As Death Draws Near by Anna Lee Huber Page B

realized they were genuine. They made the boorish and selfish marquesssomehow more likable, though I was sure he would have hated to hear me say so. “That’s why you sounded like you were choking. On the boat. You weren’t holding back laughter but shock and distress.”
    Marsdale didn’t reply. He didn’t need to. I already knew it was true.
    â€œYou could have told us then that she was your cousin,” Gage pointed out.
    â€œI could have. But I didn’t. And then it seemed it would be better if I kept it to myself, so I didn’t have to explain why I kept quiet. As you’re making me do now.”
    Gage was not swayed by this display of frustration. “You’re only telling us now so that we’ll let you join us in our interview with the mother superior, but I still don’t think that would be a good idea.”
    His dark eyes flashed. “Dash it, Gage! She’s my cousin. I have every right to hear how she died and why.”
    â€œPerhaps. But that’s not what I meant.” The lines around Gage’s mouth had grown tight, and I shifted uncomfortably, knowing of what he spoke. Bree’s hands clenched in her lap.
    Marsdale seemed intent on arguing, but then comprehension dawned in his eyes. He swallowed before speaking in a flat voice. “I could remain in the parlor.”
    Gage shook his head as he replied, not ungently. “Today’s visit is going to be unpleasant for a number of reasons. You do not want to join us. I assure you. Your cousin would not want it.”
    Marsdale’s shoulders slumped and he nodded, turning his eyes blindly toward the window.
    We all fell silent, brooding on what was to come. It was as if a shadow had fallen over our carriage even though the sun still shone bright on the stone and gravel outside.
    We waited what seemed like a quarter of an hour for a nun to walk down the long front drive to open the gate. I saw her standing to the side in her black habit, watching as we passed. The grass on either side of the lane was trimmed and evenlyspaced with short evergreens no more than a dozen years old, except for one which stood tall in the distance, casting its shade over a small building with a cross above its door.
    The abbey itself was nothing like what I’d expected. Rather than the cold, stolid stone and the soaring heights to be found in the ruins of abbeys like Dryburgh and Kelso, which stood near my childhood home in the Borders region of Scotland and England, here sat a quaint Georgian manor house. Built of warm red brick seven bays wide, it better resembled the home of a prosperous country squire than that of a religious institution. This was clearly not a medieval structure, but a far more modern establishment, and as such, the melodramatic Gothic scenarios which had played in my head since I heard of the nun’s death fled.
    At the center of the building, a double stair built with the same stone as the gateposts swept up to form a small terrace with a white balustrade before the main door. This door was fashioned of a warm oak, and topped by a classically inspired pediment. Below the terrace, at ground level, stood another door painted gray to blend in with its surroundings, which likely led into the kitchens and old servants’ quarters. It was this door that opened first and then swiftly shut again before another sister emerged onto the terrace above. Her hands were tucked inside the black linen serge sleeves of her habit.
    As Gage climbed out of our conveyance, I turned to Bree. “Will you join us?”
    She seemed to falter for a fraction of a second before answering, though it was clear from the look in her eyes when she did that she knew what I was really asking. “Aye, m’lady.”
    I studied her a moment longer, wondering at that hesitation. Perhaps she was unsettled by our earlier conversation with Marsdale, but that was unlike Bree. She had iron nerves, forged from her