Yes,” I replied. “I can type. But I have never served tea.”
She gave me a glare that plainly said I was stupid. “It isn’t hard, Manders. Just try not to spill it.” She leaned back in her seat. “Aside from selling the pieces I’ve bought, I will also be busy planning Martin’s engagement and wedding.”
I frowned, confused. “Who is Martin engaged to, if he’s been in a spa?” If she wanted to call it a spa, I would go along with it.
“He is not yet engaged. I believe I have mentioned that he is coming home to marry.”
“Yes,” I said slowly. The sequence seemed backward to me. “I thought you needed a fiancée in order to have an engagement.”
Dottie dismissed this detail with a flick of her hand. “I will take care of it,” she said, and as I sat gaping at her, she picked up her pen and continued. “There will be some afternoons when I will not require you, and you will be released for free time. After six o’clock, unless I have a special requirement, your evenings are your own.”
I looked out the window at the woodland passing by, thinking about long evenings alone as the autumn stretched into winter. “It seems isolated.”
“There is a town less than an hour’s walk away,” Dottie replied. “It’s possible you can use the car and driver, if they are free. There is a lending library, I understand.”
It was a generous offer, most unlike Dottie. I turned to her, ready for once to be friendly, but she wasn’t looking at me. She was staring ahead, her papers forgotten. She pulled out her long cigarette holder, attached a cigarette to it, and lit it, right there in the motorcar, creating a foul fug of smoke. She had forgotten me, and she had certainly forgotten the driver, who had never registered to her at all. Her gaze clouded, and something about the look on her face chilled me.