I tapped a finger to each bright-red door. I could feel differences in temperature. “How do you know they stay true?”
“Every now and then Gertrude puts in a thermometer to check them, but it’s never needed. You’d have to ask her how it works. But I do know that because it never turns off, she has the heat set low in this end of the house. The Aga warms the kitchen and you can even feel the drier heat in the Gold and Blue Rooms above.”
“It would be drier. Radiant heat keeps wood 11 percent drier than forced air, and in drywall, the percentage is higher. I can’t quite remember . . .” I caught her look. “In my work, ambient moisture and temperature are important.” I stood and leaned against the counter, adoring the stove and lamenting its impracticability in Texas. “Is it too hot in here in the summer?”
“It can get toasty.”
“So what are the BTUs for the burners? Is it all—” I stopped at the small smile playing on her lips and felt my face flame. You’re not the resident electrician. “I should go dress.” I looked around the kitchen again. “I don’t want to embarrass Isabel. Am I not supposed to be in here?”
“Don’t think that at all. Gertrude was serious when she said there are no rules. And I figure even in Austen’s day, an Emma had to come see the cook or Lizzy the housemaid. In one of those movies, they even got Elinor Dashwood outside Norland Park beating the rugs with the maid. You can dig around in any pantry you want and take all the lightbulbs you wish.”
My jaw dropped. Sonia grinned again. The back door slammed shut and startled us both.
Gertrude crossed half the kitchen before she noticed us. “Good. You are awake.”
Sonia and I stiffened. Gertrude stopped short. “That was abrupt. I simply meant . . . We have a problem.”
“We do?”
“Breakfast with Miss Dwyer was . . . unusual.” She glanced to Sonia, who gave a tiny commiserating nod. “I have just left her at the stables, and I think you should come with me. She appeared to not know anyone this morning, and her mannerisms, her speech . . . She concerns me.”
“She’s been styling herself as an Austen escapee for years. It’s her thing, and finishing her dissertation is important. She calls this the ‘ultimate escapist experience for the modern literate woman.’ She’s role-playing and she’s really good at it. Trust me.”
Gertrude’s expression didn’t change.
“Was it awkward? Do you want me to talk to her?” I pointed back toward the hallway. “I should change first.”
“Could you do that after?”
I glanced to Sonia. She, too, held a tight, anxious expression.
“This is more than role-playing. Please?” Gertrude gestured to the back door.
She was dressed in dark blue, an apron tied at her waist and a small mobcap attached to her silver hair. Oddly, she looked like she fit the kitchen, the house, everything. I was the one out of place.
She led me across the gravel drive toward the path marked by a small black sign with gold lettering. Stables, Spa, and Stream. I shifted my gaze from her back to the sky. The day was glorious. Rain through the night had cleared all the gray and clouds away. The sky was bright blue—not a washed-out, bleached, Texas-sky blue, but the color I used to mark cool currents on my drafting charts, the one just lighter than Sharpie’s royal blue. And the air was crisp. It felt like drinking a cold glass of milk after a long run. You could feel it moving through you, cooling and calming you from the inside.
“Is it always this gorgeous?”
Gertrude’s shoes crunched at a faster cadence beside me. She was taking two steps to my one. I got the impression I was holding her back, so I picked up my pace.
“October is usually full of rain. Yet summer was dry this year and predictions for winter are much the same. So while these days are rare, my hope is that you will have a few of them.”
At the path’s first bend she spoke again. “I feel I’ve tattled on your friend. It wasn’t that I was insulted that she didn’t appear to remember me or the interviews when I mentioned them. If this were a real nineteenth-century house party, she would have no reason to talk with the staff outside her own maid. But it was the sense she didn’t remember she’d met anyone at breakfast before. The Muellers loved it. Helene commented on the authenticity of her character, but that only seemed to upset her. Then Clara’s questions almost frightened her. You could see it in her eyes. There is something very worrying about them.”
At the path’s next turn, the gravel crunch morphed to a mulch squish. It was beautifully maintained, not a wood chip falling beyond the low stone border, and it was well positioned, with manicured areas allowing glimpses through the trees into the gardens and fields along its edge. We rounded a corner, and the sight as we passed out of the trees brought us to a halt.
There Isabel stood dressed in a soft blue dress—the thin wool one with the white trim she’d tried on the day before. Her black hair was piled high, spilling in curls down her neck. Her hair was the same color as the horse with whom she was conversing.
“Hey, Isabel . . . Have you been riding?”
Isabel looked up. She scanned me from head to toe and stepped away.
“I’m sorry. I know I should have dressed. I will.” I closed the distance between us. “But Gertrude was worried. Are you okay?” A memory pricked me. “Isabel? You remember me, right?”
Her eyes morphed from blankness to confusion, then through surprise and recognition, and settled on delight. Delight like I hadn’t seen since we discovered we both liked salsa on our eggs and s’mores with the marshmallow burned almost to disintegration—second-grade, new-best-friend delight.
“Mary. I hadn’t expected to see you.” She pulled me into a tight hug, then pushed me away as abruptly. Her gaze trailed again from the top of my head down to my ballet flats. “What are you wearing? You look dreadful . . . Did you just arrive?” She waved her question away. “Tell me later. Now we can ride.” She looked around as if searching for someone. “Grant, who is the groom here, said he would take me riding. And while that’s not inappropriate, I wouldn’t want to start talk. But now that you’re here . . .”
She pulled my hand and stepped toward the stables. “I thought we’d ride to town, but he says we cannot. It’s no matter. This estate covers over thirty acres. Come on . . . I can accept his invitation for us both.” Isabel spun back and drew me close, whisper-distance apart. “He’s very kind, a perfect gentleman, and so handsome, but he’s only a few years older than we are. Not like home.”
“Home? Texas home or an imaginary home? Are we in character?” Something about her tone kept me quiet, calm, as if trying not to spook her. “Because also, I don’t ride. You know that.” I watched her, waiting for a crack in the charade.