you into her image!’
‘No!’ Lucy shook him off. ‘Good day to you, Mr Cottingham.’
It was preposterous. Outrageous. She would not believe it. She had been a fool to listen to him. Lucy hurried into the house, glad that Adam did not follow her. Margaret and Caroline were already at breakfast with their husbands and they all looked up as she entered.
Margaret paused, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth.
‘My dear, you are looking very pale. Are you unwell?’
Lucy stopped just inside the door.
‘I hardly know.’ She felt a little dazed.
‘Missing Ralph, no doubt.’
Margaret frowned at her sister. ‘Be quiet, Caro. Lucy, you do not look at all well. Let me take you to your room.’
Lucy waved her back into her seat.
‘No, thank you, I can manage. But I will go and lie down.’
‘Good idea,’ agreed Sir Timothy. ‘I think it is too hot for riding. In fact, I am trying to persuade the ladies not to go.’
‘Pho, as if we should listen to you, Timothy! Meg and I will not melt because of a little sunshine...’
Lucy left them to their banter. She would stay quietly in her room for a while until she could organise her chaotic thoughts. Not that she believed a word that Adam Cottingham had said, but meeting with him had not helped her at all. It was her own fault, of course. She had encouraged him to be open with her and now she could hardly blame him for voicing his opinions. She entered her bedchamber and was surprised to see the dressing room door was open. Someone was moving around inside. Ruthie should have gone downstairs to her own breakfast by now. Lucy crossed the room, intent upon sending the maid away.
‘Oh.’ She stopped, frowning, when she found herself confronting not her maid, but a complete stranger.
Before her stood a thin, grey-haired woman, soberly dressed as befitted an upper servant. Lucy’s brow cleared.
‘Miss Crimplesham, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ The woman dipped a reluctant curtsey but made no attempt to leave. Her face was blotched, as if she had been crying.
Lucy said gently, ‘I have no doubt you are very familiar with these rooms, but you are Miss Preston’s dresser now, and she is in the guest wing.’
‘It’s all the same.’
Lucy frowned. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Nothing’s changed.’ Miss Crimplesham turned back to the gowns hanging on the pegs along one wall. She began to pull out the skirts, one after the other. ‘All these dresses, all identical to those worn by my lady. The quality is not the same, of course—my lady always had her gowns made by the best modistes in Harrogate and London. And they are bigger, too. Slender as a reed was Miss Helene. You’ve the look of her, but you’re not as beautiful as my mistress. Lord Adversane always said she was the most beautiful woman he had ever known. She could have been so happy, if it hadn’t been for that man.’
Lucy drew herself up.
‘That is quite enough, Crimplesham. I think you should go now.’
She injected as much quiet firmness into her voice as she could, and was relieved when the dresser swept past her and out of the room. Alone at last, Lucy sank down upon her dressing stool. She was trembling and she wrapped her arms about herself. What did it all mean? Was there some sort of plot to turn her against Ralph?
She shook her head, putting her hands to her temples. No, she did not believe Miss Crimplesham was party to any conspiracy. The poor woman was merely disturbed by grief, but coming so soon after her encounter with Adam Cottingham, Lucy found herself wondering if she was wise to trust Ralph.
Perhaps he, too, was so grief-stricken that he wanted to recreate his lost love. That would explain why he had chosen her, why he insisted she wear gowns identical to those worn by his wife. Lucy did not want to believe it, but what other reason could there be?
‘There must be another reason,’ she told herself. ‘There has to be.’
But no matter how much she thought about it, no other explanation presented itself.
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