pregnancy have anything to do with her tragic death? Anne could not rest easy and let other minds attempt to untangle it. If she was to find out anything, though, she would need to get each family member alone. That would take time and subtlety, difficult for an impatient and direct woman like herself.
It took Anne only an hour after the unpleasantness at breakfast to master the layout of Ivy Lodge. Curiosity demanded that she uncover the secrets of a place: its layout, how the family lived, where the private apartments were. Though her ankle was still aching from turning it the previous evening, she ignored the throbbing.
Ivy Lodge was modest in size, a three-floor, red-brick residence built in the early years of the previous century, she knew. The entry was the centerpiece of a marble faux-pillared front, carved deeply with ornamental scrollwork and lozenges. All three floors were glazed with innumerable mullioned windows, and the whole was topped by a roofline made interesting by openwork parapets.
She would have known nothing about the exterior yet, having arrived so late the night before, but there was a detailed painting of Ivy Lodge hanging in the upstairs gallery hallway, above the entrance, along with a portrait of several Earls of Staunby and the first marquess. There was also an enormous painting of the dowager marchioness, her late husband, and their children. The current marquess, as the heir apparent, was holding the family bible open on his lap, with his left index finger pointing to his name inscribed. She frowned up at it. There was Lord John, the younger brother, just an infant in the portrait, but also another boy who looked exactly like the young marquess. Something teased at her memory but was not yet ready to come to the surface.
After her exploration, satisfied that she would not get lost again, she marched up to Lydia’s chamber and stood before the door for a moment, thinking. She didn’t want to knock, only to be ignored. Much better to simply slip in. She eased the door open, and there, on a Jacobean monstrosity of a bed—four heavily carved posts, a headboard that was deeply engraved with armorial patterns, and a ceiling that loomed over the poor girl like a coffin lid—was Lydia, sleeping, the dishevelment of the bedclothes a testament to the truth of Mrs. Hailey’s assertion that the young woman had slept poorly before a draught had been administered.
But she had slept enough by now. Anne approached the bed, pulled a chair close, and sat down. She watched Lydia for a moment, observing the same jumping nerve in the neck as she witnessed during the previous night’s swoon.
“Lydia, dear, it’s me. I shan’t leave until we talk, you know. I don’t know why you invited me here if you’re going to ignore me.”
Anne’s young friend stirred and yawned. She prettily “awoke,” holding the back of one soft hand to her pale cheek. She really was a beauty, Anne thought, sitting back to watch the performance. Her chestnut curls tumbled about her bare shoulder, the white nightgown having slipped off one and draped her round arm. Her skin was pale as milk, her eyes dazzling blue, and her lips twin buds of cerise. Not being one herself, Anne had always admired beautiful women as one might admire a work of art one could never own.
“Oh, Anne, dear!” Lydia held out one fine-boned hand in a beseeching gesture. “How kind of you to travel all this way to visit me!”
“All very well,” Anne said dryly, “but why, if you consider my visit such a kindness, did you warn no one I was coming?”
“It slipped my mind.”
Anne sighed. Her hands folded on her lap, she said, “Now this is a pretty dance you’ve led me, Lydia, but last night was not entertaining. That poor girl!”
Tears welled in Lydia’s blue eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Somehow she managed, even when sobbing openly, to appear lovely. She covered her eyes with both hands. “Don’t be cruel, please, for I’m
It took Anne only an hour after the unpleasantness at breakfast to master the layout of Ivy Lodge. Curiosity demanded that she uncover the secrets of a place: its layout, how the family lived, where the private apartments were. Though her ankle was still aching from turning it the previous evening, she ignored the throbbing.
Ivy Lodge was modest in size, a three-floor, red-brick residence built in the early years of the previous century, she knew. The entry was the centerpiece of a marble faux-pillared front, carved deeply with ornamental scrollwork and lozenges. All three floors were glazed with innumerable mullioned windows, and the whole was topped by a roofline made interesting by openwork parapets.
She would have known nothing about the exterior yet, having arrived so late the night before, but there was a detailed painting of Ivy Lodge hanging in the upstairs gallery hallway, above the entrance, along with a portrait of several Earls of Staunby and the first marquess. There was also an enormous painting of the dowager marchioness, her late husband, and their children. The current marquess, as the heir apparent, was holding the family bible open on his lap, with his left index finger pointing to his name inscribed. She frowned up at it. There was Lord John, the younger brother, just an infant in the portrait, but also another boy who looked exactly like the young marquess. Something teased at her memory but was not yet ready to come to the surface.
After her exploration, satisfied that she would not get lost again, she marched up to Lydia’s chamber and stood before the door for a moment, thinking. She didn’t want to knock, only to be ignored. Much better to simply slip in. She eased the door open, and there, on a Jacobean monstrosity of a bed—four heavily carved posts, a headboard that was deeply engraved with armorial patterns, and a ceiling that loomed over the poor girl like a coffin lid—was Lydia, sleeping, the dishevelment of the bedclothes a testament to the truth of Mrs. Hailey’s assertion that the young woman had slept poorly before a draught had been administered.
But she had slept enough by now. Anne approached the bed, pulled a chair close, and sat down. She watched Lydia for a moment, observing the same jumping nerve in the neck as she witnessed during the previous night’s swoon.
“Lydia, dear, it’s me. I shan’t leave until we talk, you know. I don’t know why you invited me here if you’re going to ignore me.”
Anne’s young friend stirred and yawned. She prettily “awoke,” holding the back of one soft hand to her pale cheek. She really was a beauty, Anne thought, sitting back to watch the performance. Her chestnut curls tumbled about her bare shoulder, the white nightgown having slipped off one and draped her round arm. Her skin was pale as milk, her eyes dazzling blue, and her lips twin buds of cerise. Not being one herself, Anne had always admired beautiful women as one might admire a work of art one could never own.
“Oh, Anne, dear!” Lydia held out one fine-boned hand in a beseeching gesture. “How kind of you to travel all this way to visit me!”
“All very well,” Anne said dryly, “but why, if you consider my visit such a kindness, did you warn no one I was coming?”
“It slipped my mind.”
Anne sighed. Her hands folded on her lap, she said, “Now this is a pretty dance you’ve led me, Lydia, but last night was not entertaining. That poor girl!”
Tears welled in Lydia’s blue eyes and dripped down her cheeks. Somehow she managed, even when sobbing openly, to appear lovely. She covered her eyes with both hands. “Don’t be cruel, please, for I’m
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