The Maid Who Was Never Supposed to Open That Jar

Claire didn't sleep.

She didn't even try.

At 2:17 in the morning, she sat on the edge of the narrow bed in the staff quarters with the locket open in her palm and replayed Victoria Hawthorne's words.

You were born in this house.

Not in a hospital.

Not in the small apartment in Richmond where her mother claimed they'd lived after Claire's birth.

Here.

Inside Hawthorne Manor.

Claire had demanded answers immediately.

Victoria refused.

"Not tonight."

"Why?"

"Because some things cannot be explained in a pantry at midnight."

"Then explain them somewhere else."

Victoria had stared at her for several seconds.

"Tomorrow."

Claire laughed bitterly.

"I've waited twenty-seven years without knowing I was waiting. I'm done."

Victoria's mouth hardened.

"You are an employee in this house."

Adrian turned on her.

"Mother."

"What? Am I supposed to pretend boundaries no longer exist because she found something that should have been destroyed decades ago?"

Claire flinched.

Destroyed.

Victoria noticed.

For the first time, regret flickered across her face.

But she did not take the words back.

Claire had walked out.

Now she was alone.

Or thought she was.

A soft knock came at the door.

Claire closed the locket.

"Who is it?"

"Adrian."

She almost ignored him.

Then she opened the door.

He stood in the corridor holding two mugs.

"I brought coffee."

"It's two in the morning."

"Exactly."

Claire stepped aside.

He entered and glanced around the room.

It was tiny compared with the rest of the mansion.

Single bed.

Small dresser.

Desk.

One narrow window.

Claire had never complained.

The pay was good, housing was included, and she had needed both after losing her apartment.

Adrian handed her a mug.

She didn't drink.

"You knew," she said.

He leaned against the desk.

"Some of it."

"How much?"

"Enough to know my father had a relationship with Anna."

"My mother."

"Yes."

"And enough to know I was born here?"

"No."

Claire searched his face.

"You expect me to believe that?"

"I don't care what you believe tonight. I'm telling you the truth."

"You seem very calm for someone whose family has apparently been lying for almost three decades."

His expression tightened.

"You think I'm calm?"

"You're not the one finding out your childhood was fiction."

"No."

He looked toward the window.

"But my childhood wasn't exactly what I thought either."

Claire waited.

Adrian rubbed his thumb along the rim of the mug.

"My father died when I was eighteen."

"I know."

"Heart attack."

"I read about it."

"He and my mother had a complicated marriage. I knew there had been affairs. I didn't know names."

Claire held up the locket.

"Until Anna?"

"I found letters after he died."

"What letters?"

He hesitated.

Claire gave him a tired smile.

"And here we go again."

"They weren't complete. Most were missing pages."

"Convenient."

"I thought so too."

"Where are they?"

"Locked in my study."

"Show me."

"Claire—"

"Show me."

Adrian stared at her.

Then he set down his coffee.

"Get your shoes."

Ten minutes later, they crossed the dark mansion.

Hawthorne Manor felt different at night.

During the day it was beautiful.

At night it felt watchful.

Portraits followed them from paneled walls. Floorboards whispered beneath expensive rugs. Moonlight turned the marble staircase silver.

Adrian unlocked his study.

Claire entered.

Books.

Leather furniture.

A fireplace.

An enormous desk.

He opened a safe hidden behind a painting.

From it, he removed a thin wooden box.

Claire's chest tightened.

Inside were letters tied with a faded blue ribbon.

Adrian placed them on the desk.

The first was dated twenty-nine years earlier.

Claire recognized her mother's handwriting immediately.

She had spent years staring at Anna's grocery lists because they were among the few pieces of her left.

She unfolded the page.

Thomas,

I cannot keep doing this. Every time you say you will tell Victoria, you find another reason not to. I will not raise a child in the shadow of someone else's marriage.

Claire stopped.

Her fingers shook.

A child.

She read on.

If what you told me is true, then we have very little time. I need you to decide who you are before this baby arrives.

Claire looked at Adrian.

"This is about me."

"I think so."

"You think?"

"I don't have every letter."

She read the next one.

She knows.

Only two words.

The rest of the paper had been torn away.

Another letter.

Please don't let her send me away.

Another.

Thomas, I am afraid. Not for myself anymore. For the baby.

Claire stopped.

Her vision blurred.

"What did Victoria do?"

"I don't know."

"Your mother just admitted she knew me."

"Yes."

"And my mother wrote that she was afraid of her."

"I can see that."

Claire slammed the letter down.

"Stop talking like this is a business meeting!"

Adrian's face changed.

"How would you like me to talk?"

"Like this matters!"

"It does."

"Then act like it!"

His voice rose.

"You think I haven't spent years trying to understand why my father left half his estate in a trust no one could access?"

Claire froze.

"What?"

Adrian went silent.

Too late.

"What trust?"

He looked away.

"Adrian."

"There was a provision in his will."

"What provision?"

"For another child."

The room tilted.

Claire gripped the desk.

