A GIANT SET OF ORNATE gates is the first glimpse I’m offered of the Conrath Estate. Ornately sculpted iron twists and curls and frames the beautiful relief sculpture of a raven in the middle of a crest. The line down the middle where the two gates come together is barely even visible. They’re anchored by two great stone pillars, which connect to the giant iron fence that seems to imprison the whole property.
“Think I just ring the button there?” the driver asks with uncertainty.
“I guess,” I offer, just as tentative as him. I peer through the gate, but all I can see is rolling green property and a well-kept gravel driveway.
The driver presses the button. I expect to hear a voice, demanding to know what we want. But instead, there is simply a buzzing sound and the gates swing open.
There must be hundreds of trees lining the driveway. Sprawling green lawns stretch beyond, rolling into gardens and unknown places. I catch sight of a barn, a guest house, a garage. A house starts to crest into view. The driveway circles into a giant loop with a water feature at the center, framed with well-trimmed, perfectly solid green hedges. There are flowers spilling everywhere, beautiful stonework creating garden edges, sculptures of gargoyles, angels, and dark creatures that hide in the beauty of it all.
But none of that can hold my attention.
Not when there’s that house before me.
Or rather, mansion.
What looks to be the original house is tall and grand. Two stories with a massive porch supported by eight gigantic white pillars. Mantles decorate the space above each window. It’s perfectly white, the paint flawless despite the obvious age of the house.
Extending from either side of the house are two massive wings, one to the north, one to the south. They’re stone, ancient, and perfect looking at the same time.
The place is massive. Like a Southern, antebellum castle.
My heart picks up double time, taking up residence in my throat.
I’ve had a week to anticipate my arrival. But the reality of actually being here is overwhelming.
I climb out from the backseat and the driver pops the trunk to remove my two suitcases, setting them in the gravel. He stands there expectantly, and it takes me a beat too long to realize that I still need to pay him. I dig in my purse and hand him the cash.
“Good luck, miss,” he says in his heavily Southern accent. He tips his hat to me, climbs back in the cab, and starts back down the driveway. The taxi’s tires grind through the gravel as it pulls away.
My driver gets to go back to his normal life, while I am left here with only the unknown. I watch him go and go until the car is out of sight, pulled down the long drive and around the bend. Because once he’s gone, I have to accept that I’m here and I’m not leaving.
I take a quivering breath and turn to face the house.
Mansion.
It sits on, I don’t even know how many, acres of pristine landscape. And there’s the Mississippi river directly behind it. Some kind of insect chirps around me, one I don’t know the name of yet because I don’t know anything at all about Mississippi other than that the river is named after it.
But it is my home now. I guess.
I grab my two suitcases, everything I own that is of worth in them, and finish the walk up the driveway to the doors.
“Good afternoon, Miss Ryan.”
Suddenly, my heart is in my throat and my foot slips on one of the steps. The man who had opened the door takes a step toward me.
“My apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you,” he says, blinking slow and hard. He reaches forward and offers a hand.
“It’s fine,” I stutter, setting one of the suitcases down so I can accept his handshake. “I just forgot that you were going to be here.”
“May I help you with your bags?” he offers.
“Uh, sure,” I say uncomfortably, indicating for him to take the one on the porch. He grabs it and turns back into the house.
He walks in, easy as day and night, like his surroundings are no big deal. But the second I step foot inside, I freeze in awkwardness.
Because standing just inside is a row of people.
“Welcome, Miss Ryan,” a few of them mutter.
But the greeting is cold and uncomfortable.
Because when they say it, not a one of them looks me in the eye.
“Miss Ryan,” the man who greeted me says. “This is the staff. Katina, the house cook,” he says, indicating a plump woman with brilliant red hair. “Angelica and Beth, the housekeepers. Juan, Dave, and Antonio, our grounds men. And Kellog, our handyman.”
I struggle for words. I wasn’t expecting any of them. “Uh, hello.”
Still none of them look at me. The man beside me gives a nod and they disburse without a word.
The breath leaks between my lips slow and heavy now that they aren’t all standing here. And finally my eyes are free to take in the scene before me.
