I shrugged. I had had a similar reaction but kept that under lock and key, of course. “No, but I’m sure Garland will explain it eventually,” I said, as if money was the very last thing that moved me.

She shook her head. “How will you survive? You’re still a child,” she muttered, and entered the bedroom.

Dora Clifford was brushing down a chair and turned. She didn’t look a day older than me. I thought she was very pretty with her rich strawberry-blond hair pinned in a bun and startlingly unusual greenish-blue eyes. Her skin was creamy, with a splash of freckles on the crests of both cheeks. She was a little taller than I was, with a bigger bosom straining the buttons of her uniform, the hem of which was shorter than any maid’s skirt I ever had seen.

“This is my niece,” Mrs. Steiner said. “She, as well as I, will attend to all your needs.”

Dora smiled and curtsied.

I smiled back and then waited in the hallway while Mrs. Steiner explained everything about the room to my mother, including the bathroom, closets, and lights. Of course, my mother followed her out to see what my room would be. As we walked farther down the hallway, I glanced back in the direction of the Swan Room. I wondered if Garland would show it to my parents, not that it mattered. My mother certainly would think it quite odd.

Dora came out of my parents’ bedroom, and after glancing at us, she turned and walked in the opposite direction. It wasn’t until then that I noticed she had a slight limp, as if her left leg was shorter than her right.

“Quaint,” was my mother’s comment about the room I would have. It was half the size of hers and my father’s. The bed was as long and as wide, which made the room seem crowded. The windows were smaller than those in my parents’ room; however, there was an impressive Persian area rug with a floral medallion woven in a brilliant crimson. I thought it was too big for the room as well. Before I could mention it, my mother did.

“This rug would fit better in the room we’re occupying,” she told Mrs. Steiner.

“Everything in this house is designed and organized the way Mr. Foxworth’s mother had decided. Nothing’s been changed, and I doubt it ever will be.”

My mother glanced at me, her face full of silent criticism but also anticipating my insistence that it would be. I didn’t really care about some guest room. There were so many others anyway. Once Garland and I were married, I’d probably never even glance at this room. And I didn’t think it wise to start an argument with Mrs. Steiner at the moment over what power I would or would not have.

“How many bedrooms are there?” my mother asked Mrs. Steiner.