"Say that again."

"My father created a trust for another child."

"A name?"

"No."

"A birthday?"

"No."

"Then how—"

"He called the beneficiary 'my surviving daughter.'"

Claire stared at him.

"Surviving daughter."

"Yes."

"But he only had you."

"Publicly."

Claire sank into the chair.

Her mind refused to organize the facts.

Thomas Hawthorne.

Anna Bennett.

A secret relationship.

A baby.

A trust.

"How much?"

Adrian didn't answer.

Claire looked up.

"How much money?"

"That's not important."

"It is if my mother spent most of her life working double shifts while your family sat on some trust."

"Claire."

"How much?"

His jaw tightened.

"About sixteen million dollars."

Claire laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Because the number was obscene.

Her mother had once cried over a three-hundred-dollar dental bill.

Claire remembered seeing her count grocery money at the kitchen table.

Remembered Anna pretending she wasn't hungry.

Remembered the winter their heat was shut off for two days.

Sixteen million dollars.

Claire stood.

"Where was it?"

"In litigation."

"For twenty-seven years?"

"There was no beneficiary."

"There was. Me."

"We didn't know that."

"Your mother did."

Adrian said nothing.

Claire backed away.

"She knew."

"I don't know what she knew."

"She looked at my face and knew exactly who I was."

"Yes."

"She said I was born here."

"Yes."

"She knew."

The study door opened.

Victoria stood there.

She wore a dark robe now.

No pearls.

No makeup.

Without the armor of elegance, she looked older.

Smaller.

She looked at the letters.

Then at Adrian.

"I told you never to open that box again."

Adrian stared at her.

"Maybe that was the problem."

Victoria turned to Claire.

"You want answers?"

Claire laughed softly.

"That's an interesting question."

Victoria entered.

"Then sit down."

"I'll stand."

Victoria nodded.

"So did Anna."

Claire's breath caught.

"What?"

"The night you were born."

Victoria looked toward the fireplace as though she could see another winter burning inside it.

"She stood right there."

Claire followed her gaze.

"This room?"

Victoria nodded.

"It belonged to Thomas then."

Adrian went still.

Victoria continued.

"Anna came to this house during a storm. She was eight months pregnant, terrified and furious."

"At you?"

"At everyone."

"Why?"

"Because your father had promised to leave me."

Claire whispered, "Thomas."

Victoria closed her eyes.

"Yes."

The silence was heavy.

"Did you hate her?"

Victoria opened her eyes.

"More than I knew it was possible to hate another human being."

Claire's fingers went cold.

"Did you hurt her?"

"No."

"Did you threaten her?"

Victoria didn't answer.

"Did you?"

"Yes."

Adrian muttered, "Jesus."

Victoria's face tightened.

"I was twenty-nine years old. My husband had another woman. My marriage was collapsing. I had a seven-year-old son sleeping upstairs."

Adrian stared at her.

"You told me Dad was away on business that night."

Victoria looked at him.

"He was."

"Where?"

"Trying to find Anna."

Claire frowned.

"She was here."

"By the time he returned, she wasn't."

Claire stepped closer.

"What happened that night?"

Victoria swallowed.

"We argued. Anna went into labor."

Claire's heart pounded.

"Here."

"Yes."

"Who delivered me?"

"I did."

No one spoke.

Claire stared at Victoria's hands.

Those elegant hands.

Those manicured fingers.

They had touched her first.

"Why wasn't I taken to a hospital?"

"The roads were flooded."

"What happened afterward?"

Victoria's voice lowered.

"Your mother begged me for one thing."

"What?"

"To let her leave before Thomas returned."

Claire frowned.

"Why?"

"Because she had changed her mind."

"About Thomas?"

"About everything."

Victoria's eyes became wet.

"She said she would rather raise you with nothing than raise you inside a war."

Claire couldn't breathe.

"So you helped her disappear."

"Yes."

"You sent her away."

"Yes."

"With no money."

"No."

Claire stopped.

Victoria's voice was almost a whisper.

"I gave Anna money."

"How much?"

"Enough to start over."

"Then why were we poor?"

"I don't know."

Claire stared.

Victoria walked toward a cabinet.

She opened a drawer and removed a yellowed envelope.

Claire recognized her mother's handwriting again.

Victoria handed it to her.

The front read:

For Victoria. Only if Claire ever comes back.

Claire's hands trembled.

"When did she send this?"

"Six months before she died."

Claire looked up.

"You've had this for twelve years?"

Victoria nodded.

"And you never looked for me?"

"I promised her I wouldn't."

Claire tore the envelope open.

One page.

She read.

Victoria,

If Claire ever returns to Hawthorne Manor, then something has gone terribly wrong, because I have spent her entire life making sure she would never know that place existed.

Claire swallowed.

Do not tell her Thomas was her father.

Her eyes stopped.

A chill moved through her.

Then she continued.

Because Thomas Hawthorne was not Claire's father.

Claire stared at the sentence.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

Adrian stepped toward her.

"What does it say?"