With absolute wonder.
The entryway is grand and spacious. A double staircase splits at the bottom and reconnects at the top of the next floor. A giant, crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling. High windows let in the late afternoon sunlight. Paintings hang from the walls. The marble floor shines with a high luster. Crown molding, gold leafing, and sculpted detail are thrown everywhere around me.
Saying the place is beautiful would be an understatement. This house is grand, ornate, and way too rich for my blood.
And somehow, it’s all mine.
“Miss Ryan?” the man calls from down the hall. I didn’t even realize he’d walked away. “After we drop your bags off, I can show you around, if you’d like.”
“Okay,” I answer breathily. With one last look around, I follow him down the hall that branches off to our right.
More paintings line the dark hallway, illuminated dimly with smaller versions of the chandelier in the entryway. Down four doors we go before the man opens one and we step in.
“This is only a guest bedroom, but until you decide which room you’d like to claim as yours permanently, I thought you’d be comfortable here.”
“Thank you,” I say, setting my suitcase next to its sister on the floor. “I’m sorry, remind me of your name again?”
“Rath,” he says as I meet his eyes. They’re dark, possibly even black, except when the light catches them just right. He’s certainly some kind of African-American, but I’d guess he had a mix of something else in his DNA, too. Native American, maybe? Small lines next to his eyes make me wonder how old he is. Late thirties? Early forties? Neatly trimmed, curly hair hugs his head. He’s strong, fit, and looks ready for anything.
“Rath,” I repeat, recalling the name from the will. Silently, I wonder about this man having the condensed version of my father’s last name as his only claimed name. But it would be rude to ask about that.
“It’s nice to meet you,” he says, when I show my lack of intelligent conversation.
“You, too,” I recover. “I’m sorry. This has all just been such a whirlwind and I’m feeling a little…”
“It’s perfectly all right if you’re feeling overwhelmed,” Rath says as we exit the guest bedroom and walk back out into the hall. “You’re going through a drastic life change. You’ve moved over a thousand miles from your home. Trust me, where you’ve just come from is a completely different world from which you’ve arrived.”
It’s true. Everything here is different. The landscape. The feel of the air. The way people talk. Everything.
“So,” Rath says as we walk back into the grand entry room. “A little bit of history on the house. It was built in 1799, making it the forth oldest home still standing in Silent Bend. The man who built it emigrated from England. He and his brother both bought mass amounts of land and established cotton plantations. The Estate continued as a plantation for 86 years, but was then shut down and landscaped and eventually transformed into what it is today.”
Rath walks back into the grand entryway and stops under the chandelier. “It was brought here from Bohemia,” he says as he looks up at it. Light dances off its surface, casting rainbows and shoots of brilliance in all directions. “The thing is nearly four hundred years old and priceless. Despite all the grandeur you see around you, this is the heart and crown of the Estate.”
“It’s beautiful,” I say as I look up at it. And it is. I realize as I look closer that it doesn’t have any light fixtures inside, it is simply the way the light comes through the windows that makes it appear to be glowing.
“The staircases themselves took the carpenters and welders ten months to construct,” Rath continues. They are indeed ornate and beautiful. The iron twists and curls, much like the gates leading into the property. Flowers, thorns, and tiny ravens are woven throughout the masterpiece. “Here on the main floor there are eight bedrooms, seven bathrooms. Upstairs there are six bedrooms, nine bathrooms, and the master suite. You are, of course, welcome to claim any you choose.”
Last week I had one bedroom I could barely squeeze a queen-sized bed and a dresser into. Now I have more than a dozen of them to choose from.
We walk back through the grand entrance and enter an enormous ballroom. It can’t be anything else. Polished marble floors show me my reflection. Chandeliers hang from the ceiling. Massive drapes hang to the sides of the cathedral-shaped windows. And that view outside? Breathtaking. The gardens. The pool. The river. But what dominates the room is the giant raven crest inlaid in the center of the floor.
“I don’t think this room requires too much explanation,” Rath says with a small smile.
I imagine the gowns that must have twirled here once upon a time, the kisses that must have been shared, the laughter and the music that must have filled this space.
