“It seemed pointless.”
“I assume you received notice from his solicitor about tomorrow’s meeting?”
She nodded. The letter had insisted she return to London as soon as possible, as per Uncle Richard’s instructions. It was followed by a telegram confirming her attendance at tomorrow’s meeting. “Do you know what it’s regarding?”
“Uncle Richard’s final wishes.” He shrugged. “Beyond that, I have no idea.”
“Then we shall both be surprised,” she said under her breath.
While it did strike her as an ordinary conversation, tension fairly bounced off the walls of the carriage. Idle chatter seemed absurd. There was so much of importance to say, issues that needed to be resolved. And yet here and now, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. What did one say to a husband one hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years? Silence was far wiser at the moment. But it was past time. One of them had to be honest enough to do what needed to be done. It was more than likely to be her. Goodness, hadn’t she been working up her courage for years? Still, it might be better to hear what the solicitor had to say. Another day or two would make no real difference.
James helped her from the carriage and escorted her into the grand house near Grosvenor Square. Andrews greeted them, handed her wrap to a footman and promptly vanished, no doubt within calling distance should he be needed. The butler was the very soul of discretion. Regardless, Violet suspected he and any number of other servants were observing them from some unseen location.
“I usually have a glass of brandy in the library before bed,” James said in an offhand manner. “Would you care to join me?”
“I’m afraid I’ve had a very long day. I would prefer to retire for the night.” She smiled politely and turned toward the stairs. Coward, a voice whispered in the back of her head. A civilized brandy in the comfort of Uncle Richard’s library would be the perfect opportunity for calm, rational discussion. Regardless, she simply wasn’t ready. She’d assumed she wouldn’t see him until they met in the solicitor’s office. She never imagined she’d see him, dance with him, tonight.
“I had hoped we could talk.”
She turned back to him. “Now?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”
“It just seems like an opportune time. That’s all.” He paused. “We’ve never really talked.”
“No, we haven’t.” And whose fault is that? She bit back the words and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s been almost six years, James. Surely whatever you have to say can wait another day.”
He gazed at her for a long moment then nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “That was very nice of you. Encouraging Westmont to dance with those girls.”
“I am very nice.” Her gaze met his. “And I know how they feel.”
“Yes, I suppose you do.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. “Good night, Violet.”
“Good night, James.” She nodded and started up the grand staircase, refusing to look back at him. She knew he watched her, felt his gaze on her as if his eyes were burning into her back.
Her room was at the farthest end of the hall from his. Aside from a single night, she and James had never before slept under the same roof. That thought alone was enough to keep her from getting so much as a wink of sleep. Add to that, Uncle Richard’s mysterious final wishes and her own desire to at last resolve things between them and move on with their lives and anything approximating true rest was impossible.
Beyond all else, she couldn’t get James’s comment out of her head. Was he truly ready to face his past mistakes? Did those mistakes include her?
And how on earth did he intend to atone for that?
“AND SHE’S BACK,” Ophelia Higginbotham said under her breath and resisted the urge to slide under the covers and pull them up over her head.
“How are you feeling, Effie?” Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore sailed into the room like a ray of unrelenting sunshine. She glanced at Lady Guinevere Blodgett, sitting nearby in Effie’s bedroom and currently perusing the obituary section of the Times as she had done every day in recent years. “How is she?”
Gwen didn’t look up from the page. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been asked the question every time Poppy entered the room. “Much better I think.”
“I am.” Effie nodded in her healthiest manner. “Oh, I am indeed. I feel much, much better. Why, I daresay I’ll be out of bed in no time.”
“I doubt that.” Poppy’s brow furrowed and she eyed the other woman closely. “I think you look extremely pale. Doesn’t she, Gwen?”
“Oh my, yes,” Gwen murmured.
“There, you see? Gwen agrees with me,” Poppy said firmly. “They’ll be no more discussion about it. Although you may read today’s post if you feel up to it.” She set a small stack of correspondence on the tray on Effie’s lap.
“And I do.” Effie voice rang with eagerness. Even invoices would be a respite from the endless boredom of being waited on hand and foot. Still, it couldn’t be helped.
“We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.” Poppy shook her head in a chastising manner. “This is your third relapse of whatever illness has been plaguing you.” She paused. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Wrenfield—”
“No,” Gwen and Effie said at the same time.
“You know how Effie hates to be a bother,” Gwen said quickly. “Besides, the doctor has been here once already and was unable to identify the true nature of her illness.”
“Yes, but I wasn’t here when he called,” Poppy said. “Perhaps if I were to give him my observations, it might help him in determining what the problem is.”
“I really can’t afford another visit,” Effie added.
It was the one thing Poppy couldn’t argue with.
Finances were more and more distressing for the three widows. Their husbands had all died within the past few years—Gwen’s Sir Charles and Poppy’s Malcomb three years ago, followed the next year by Effie’s dear William. The men, who had all lived lives of adventure and exploration and excitement, had been felled by the most ordinary of circumstances—Sir Charles had succumbed to a recurrent bout of malaria, Malcomb passed on in his chair in front of the fire so peacefully it took Poppy several hours to realize he had indeed left this life and Effie’s dear William, having had a long and illustrious career in Her Majesty’s army without scarcely a scrape, fell from a ladder he shouldn’t have been on in the first place. It was scant comfort to Effie that she’d told him not to climb the blasted ladder.
While they were excellent husbands—even if they were scarcely ever present, which, depending upon one’s point of view, might have contributed to their long and happy marriages—they’d
