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I have mixed emotions as I approach the island of Martha's Vineyard. A part of me is excited to spend the winter on the picturesque island. I've spent four-fifths of my life living in Boston but never so much as stepped on one of Massachusetts' most storied vacation destinations. A walk along the shores or through the grassy hills sounds invigorating. And, since my hosts have a vineyard on their property, I'll be able to taste some of the finest wines produced on the East Coast.
At the same time, I can't shake the feeling that I'm walking into a trap. I've learned from hard experience that the wealthy in this world often harbor secrets that trap people like flies in a spider's web. Sometimes, they are cobwebs, only the memories of past horrors—but then, I know that memory can be dangerous too.
But sometimes, the spiders still live, and as the flies flounder in their web of intrigue, they strike and suck the life out of them.
I have worked for many wealthy people since leaving my teaching job and becoming a governess three years ago, and many of their webs have spiders that are alive, well, and hungry. What makes Martha’s Vineyard different is that this entire island is filled with the wealthy. And it’s an island. I am taking a ferry to it. If I want to escape, I shall have to do so slowly and on a schedule with which all the spiders will be familiar.
I make no claim that these thoughts are rational, only that they’re inescapable. Since they refuse to leave my mind, I push them to the background. Perhaps they’ll crowd out the shoebox of letters resting there now.
I focus instead on the beauty of the island as I drive my minivan off of the ferry. The surf gently caresses the white sand beaches and grassy bluffs. The trees—their leaves still green as it is only late September—sway in the gentle breeze and seem to welcome me joyously with their slowly waving branches. The houses gleam elegantly under the bright morning sun, tall and statuesque yet somehow modest despite their covered porches and elegant construction. Perhaps it’s because no house stands out more than another. Each is different, but none are superior.
I relax slightly. After all, not all wealthy people are venomous. The George’s—the family I worked for over the summer—were delightful people. And the Tylers were wonderful as well. I worked for them two summers before this one. And really, most of the others were perfectly decent. It’s only that they had creatures crawling in their corners. I can’t blame them for not seeing what hid in the shadows.
I chuckle to myself. "Look at you, Mary. Once again, trying to read a novel from the back of a soup can."
That’s something Sean says to me sometimes. I look at something simple and infer all of this hidden meaning from it when there’s nothing to read into. The day is beautiful, and the houses are pretty. The island is full of wealthy people, and the leaves are green. There’s no need for any of that to mean anything more than it does.
I reach my employer’s residence fifteen minutes later. This residence is very much not like the others. The house is more of a mansion than a house. It is, I would guess, twelve thousand square feet and three stories tall with an attic above. It sprawls luxuriously over a beautifully sculpted front lot, and behind it stretches forty acres of prime vineyard.
While grapes grow well all over Martha’s Vineyard and many homes have an acre or so of land dedicated to personal winemaking, there were no commercial winemaking concerns on the island until two families opened small prestige vineyards on land behind their homes. One family, the Cartwrights, has a vineyard adjacent to this one.
This one belongs to Victoria Bellamy, matriarch of the Bellamy family, the owners of Continental Vineyards. The bulk of their commercial enterprise is located on thirty-five thousand acres on the mainland, most of it in Massachusetts, with some satellite wineries in California and Oregon. However, they've converted their home vineyard into a commercial one. I understand they intend for this vintage to be their finest and sold in exceptionally limited quantities at quite steep prices.
I’m not here to concern myself with their business, however. I am here as a tutor for Victoria’s grandchildren, Nathan and Luann. Their old tutor left over the summer due to a death in their family, and I’m taking over for the last two years of their high school education. I sometimes find it odd that wealthy families so often choose to educate their children at home, Buit if they didn’t, I would have trouble finding work as a governess, so I suppose I can’t complain.
I park the minivan in front of the house and step out. Before I can retrieve my luggage, a stately voice calls, “Please don’t trouble yourself, Miss Wilcox. I’ll have Grant take your luggage.”
I turn to the voice to see a woman as stately as her voice descending the steps. As a semi-public figure, her age of sixty-seven is well-known, but she appears a full twenty years younger. It’s not until she reaches me, that the weight in her eyes and the lines at the corners of her mouth give away her true maturity.
I smile and bow slightly. “It’s wonderful to meet you in person, Mrs. Bellamy.”
She laughs. “Please, call me Victoria. Ever since Parker died, I’ve rather enjoyed using my given name rather than my married one.”
I'm not sure what to make of that, so I only say, "Victoria, it is."
A tall, beautiful god of a man approaches the minivan and says in a mellifluous voice, “I’ll take your luggage for you, ma’am.”
I am in love with Sean, but I must admit I blush when the Adonis takes my luggage. My admiration must be noticeable, because Veronica winks at me and says, “I hired him for his work ethic and gentle spirit, but it doesn’t hurt that he’s beautiful either.”