And it all feels alien to me.
“You know, I think most girls dream of what it would be like to be a princess, to never have to worry about money again. To learn they have this grand life that was always awaiting them,” I say as I take it all in, turning slowly as I do. “But the reality of it is…well. I don’t have words for it. I don’t think it’s going to feel real for a very long time.”
Rath gives me a look. Sadness. Respect. Weight. And I think there’s meaning behind it all, but I don’t quite understand it. “Come,” he says finally, turning and exiting the ballroom.
We don’t go far. Off from the ballroom, he shows me a small, informal dining room, and just behind it is a grand, master chef kitchen. It takes my breath away.
“Do you like to cook?” Rath asks as I marvel over it.
“I bake,” I say, tracing my fingers over the beautiful stainless steel ovens. “I don’t cook much else, but I’ve worked at a bakery for the past four years.”
“Well, we do have the house cook,” Rath explains further.
“Katina,” I say, forcing myself to commit the names of the staff to memory.
Rath crosses his hands behind his back and looks regal doing it. “Of course, you don’t have to keep her, but she is the best in Mississippi.”
“I don’t feel right firing anyone,” I say with a small smile and a chuckle. “If they like their job, they can keep it. It’s not my money that’s paying their salaries.”
“But it is your money,” Rath says with a half-smile and a raise of one of his eyebrows.
“I suppose so,” I say uncomfortably, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear.
“Would you like to see your vehicles?” he offers when he sees how uncomfortable I am.
He opens a door that lets into a massive garage.
Sitting inside are four shining, beautiful vehicles. A lightning quick-looking black Ferrari, a black and silver motorcycle, a rugged-looking red Jeep, and a classic baby-blue Porsche.
“I can’t drive any of those,” I say with a strangled sounding laugh. “They all look like they’ll break the second I breathe on them.” Last week I was driving a twenty-year-old beater that smelled like exhaust all the time. On the inside.
“I’m sure you’ll be fine,” Rath says with a smile.
I let out a heavy breath as he shuts the door, and I follow him through the ballroom again out onto the veranda out the back.
“The grounds crew work fulltime. The three of them have been employed here for over five years.”
It looks like a fairytale out here. Hedges trimmed to look like a maze span out from the house to the river. Walkways break off to unknown places. Flowers spill out in colorful explosions. Giant trees dot the property, beautiful moss hanging from their limbs. And a huge pool breaks off from the side of the ballroom, stretching along the bedrooms on the main level.
But straight ahead, just before the river, is a short fence, surrounding two above ground tombs.
I walk down the stone path that leads to it. It takes me a little while to get there, because the lawn is massive. But I stop just outside the tiny graveyard.
Henry Conrath. Elijah Conrath.
There are no dates. But while my father’s tomb is obviously brand new, Elijah’s looks like it could be centuries old.
I learned about these once. In places where the water rises too high and there’s a risk of bodies and coffins floating to the surface, these tombs or mausoleums are used. Often they’re recycled for centuries through the same families. At the back of the tomb is a chamber. Here in the south where it’s hot and humid, it only takes about a year or two to decompose a body. When the next family member dies, they re-open the tomb, shove the bones of grandpa into that chamber at the back, and slide in Aunt Jane.
Dozens of people can be endlessly cycled through one tomb.
But I have the feeling that only Elijah and only Henry have occupied these ones.
“How did he die?” I ask Rath. Because I can sense him behind me. Waiting.
“In an accident.” Rath says it simply and finally. He’ll give me no more details.
I stay there for a few more quiet minutes. Not really feeling anything. Not really thinking anything. Just being.
“Don’t let it overwhelm you,” Rath says quietly from my side. “All you can do is take it all in one day at a time.”
“Right,” I say, nodding my head.
The sky bleeds red and gold as the sun sets behind the Mississippi River. The air is hot and humid and oddly comforting.
Home. That’s what this place is now. Yet it feels so foreign.
“Would you like me to walk you back to your room?” Rath offers.
I just nod.
Soundlessly, we walk back through the grounds and into the ballroom, out into the grand entryway, and start down the hall. But my eyes catch on an open door and a painting on the wall.
