“What about all the rooms on the other side of the house?” I ask.
“More living quarters. Staff quarters on the third floor of the west wing, some larger guest rooms and a study where my grandfather keeps all his maps and war memorabilia, drawing rooms with pianos, stuff like that. And, of course, their private living quarters back in the east wing.” She points to another door. “That’s Pummy’s room.”
“Pummy?”
“My older brother, Andrew. Everybody’s called him Pummy since he was a baby—I can’t remember why it stuck.” The upper classes love to call their children ridiculous nicknames that sound like something from a children’s nursery rhyme. No doubt India will someday be proud mother to a baby Moony or Smush or Flopsie.
India stops in front of a door that looks just like every other one. “This one is yours: the Oak Room.”
There are several portraits on the walls and a gigantic four-poster bed that dominates the room. On the bed is a green velvet cover with gold embroidered stitching. The room is adorned with heavy tapestries hanging from the tall, wood-paneled ceiling, and two large windows look out onto Huntshire’s rolling hills. The walls are decorated in muted shades of green and salmon . . . and is that a hand-painted mural? Next to a stone fireplace, framed by an enormous gold mirror and two French taper candelabras, is an elegant wooden armoire. On a low marble table, there’s a pot of tea, a tray of digestive biscuits, and the latest issue of Elle with a black-and-white picture of Emma Watson on the cover. The room has clearly been renovated for guests—from what I’ve read in Hello! and Julian Fellowes books, most guest bedrooms at grand old country houses are sterile, drafty cubicles. By contrast, this room feels like the Ritz. I wish Libby were here to see this.
“It’s fabulous,” I say, looking around and realizing there’s no en suite bathroom. “Um, but where is . . .”
India smiles. “The loo is down the hall, remember? People think it’s so glamorous living in a house like this, but they don’t realize I grew up with coal heating, it took ten minutes to walk to breakfast, and you share the lav with ten other people.” She turns to leave. “Everybody’s probably out back by the pool, so I’d take advantage of the privacy and get ready now if I were you. Come down whenever you like, but dinner’s at seven sharp. Meet beforehand in the Smoking Room.”
With three hours until dinner, I have time to kill. If Libby were here, she’d explore the grounds, walk through the gardens, maybe take an excursion down to the stables or peruse the library before the rest of the troops arrive. Me? I pull out a hair dryer and the massive makeup bag from my duffel. I’m going to use every single moment to make myself look perfect.
I spend forty-minute minutes trying on outfit combinations before settling on an “effortlessly”—ha!—casual look for tonight: flowing white top, black shorts that hit mid-thigh, and gold sandals. After a relaxing hot shower, I blow-dry my long hair slowly and carefully, adding little braids to the sides so it looks bohemian and artfully messy.
I pad down the hallway from the bathroom back to my room. One of the hanging portraits, of a studious young man holding a book, makes me think about Libby. What if the scandal at her boarding school taints all the hard work she’s done? It wouldn’t really affect her chances at getting into a good university, would it? I couldn’t care less where I attend. University isn’t for well over two years—it’s a lifetime away. But Libby’s had a single-minded pursuit of St. Andrews, Dad’s alma mater, since she was young. I hope my sister isn’t screwed over by something that she has nothing to do with.
Eventually, I decide to put her troubles on hold. I have enough to worry about in my own life. Libby’s smart. She’ll figure it all out.
Makeup is another endeavor: after forty-five minutes applying waterproof mascara, eye shadow, eyeliner, tinted moisturizer, foundation, bronzer, blush, shimmer highlighter, and lip gloss, I’m satisfied. The trick is to look like you’re not wearing any makeup, which—like the “this old thing?” outfit—is harder than it sounds. I spritz on a waterproof finishing spray, to keep anything from running or smudging if we go into the pool, and then text Libby to get her opinion.
ME: What do you think? Is the makeup too much?
LIBBY: Maybe a little less lipstick
LIBBY: But I love the braids—you look amazing!
ME: K, thx, love u!!
ME: Heading down to dinner now
LIBBY: Love you, good luck! You’re going to do great!
I wipe off my lip gloss, swiping on clear ChapStick instead. Libby’s right: it looks even more natural. I check myself from every angle in the dusty gold mirror opposite the armoire, marveling at the dappled evening light streaming through the picture windows. It’s better than any Instagram filter. I snap a selfie, tagging Huntshire’s location and captioning it “Dinnertime! #countrylife #magichour,” and then do a quick ten-second Snapchat video, showing off the view from my window with a timestamp filter.
I check my phone again: it’s already a quarter to seven. I walk down the long hallways, feeling like an outsider as I make my way back downstairs.
Stop it. You were invited. You belong here.
The entrance smells like cinnamon. I walk downstairs, stopping by a tall gold clock and trying to remember which way India said I should go.
To the right of the entrance is a green hallway full of portraits, leading to the other wing of the house. To the left is a massive library.
I feel like I’m in a Choose Your Own Adventure novel from my childhood. On one side: coziness, familiarity, and warmth. On the other: uncertainty, danger, and intrigue. Which to choose?
I move toward the library, peeking inside.
It’s a cavernous two-story hall with paneled ceilings and amber walls, looking more like the lobby of a grand old resort than a single room. Square oriental tapestries cover the vast length of the hall, polished wood peeking out every twenty feet. A chandelier the size of a helicopter hangs from the paneled ceiling way down in the middle of the hall, and there’s a giant organ taking up an entire wall at the far end. There must be twenty thousand books in here. This room alone must take an army of staff to maintain—if you can even call it a room.
“Looking for the Smoking Room, miss?”
I jump, feeling guilty.
An older man in a black suit comes and stands behind me, carrying a tray.
“Yes, thank God you came along! This place is enormous.”
“Follow me, please,” he says, leading me toward the green hallway. I check out all the old portraits of Frasers on horseback and in uniform and clutching flowers and wearing jewels, wondering how many bloody portraits one family can take over the centuries. We pass by a study, and then finally arrive at the Smoking Room.