Clara attempted to read the signature on the note without touching the dainty paper. “Who wrote that?”
“That’s the exciting part. It appears to be from a Mr. Heathcliff Camden, a friend of George Vanderbilt, and a man whose only visit to Biltmore took place in 1915.”
Camden? Clara had heard that name before too. Had it been on one of the letters she’d found in the attic? “And that’s exciting?”
“It is if Mr. Camden’s son’s name is Oliver.” Her pale eyes twinkled as she pointed to a part of the letter. “As referenced here to show he’d accompanied his father and little sister on the trip to Biltmore.”
The same name as the letter. “And was there a direct link to Sadie?”
Mrs. Carter’s smile took a broader bend. “Indeed there was.” The woman’s gloved finger slid across the page as she read. “I have no words of gratitude large enough to thank your servant, Sadie, for saving my daughter’s life. What reward I attempted to bestow upon her was graciously refused, so I am including a small sum for her, as a gift, and entrust she will receive it more readily from her mistress than from me.”
“Granny Sadie saved his daughter’s life?” Clara reread the sentence. “How?”
“It doesn’t say, but having Sadie specifically noted in a letter is indeed unique. There have been hundreds of servants in this house, and most are only in the archives as a name listed in a row of other servants. This gives us a bit more.”
“A lot more.” Clara shook her head. “I’d always heard what a good woman Granny Sadie was, but I’d only thought of her as the frail and kind ninety-something-year-old I saw in photos.” She gestured toward the letter. “I’ve never really imagined her as anything else.”
“Perhaps I can help you even more on that score.” Mrs. Carter stood and led Clara from the room, through a series of corridors, narrow ones for servants, and finally up several flights of stairs to where the ceiling lowered and the decor became less elaborate and more practical.
Biltmore’s fourth floor? The place where all the single female servants lived?
The implications began to fall into place as Mrs. Carter and Clara skirted down a long hallway with uniform doors on either side, a few open and on display to tourists. Mrs. Carter stopped in front of one of the closed doors and drew a set of keys from her pocket. Without a word, she unlocked the door and stepped inside. It was a small room, similar to the other servants’ rooms, with a simple iron bed on one wall and a washstand, mirror, and modest oak wardrobe along the other. A small window offered a view of the French Broad River as it snaked in the direction of the distant blue-tinted mountains already alight with sunset’s gilt glow.
“This was Sadie’s room.”
The simple declaration resonated through Clara with a strange sense of awareness—as if she’d stepped to a veil between time and if she reached out her hand she might touch some unseen ancestor. Clara moved a few steps to the bed and smoothed her palm over the cool curve of the iron footboard. Sadie had lived here. This had been her own space for the few hours each evening she had to herself.
“This is one of the handful of servants’ rooms we haven’t placed on the tour or turned into a storage space.” She stepped toward the wardrobe and tugged it open. Inside hung two maids’ uniforms with their black base and white aprons, pressed and pristine as if they’d been worn the day before.
“I plan to keep looking for more information. These sorts of stories are wonderful additions to our tours. Visitors love to hear the true accounts, and this one is even more fascinating because it may end with a clandestine romance between a guest and a servant.”
Clara’s fingers smoothed over the sleeve of the dress, another strong sense of awareness—of connection—squeezing in her chest. Had Sadie worn this? “We can’t be sure there was a romance between them. Maybe it was just the idea of one.” She’d watched Downton Abbey. Upstairs guests could use their influence to sway servants. Had that happened with Oliver?
“But I believe there’s enough there to speculate.” Mrs. Carter started for the door and then sent a grin over her shoulder. “And I am counting on you to share what you learn. I shall do the same.”
Clara felt a sudden loss as the door closed behind them, separating her from her great-grandmother’s room. Did some mystery hold the truth behind the bookshop and Sadie’s past? A clue, somewhere, to the deed for the bookshop? “That letter from Mr. Camden?”
Mrs. Carter turned at Clara’s words. “Yes?”
“Did it have an address listed?”
Mrs. Carter’s expression lit with a grin. “Of course it did.”
For some reason, Clara couldn’t shake the idea that Oliver Camden had more to do with the bookshop than a name, and maybe, by learning more about him, she’d find out more about how the bookshop started.
Clara gave her mother the name and address of Oliver Camden’s family and sent her doing what she loved to do best—Google—and then got back to work at the bookshop. Robbie had things well in hand, as usual, and while they reorganized the suspense/thriller section, she told him of her findings at Biltmore.
“So, this Oliver Camden was an Englishman who came as a guest to Biltmore?”
“It appears so.”
He paused, looking down at a copy of Stephen King’s newest. Just the cover made Clara cringe. She loved books, but not that kind.
“Do you think Granny Sadie was trying to move up the social ladder by wooing this guy?”
“Wooing this guy?”
“Hey.” His palm came up in defense. “Poor servant. Rich Englishman. Sounds like a great novel.”
“Exactly.” Clara waved a Colleen Coble book at him. “A story. Stuff like that doesn’t happen in real life