My blush deepens. “Are the twins here?”
“No, they’re out at the beach with their father. Enjoying the warmth before it’s gone. You’ll meet them tonight at dinner.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Come!” she says, “Let me show you around. Grant will leave your luggage in your room, and… Oh, leave the car keys on the driver’s seat. He’ll park your van as well.”
I comply, then follow her up the porch into the house.
“You’ve seen the gardens,” she says. “Though Julian—that’s my son–says I shouldn’t call them that as they’re only a lawn with bushes. ‘Not even a proper fountain,’ he says. Ha! As though we’re English Lords or something.” She stops and looks at me with chagrin. “Oh, Mary, I’m so sorry. How rude of me.”
“Nothing to apologize for. I was just telling my fiancé that I’m far more American than I am British.”
“Have you lived here long, then?”
“Ever since I was eleven years old.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh, wow! But your accent is so strong!”
My accent is actually quite mild, more of the softened one known as a Transatlantic accent than a British one, but I don’t correct her. “It’s one of the few things I’ve retained from my British heritage. That, and my love of tea, although even then, I prefer coffee in the mornings.”
“So do I,” Victoria agrees, leading me onward. “We’ll have to share a cup or two. Anyway, the house is large, but fairly typical of New England.”
She’s right, but I am a little surprised that she would be so dismissive of her own home. “Your furniture is lovely,” I tell her. “Is it all mahogany?”
“Black maple, actually. I thought it was mahogany too.” She laughs. “You should have seen Julian’s face turn red when I told him that. You would have thought I called it cheap plywood.”
That’s the second time she points out a disagreement with her son. I wonder if this is how they show affection or if there’s truly conflict between them.
Not your business, Mary. You’re here for the children.
“The first floor is the living room—I refuse to call it a parlor—the dining room, kitchen, and the great room. That's where we entertain. The children take to school in the den on the other side of the great room. It used to be Parker's study, but after he passed, I saw no need to keep a bunch of old books and a massive globe that showed the world as it was two hundred years ago."
Once more, I don’t know how to respond to that.
“The servants are on the third floor, but I’ve given you the guest room on the second floor so you can be close to the children. They’re sixteen years old, so I doubt they’ll have nightmares or anything like that, but I’m sure they’ll appreciate having you close. I understand you’re an excellent confidant.”
“I try to be,” I say modestly.
Victoria tells me about the house, but she doesn’t bother to lead me to any of the rooms. Instead, she leads me straight through the foyer and the great room—a truly impressive structure with a gorgeous crystal chandelier—and out into the vineyard beyond.
She turns to me with a gleam in her eye, and it’s clear that this is the true source of Victoria Bellamy’s pride. “Aren’t they gorgeous?”
I look at the rows of vines, their grapes swollen nearly to bursting. They are beautiful. In every academic and aesthetic sense of the word, the rows of Chardonnay, Riesling and Pinot Noir are breathtaking.
But as my eyes travel over the sinuous tendrils crawling over the stakes and lattices of their supports, I am reminded that in the wild, grapes are parasites, clinging tightly to other plants and burdening them with the weight of their prolific bunches of fruit.
“They’re lovely,” I tell her.
She takes my hand and—giddy as a schoolgirl—leads me into the first row. I nearly cry out when the lattices overhead block the sunlight.
“These are my Chardonnay,” she explains. “My favorite white varietal. It’s often called the red wine of white wines. Don’t tell Julian I said that, though. He gets all huffy about things like that.”
She leads me to another row and says, “The next several rows are Riesling. I don’t enjoy them as much, but they make for very popular wines, and they grow so well out here, so it makes business sense to reserve some acreage for them. The Pinot Noir is on the far end, but we’ve already harvested those. Usually the Chardonnay is the first to ripen, but ours are a unique cultivar that matures later in the season.” She grins at me, “And believe me, Mary, it is so worth it.”
Her love for her work eases some of the disquiet I feel, but I am still grateful when we return to the house. “I’ll show you more later,” she tells me. “And I just know we’ll spend a lot of time among my grapes. But you’ve had a long drive, so I’ll let you get settled and get some rest before dinner.” She squeezes my hand. “Welcome to the family, Mary.”
“Thank you, Victoria. I look forward to meeting your grandchildren.”
I head upstairs to my room. Fortunately, Grant is there, perhaps knowing that his employer will forget to tell me where it is. I thank him for his help, but though he really is easy on the eyes, I am very relieved when the door closes, and I am alone.
I sit on the edge of my bed and try not to fixate on the vines. The image of spiders is gone, replaced by the sinuous and far more venomous image of snakes slithering through the shadows.