original drawing that the glaziers worked from!’ she explained as she turned it round in her hands and checked the corners and edges. ‘Yes! Look, there’s his signature—Samuel Crowbridge!’
Marcus squinted at the drawing, but he hardly had time to focus on it before she danced away with it, spinning round and then running to the window to hold it up and compare.
‘That’s two pieces of evidence in one day!’ she yelled over her shoulder. It was more than she could ever have hoped for.
But then she stopped smiling, stopped talking, and her eyes grew wide again. She ducked down and spread the cartoon on the floor, smoothing it out gently. She was staring at the drawing, but her brain was refusing to compute. It kept telling her eyes the information they were sending it was wrong. Return to sender.
Marcus walked over and stood behind her to take a look.
And so he should. Right at the bottom, roughly where the rectangle they’d been discussing earlier was, were some words. She looked up at him.
‘This isn’t in the window now. Somebody changed it.’ She lowered her voice to barely a whisper. ‘Somebody took it out.’
Marcus wasn’t moving. His eyes were blinking and his mouth was slightly open. ‘“Proverbs Four, Verse Eighteen,”’ he finally read, his voice hoarse. ‘Why would someone want to take that out?’
Faith swallowed. ‘Because to someone it meant something.’
But that would make it…That would make it …
‘Bertie was right after all,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘Once upon a time there was a message in this window.’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘PROVERBS, Chapter Four, Verse eighteen …’ Faith couldn’t help muttering it to herself over and over as she got dressed. A message in the window? Maybe. But a very cryptic one.
She left an earring hanging in her ear without its back so she could go and pull the piece of paper she’d scribbled the verse on out of her purse.
‘“But the path of the just is as a shining light, that shineth more and more unto the perfect day”,’ she read out loud.
Beautiful poetry, nice sentiment, but was this the kind of message a husband would send his wife? It seemed Bertie’s message in the window asked more questions than it answered.
She put the piece of paper on the nightstand and went back to getting ready. In a moment of weakness, of sheer jubilation, after finding two bits of proof that were going to put her name on the academic map, she’d relented and agreed to go to the Christmas Ball. Bertie had rubbed his hands together when he’d heard the news, and had insisted escorting her personally to a bedroom with a wardrobe stuffed with evening gowns. Another sign that hoarding went hand in hand with the Huntington genes, she guessed.
She’d chosen a red velvet dress from the early sixties, with a scooped neck and tight bodice that skimmed her hips and then flared into a full fishtail at the bottom. It was gorgeous. Maybe a little snug, but gorgeous. Bertie had also insisted she borrow a necklace that he’d retrieved from a walnut jewellery box on the dressing table. She touched the simple V of glittering stones with her fingertips. My, she hoped they were paste.
Before she lost the matching earrings, she returned to the dresser and pushed the missing back on. The only thing to do before taking her first good look at herself in the mirror was to put on the pair of long red gloves that had been stored with the dress. She put them on slowly, avoiding the moment she had to meet her own eyes in the full-length glass.
When she had the courage to look it was as bad as she’d feared.
Not only did she look stunning, and the dress fitted like a second skin, but she had that kind of glow in her eyes a woman only got when she was halfway to falling in love.
Disaster.
She’d hoped that when she saw herself in the mirror everything would look wrong—that she’d look as if she was playing dress-up. It would be so much easier to remember that she didn’t belong, that she shouldn’t want to. Instead she looked like a princess. It was disgusting.
You can’t want him, she told herself. He’s not for you. If you didn’t fit in in plain old Beckett’s Run, how on earth do you think you’re going to fit in here?
But she’d promised Bertie she would attend the ball, even dance with him, so she couldn’t back out.
She took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Stop sparkling, she told her eyes. You have no business to be doing that. And then she took in a deep breath, held it for a few seconds and headed for the door.
The ball was already well underway when Faith made her way down the main staircase. She deliberately left it until late, hoping minimum exposure to all the glitz and glamour might help her stay strong.
She couldn’t have been more wrong.
She should have come down earlier. Because she needed this. Needed the slap in the face it gave her when she walked down the stairs.
Even though she’d only been here a week or two, somehow she’d got comfortable with Hadsborough—with its little yellow drawing room and her quirky turret bedroom. Here, from her spot on the first landing, before the marble steps disappeared into a throng of people, she was once again confronted with the reality of this place.
It wasn’t an ordinary home. It was a castle. And it had never looked more like one than it did tonight. Candles were everywhere, their flickering light taking the evening back into a bygone age. Glasses clinked, champagne fizzed, while guests in tuxedos and ballgowns milled and danced. The Beckett’s Run definition of a ‘relaxed’ dress code was obviously very different from the Hadsborough one. Every single guest was dressed up to the nines and loving it.
Faith might as well have come down the staircase and stepped on the surface of Mars. It would have been just as familiar. She was used to home cooking and takeout, town festivals and barn dances. Parties where people drank to forget their daily life, not because they were partaking in some kind of fantasy.
And in the middle of it all was Marcus, looking elegant in bow tie and crisp white shirt, his dark suit screaming Savile Row tailoring. Her knees literally started to wobble. He looked so handsome, with his dark hair flopping slightly over his forehead, a small frown creasing his brow as he listened intently to an older woman in a tiara.
A tiara. This was the kind of shebang where people wore tiaras. Real ones.
Her fingers traced the necklace and she wished fervently there was a safe she could put it in somewhere. The last time Faith had worn a tiara she’d been seven years old, and it had been made of silver-coated plastic, with garish pink gems stuck on the front.
She shouldn’t have agreed to come. She’d known this was a bad idea.
But there was Bertie at the bottom of the stairs, smiling up at her and holding out his arm. She swallowed her nerves and started to walk down the stairs.
Fake it, she reminded herself. You know you look the part, even if it’s just window dressing. It’s like yawning or laughing. You start
