Hall of Deception: A Post-WWII Romantic Suspense

CHAPTER ONE
1953 Massachusetts
I gazed at the massive iron gates towering over my head when sudden panic flooded through me. Did I make a terrible mistake coming here? Turning back to the bus, it pulled away, leaving me in a cloud of exhaust. Resigned, I retrieved the offer letter from my bag and ran my gloved fingers over the embossed letterhead reflecting the same gold gilt crest on the gate. It read: . . . offer you the position of tutor . . . arrival at the gated entrance . . . use the call box. There was a phone box next to the smaller gate. I picked up the receiver and pushed the red button.

A woman’s voice answered. “Rothmorton Hall.”
“Uh, yes, this is Deirdre, I mean, Dee Danes. I’m expected.”
“Wait there. Someone will drive up to get you.” The line went dead.
This was it. I could only go forward. I smoothed down my rumpled gray traveling suit, placed the letter in my bag, and pulled out a small mirror. Much to my dismay, several cracks caused pieces to fall out. “That’s all I need, seven years of bad luck.” Through the slivers, I glimpsed my shoulder-length dark blond hair, frizzy from the coastal humidity. Combing would make it worse. I gave up. When putting the mirror away, my hand touched my most prized possession, a worn copy of Jane Eyre by Charlotte Bronte, my favorite book. I fondled the cover and held it to my
breast, remembering why I was there.

It was coming true. Ever since I first read it when I was nine, Jane’s life spoke to me. She was an ill-treated orphan cast out by family and lived in a
horrible orphan’s home. I too was an orphan and ill-treated. An elderly cousin took me in until she died when I was fifteen and her daughter,
Orpha, did the same. She was civil and not very loving. Another reason I clung to Jane, for she didn’t feel loved, and neither did I.

Orpha’s spiteful words came back to me. “What a coincidence. Just like your beloved Jane Eyre, running off to a grand estate to tutor a little girl,
hoping to find true love. You are obsessed, Dee Dee.”
“Not a coincidence, it’s fate,” I had said with defiance.

When I heard a puttering sound, I peered between the iron bars into the shadows from the tall dense trees and thick bushes. A motorized golf
cart with a hard top and open sides appeared, making me step back. The driver was handsome, probably a little older than my twenty-two years,
dressed in work pants and a white short-sleeved tee shirt with a pack of cigarettes stuck in one sleeve. He parked and got out, limping to the small gate, and opened it.

“Hello.” I adjusted my hat.
“Miss Danes? I’m Ben, the chauffeur. Let me take your bag.” His face broke into a friendly grin, lifting the bag it as though it weighed nothing
and placed it in the backend. His friendliness helped me relax, and I returned a smile, sliding into the passenger side and held onto the rail in front. When he got in, he needed to lift his left leg.
“War injury two days before they dropped the bomb.” He turned the cart around and drove down the drive.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
“It’s okay. Thanks to Mr. Roth, I have this job.”
“Did you serve together?”
“Yep, the Navy. The house isn’t far. Long trip?” Ben gave me a sidelong glance.
“I must look awful.”
“You look great. Don’t worry about it. You have those eyes, ya know, Bette Davis eyes. They aren’t blue, though. Green?”
I nodded.
“Yeah man, cool.” He grinned.