Chapter 7
The household staff knew.
Not everything.
Enough.
I gathered them in the breakfast room after Sienna went upstairs with Maren.
One chef spoke first.
“Mrs. Vassallo was only supposed to help occasionally.”
“According to who?”
“Mrs. Agatha.”
Another employee interrupted.
“Then it became every dinner.”
I looked at him.
“Why didn’t anyone stop it?”
His eyes dropped.
“She said Mr. Ronan approved.”
Of course.
My mother had used my name as a weapon.
Again.
“What exactly did she say?”
A maid swallowed.
“That your wife needed to remember what life was before she married you.”
My jaw tightened.
Maren had worked at a bookstore through college.
Agatha talked about it as though poverty were contamination.
Another employee said:
“She also changed Mrs. Vassallo’s meal instructions.”
“What instructions?”
Silence.
I stared.
The chef answered.
“Smaller portions.”
My stomach turned.
“Why?”
“We were told the doctor ordered it.”
Maren’s physician had ordered the opposite.
Pregnancy had made her nauseated. Small meals, yes.
Frequent meals.
Agatha kept the small part and removed the frequent.
A perfect lie.
Close enough to something medical to sound believable.
I looked around the room.
“Did nobody verify?”
No answer.
Past authority again.
Age.
Family title.
Confidence.
People mistook those for truth.
Then the maid whispered:
“There’s another thing.”
“What?”
“Mrs. Agatha removed a chair from the family dining table.”
I frowned.
“Whose?”
May you like
She looked at me.
“Maren’s.”
