Total pages in book: 93
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89645 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Then she continued, “Not to mention the fact that she just up and left us high and dry. No two-week notice, nothing. We’re still short-staffed because of her, and if you ask me, her quick departure solidifies her guilt in my book.”
I thanked her for her time and hung up, staring at my phone, sick to my stomach.
As if that wasn’t bad enough, my investigator dug into Maren’s past and found that she has a criminal record for possession of a controlled substance. Her felony sentence means it was a Schedule I or II drug, something like ecstasy, cocaine, or oxycodone.
Worse, I can’t be certain that’s all she’s done. If she’s smart, she had her juvenile record expunged when she turned eighteen, but other charges or not, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need there to be more damning evidence against her—it’s clear that she shouldn’t be at Rosethorn. My grandmother has always had a weakness for wounded birds, and maybe I’d be willing to give her a chance too if not for the recent theft suspicions and the fact that we’re still dealing with the ramifications of Michael Lewis. He was able to steal from my grandmother without her even noticing, and my grandmother barely tolerated him. From what I’ve heard, my grandmother really likes Maren, and that’s why I’m even more concerned. This won’t end well for her.
I talked to my grandmother this week about Maren. Again. I told her all about the theft accusations and her criminal record over the phone, and I demanded that she act accordingly in firing Maren. I thought she had, but apparently I was wrong.
I guess that responsibility falls at my feet.
9
Maren
I know I should be slightly offended by Cornelia’s motive for inviting me to tonight’s ball. I know, despite the fact that I’m beginning to establish a role for myself at Rosethorn, I’m still first and foremost a charity case to her. I just can’t seem to let that stop me from feeling like a princess as I stand in front of a full-length mirror, twisting this way and that so I can see the overall effect of my gown.
Vivien knows what she’s doing.
When I tried this dress on a week ago, it seemed all wrong, too long and too tight in the chest yet gaping at the waist. Now, it’s a glove, wrapped around me so well I might never take it off.
The lace is even prettier than I remember, and the corset bodice shows off my figure in a way that makes me want to blush. The heart-shaped neckline dips down almost too low, revealing more than a hint of cleavage, but Rita assured me while she was zipping me into it that it’s expected. I’ll have to take her word for it because I have nothing else to wear.
The dress is off the shoulder and styled so that straps of ruched fabric drape loosely around each of my upper arms. They don’t actually hold the dress up at all, but they give it a romantic effect.
My hair is parted to the side and hanging down in soft waves. My makeup is heavier around the eyes and darker on my lips, accentuating every feature I have to offer. I smile at myself as I hear footsteps approaching out in the hall. Sure, I might be a charity case, but for tonight at least, I don’t look like one.
Cornelia has spared no expense for the ball. As I walk down the central staircase with my arm looped through hers, I look down at the party in amazement. The entry foyer is already overflowing with guests. As requested, all the women are wearing white, but I’m surprised to find so many varying shades, ranging all the way from blinding snow to dark creams. The men are in black tie, all of them masked.
Cornelia looks beautiful tonight in a satin dress beneath a coordinating floor-length satin jacket. The shades of white are off by a hair—the jacket darker than the dress—so that each contrasts perfectly against the other. Around her neck, she’s wearing an ornate diamond necklace with a large round pendant at its center. It matches the smaller-scale version around my neck, on loan for the night.
Cornelia lays her hand over mine and leads me forward into the crush of people. Immediately, guests vie for her attention so they can thank her for their invitations. She introduces me to them all as Maren Mitchell, her ward, and people immediately take interest.
“Wonderful!” one man says with an exuberant handshake. “Are you from the New York Mitchells? Or the Washington arm of the family?”
“Oh, um, neither,” I reply, smiling.
“Maren, come along,” Cornelia says, pulling me along after her. “George, it was good to see you!”
No one gets more than a few moments with her, which means no one gets more than a few moments with me either. They try their best to use their time wisely, though, asking me a slew of personal questions: my age, alma mater, genetic makeup (I wish I were kidding). “It’s just that you have such wonderful cheekbones,” one woman says, actually touching my face.