I step into what looks to be a grand library. Filled shelves line the walls, all of them. They open in spaces, leaving room for a sculpture or a painting, and it is one of them that catch my eye.
“Your father was a great man,” Rath says. And it’s easy to hear the regret and sadness in his voice.
I know I shouldn’t touch the painting, but still my fingers reach out to touch his face.
The same strong brows and the same narrow, serious lips. Same dark hair. Our eyes are different, our jaws not quite the same, but still. I look like the offspring of this man.
He was my father and I can’t deny that. After all these years, twenty-two of them to be exact, he finally has a face. And it looks like my own.
Without a word, I turn from him and walk out of the library. We turn down the hall, and I open the door to the guest bedroom.
“Thank you,” I say to Rath. He nods, and just as he turns to leave, I call out to him. “What room is yours?”
“I don’t live in the house,” Rath responds with a shake of his head. “The old servants quarters on the property was converted to a workers lodge long ago. I live there with everyone who works at the Estate.”
I nod, my eyes starting to glaze over. “So it’s just me in the house?”
“That’s the way your father preferred it,” Rath says.
I nod, feeling something in my stomach sinking. Rath turns to leave again. “Would you mind staying in the house with me? Just for a little while?” I call. He turns back to look at me. “So I’m not alone?”
He looks at me for a long moment. “If you wish, Miss Ryan,” he says with a bow.
A bow.
“I will be in the Wayne room,” Rath says, indicating the room across and down one from mine. “Should you need anything.”
“Thank you, Rath,” I say. And I mean it.
He bows one more time, turns, and leaves.
I step in the room and close the door behind me.
The furniture throughout the house has been a mix of extreme classic and modern. An ornate four-poster bed is accompanied by glass-faced nightstands. Across the room is a pink and gold leafed dresser with an ancient jewelry box atop it. The old and the new flow seamlessly.
I open the doors that let out onto the veranda, the pool just feet before it. A soft breeze flutters through, rustling the curtains. I settle into a rocking chair.
Two weeks ago, I got a phone call from an attorney here in Mississippi. The woman on the other line started going off about a Henry Conrath and his passing away. She explained his will, which was helpful. I’d gotten the official, large envelope just the day before and hadn’t understood why it had landed in my mailbox.
I was the daughter of a wealthy man from Silent Bend, Mississippi. The daughter of a man I didn’t know the name of. And I had just inherited his Estate, his money, everything.
My mother had lived here in Silent Bend for all of three months after getting her associate degree at some community college in Levan—where she’d grown up, an hour east of here. She’d gotten a job here. One night she went to a party where she met a charming man—and one thing led to another.
It was the end of the summer, and she left for college two days later, heading to veterinary school in Colorado. Only three weeks later, she learned she was pregnant and barely remembered the name of the man. But she never said a word to him, and all my life she simply told me that we were strong women—we could do anything on our own.
She was strong. Right up until she was killed by a distracted teenage driver playing on a cell phone three years ago.
I was nineteen. Able to take care of myself, live on my own, but still miss her every day.
And then there was the phone call.
Apparently, my mother had told the man who made me that I existed, just a few months before she died, but asked him to not make himself a part of my life so late into my existence.
I wasn’t sure if I appreciated that or not.
So, here I am, fulfilling my unknown father’s will. I am his only child. So this plantation house is mine. His millions of dollars are mine. His workers and his cars are mine.
I know nothing about him, though. Only that he made me and was rich. No idea how he’d made his money. Nothing of his personality.
It leaves me feeling kind of empty.
Like this house.
I take another deep breath, reminding myself to take this one day at a time.
I close my eyes and imagine myself back in Colorado. Leaving my tiny apartment, with it’s old, hand-me-down furniture, slightly off smell, heading to work at four in the morning to start the rolls. And the muffins. And the scones. And everything that smelled like comfort.
I’d worked at the bakery for four years. I liked the job. I was good at it. But it could never pay me much, and I could never go anywhere with it.
Well, I’m somewhere now. With more money than I’ll ever know what to do with. My entire life had changed.
And there is this constant feeling on my shoulders that something extraordinary is about to happen.