Part 18
The employee took out his radio. Static answered. Music from the distant house drifted faintly through the trees, strings and piano flattened by rain.
“I have to get these linens to the west tent,” he said.
“Please.”
He looked toward the cart’s covered rear compartment, then at Mara’s muddy shoes.
“I can take you to the maintenance bridge,” he said. “After that, you’re on your own.”
She climbed beside him.
The cart moved down the path, its wheels sliding slightly in mud. The employee introduced himself as Lucas and then seemed to regret it, as if she might use his name in a complaint.
“You a guest?” he asked.
“No.”
“Family?”
“I don’t know.”
He glanced at her.
“Forget I asked,” he said.
The path crossed a low section where water had risen over the gravel. Lucas slowed, but one wheel struck a rut. The cart lurched sideways.
Mara grabbed the metal frame. Her bag slid from her lap. She caught the strap before it fell, but her left foot hit the muddy ground.
Her shoe sank to the ankle.
“Sorry,” Lucas said.
Mara pulled, but the shoe remained.
The cart tilted farther as Lucas tried to accelerate.
“Stop,” she said.
He stopped.
She stepped into the mud with her other foot, gripped the trapped shoe, and pulled. The heel came off in her hand.
For one second, she simply stared at it.
Lucas said, “I have duct tape.”
“Of course you do.”
He gave a nervous laugh, then saw her face and stopped.
Mara removed both shoes. The right one had begun separating at the sole. Mud covered her stockings, and cold water soaked through immediately.
“Can you still take me across?” she asked.
Lucas looked toward the estate. “The bridge is right there.”
The cart could not continue over the flooded section. Mara stepped down, barefoot now because wet stockings made the mud dangerously slick. She stuffed the ruined shoes into the side pocket of her bag.
The mud was colder than she expected. Small stones pressed into her soles. Her pale-gray dress brushed the water, darkening at the hem.
Lucas pointed through the trees. “Cross the bridge. Follow the lights. You’ll reach the lower terrace.”
“Thank you.”
“You didn’t get this from me.”
“I didn’t get anything from you.”
He drove away.
The maintenance bridge was a narrow iron structure over a swollen creek. Water rushed beneath it, brown with storm runoff. Mara gripped the railing and crossed slowly.
Halfway over, she thought of turning back.
Not because of the cold or the mud. Because she suddenly understood how the scene would look to anyone inside Bellweather. A barefoot stranger arriving at an engagement gala with an implausible story and expensive jewelry wrapped in old cloth. Her mother had sent her into a humiliation she would never have chosen for herself.
Mara rested her forehead against the wet iron railing.
“You could have told me,” she whispered.
The creek answered with its indifferent roar.
Her phone vibrated once before the battery warning appeared.
Sloane: I am at the gate.
Mara typed with wet fingers.
Crossed maintenance bridge. Going to house.
The message failed.
She put the phone away and kept walking.
The trees ended at a broad lawn descending from the estate. Bellweather rose above it in pale stone, larger than every photograph had suggested. Light filled tall windows. Cars moved beneath a covered entrance on the far side. Through the rain, Mara saw guests crossing galleries and staircases, their silhouettes framed in gold.
She climbed the lawn.
Mud sucked at her bare feet. Twice she slipped. The second time she fell to one knee and caught herself with both hands. Cold earth coated her palms.
When she stood, the hem of her dress was brown nearly to mid-calf.
A uniformed guard appeared on the lower terrace.
“Stop there.”
Mara stopped.
The guard approached, one hand near the radio on his shoulder. He was younger than she expected, no more than thirty, his expression caught between caution and concern.
“Are you hurt?”
“No.”
“How did you get onto the grounds?”
“Edwin Sloane told me to come.”
“Mr. Sloane is at the east gate looking for you.”
“I was at the gate.”
“Stay here.”
“I have been told to stay in three different places.”
He spoke into his radio. This time someone answered, but Mara could not understand the words. The guard looked at her bag.
“Do you have anything dangerous?”
“No.”
“May I see inside?”
Mara held the bag tighter. “No.”
“Then I can’t bring you into the house.”
“I don’t want to go into the house. I want to see Graham Vale.”
The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”
“My mother sent me.”
It sounded exactly as ridiculous as Mara had feared.
The terrace doors opened behind the guard. A woman in black catering clothes stepped outside carrying a tray of empty glasses. She took one look at Mara and went back in.
The guard said, “What’s your mother’s name?”
“Lillian Ellison.”
His radio crackled.
A voice said, “Hold her there.”
Mara recognized Sloane.
The guard relaxed slightly. “He’s coming.”
Rainwater ran down Mara’s forearms. She tried wiping mud from her hands on the underside of her coat but only spread it farther.
Music swelled inside the estate. Through the windows, a toast seemed to be beginning. Guests turned toward the same unseen point.
“Is the engagement gala in there?” Mara asked.
“Yes.”
“Has he made an announcement?”
“I wouldn’t know.”
The guard glanced at her bare feet. “We should get you a blanket.”
“I don’t need a blanket.”
“You’re shivering.”
“I’m angry.”
“That doesn’t prevent hypothermia.”
Despite herself, Mara looked at him.
He removed his rain jacket and held it out.
She shook her head.
“It’s part of the uniform,” he said. “The estate has more.”
She took it.
May you like
The jacket was warm from his body and smelled faintly of coffee. She wrapped it around her shoulders without putting her arms through the sleeves.
The terrace doors opened again. This time Edwin Sloane came through.
