A Most Novel Revenge by Ashley Weaver

breakfast,” I said, taking a seat at the table.
    â€œI developed the habit of rising early in Kenya,” she replied. “I loved the sunrise. It was unlike anything on earth, I think, that bright orange globe setting everything it touched ablaze.”
    There was a faraway expression in her eyes as she spoke and a note of tenderness in her voice. It was almost like the expression of a woman in love. Clearly, her adopted homeland had won her heart. I wondered once again what had really brought her back to England.
    â€œYou’re wondering why I came back, I suppose,” she said, with somewhat uncanny accuracy.
    I smiled. “Perhaps it’s true that no place compares to home.”
    She laughed, though there was more bitterness than humor in it. “Not at all, Mrs. Ames. England has no great appeal for me, not anymore. Especially in winter. I hate it.”
    It was, at least, one thing that she and Desmond Roberts had in common.
    â€œThen what brought you back? Surely you needn’t have come to Lyonsgate to write your novel.” I was almost surprised to hear myself ask the question, but Miss Van Allen was a plainspoken woman, and I didn’t suppose there was any reason that I shouldn’t be the same.
    She looked as though she was about to say something, but then seemed to think better of it. Instead, she smiled. “I would much rather have stayed away, but one can’t always follow one’s heart, can one? Of course,” she went on, artfully shifting the subject, “you seem to have been lucky in that respect, Mrs. Ames. Milo seems very devoted to you.”
    Since she had been out of the country for years, I didn’t think this was meant as a spiteful reference to Milo’s less-than-sterling reputation and our well-publicized marital troubles.
    â€œWe’re very happy,” I said, and I meant it. These past few months had been some of the happiest of our marriage, and, for the first time in years, I felt that I had found my footing where Milo was concerned.
    â€œYes, I can see that you are. I’ve always thought it would take an extraordinary woman indeed to secure Milo Ames. I compliment you for having succeeded.”
    It was an odd sort of accolade, but seemed to be a sincere one. I smiled. “Thank you.”
    She took a sip of her coffee. “There was a time when I had hoped to find such happiness, but life often takes us in unexpected directions.” Her tone was not bitter, nor did it ask for pity. In fact, I was certain she would have despised the idea that she might elicit compassion.
    This conversation was not going the way I had expected. Everything I had seen of her thus far had prepared me to dislike Isobel Van Allen completely. Now I felt the tug of some other emotion. It wasn’t sympathy, exactly; she was not a woman who would require it. Yet I felt that she had revealed something of herself to me that was normally kept hidden beneath the flawless exterior. “It’s never too late for happiness, surely,” I said lightly.
    She looked at me, her gaze curiously intense. “Do you think it’s necessary for people to pay for their sins, Mrs. Ames?” she asked.
    I hesitated. “I believe redemption is possible,” I said at last.
    Something flickered across her face. I might have mistaken it for contempt had I not been sure that there was a deep sadness in her eyes.
    â€œI wish I could believe that,” she said, rising from her seat. “Sadly, I think sometimes it is too late, and all one can do is prepare to make the payment. Good day, Mrs. Ames.”
    She walked from the room before I could formulate a reply, and I was left wondering just who it was that Isobel Van Allen thought had a debt to pay.
    *   *   *
    DULY NOURISHED, I decided to pay a visit to Laurel’s room before rousting my husband from bed.
    I found my cousin wrapped in a robe of marigold-colored silk and