Chapter 22: The Real Legacy Day

We held Legacy Day again on the second Sunday of December, in the great hall, with no guests and no phones.

I had asked for the staff only.

They stood in a line along the long table in their ordinary clothes, because I had told them not to wear uniforms.

The night housekeeper wore her good grey coat.

The cook had flour on her cuff, and the two maids stood together and held hands.

The driver kept turning his cap in his fingers.

Two guards stood by the doors, and the butler stood a little apart at the end of the line, in his own dark suit, with his hands behind his back.

Dermot stood at the back of the room.

I had asked him to stay there, and he had understood why.

The collector's courier had come that morning, a quiet young man in a blue coat who would not leave until I signed three times.

Now a flat wooden case sat on the table in front of me, with brass hinges and a lock.

I opened it, and the whole line leaned forward.

On black velvet lay six old pendants and a small brass charm.

They were nothing like the painted ones.

Each stone had been cut by hand, and none of them matched.

The cook leaned in and counted them under her breath.

She lost count twice, because her hands were shaking.

The driver stopped turning his cap, and the maids stopped holding hands.

"These are what you were owed on that lawn," I said.

Nobody spoke.

"Every year since I was born, you've kept this house running. You were here when my mother was buried from it."

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