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I snuck down the hall, which had turned gloomy in the evening dusk. I could barely make out the portraits as I passed. That was for the best. I had zero desire to look at them.
Father. Mother. Two dutiful daughters.
All of it was a lie.
Upon reaching the sunroom, I held my breath, fearful one small exhalation would expose my presence. I stood outside the door, listening to my father’s groaning and panting, disgusted by his animalistic needs. It didn’t occur to me then that they were the same sounds Ricky made when we were together. Only later did I realize all men were alike. It didn’t matter if they were rich or poor, fat or thin, old or young. Their needs were so basic it was laughable.
Once the passionate moaning had ended, I hurried away to the library, pretending to read a book in case my father looked in as he passed. He didn’t, of course. He simply strode by, sated, on his way to another part of the house.
It wasn’t until I heard his mistress leave the sunroom that I sprang from my chair and ran to the doorway, ready to intercept her.
I expected to see someone like Sally, the voluptuous new maid, or even brittle, bitter Berniece Mayhew. Instead, the woman who emerged from the sunroom smoothing her skirts was the person I least expected to be engaged in an affair with my father.
Frozen in shock, I could only stand in the middle of the hallway and stare at her. She stared back, also surprised.
“You?” I said.
“Yes,” Miss Baker replied with a weary huff. “Me.”
THIRTY-ONE
The typewriter is gone.
Mrs. Baker removed it from my arms once the last loose sheet of paper had taken flight. At first, I stupidly thought she was trying to help me. Or at least get the typewriter out of my hands while she berated me for bringing Lenora outside. Instead, she said nothing as she lugged it across the terrace, the lone page in the carriage flapping in the breeze.
Then, with a grunt and a heave, she hoisted the typewriter over the railing and let it drop.
I gasped when it fell from view. Jessie let out a horrified yelp. Even Lenora reacted, her left hand reaching out as far as she could muster, as if that alone might reverse the typewriter’s fall.
Pleased with herself, Mrs. Baker wiped her hands together and strode to the French doors. All she said as she passed me was, “Take Miss Hope back upstairs where she belongs.”
Carter helped me with that, scooping Lenora in his arms and carrying her up the Grand Stairs as I pulled the wheelchair up step by rattling step. In Lenora’s room, he gently placed her in the wheelchair before turning to me.
“What do you think’s going to happen?”
“I think I’m going to be fired,” I said. It was the only logicaloutcome. But it wouldn’t be Mrs. Baker doing the firing. She’d leave that to Mr. Gurlain, who I was certain would be all too happy to banish me from the agency.
“Shit,” Carter said. “I’m so sorry, Kit. This is all my fault.”
In truth, it was mine. I knew the rules. I broke them anyway, simply because I wanted answers that I’ll never get now that the typewriter is gone. All I received in exchange for my transgression was a tidbit of information that might help Carter. The only silver lining in this dark cloud of a day.
“Lenora had the baby,” I said after pulling him into my room and closing the adjoining door so Lenora couldn’t hear us from hers. “A boy. She confirmed it.”
“What happened to him?”
“She doesn’t know. All Lenora could tell me is that they took the baby away from her.”
Carter dropped onto my bed, trying to process it all. Not just the suffering Lenora went through or the cruelty behind it, but also how it seemed to support his theory about being her grandson.
“So I might be right,” he said. “Lenora and I might really be related.”
“It’s a definite possibility.”
I joined him on the bed, our shoulders touching. “I’m sorry I couldn’t find out more.”
Carter flashed that crooked smile I’d become slightly enamored of over the past few days. “Don’t be ridiculous. I wouldn’t have learned any of this without you.”
“But now that you know it, be careful. Whoever killed Mary is still here.”