It was arrived at by passage through a
large apartment, which boasted, notwithstanding a cosy arrangement
of upholstered sofas and armchairs before the fireplace, several
tables scattered about with attendant chairs, which explained its
designation by her guide as the card room.
‘Be seated,
miss,’ instructed Mrs Brumby, not without a disapproving sniff as
she gestured to a small sofa set at the far side of the
fireplace.
Since there was
but one other chair, placed before a harpsichord taking up almost
one side of the little room, Florence could make no other choice.
Once seated, she was aware of sudden weakness in her limbs. Buoyed
by the consciousness of doing right, she had braved all without
flinching. Only now, with the prospect before her of confronting
the master of the house, Flo began to feel as if her bones had
turned to jelly. She had come here for this precise purpose, but in
light of her interview with the dowager, she was unable to look
forward to it with composure.
The elder Lady
Langriville, a frail creature wearing an expression of settled
melancholy, had been both confused and upset by the story Florence
related. Had it not been for the presence of another woman,
formidable both in manner and appearance, Flo might have had
difficulty making the matter plain.
As it was,
neither lady apparently had the slightest interest in the discovery
of the jewel, which had brought her thus far. It had been in her
possession for all of five days and she had thought of nothing
else. But her hosts had fastened upon the role played in the tale
by the ruby’s owner, asking questions Florence was unequipped to
answer.
When exactly
had the lady died? Had she been long in London? Why had not Pinxton
written to inform them? How dared she continue to style herself
Lady Langriville? These, and other queries Florence deemed equally
rhetorical, she had been obliged to turn off with no satisfactory
response.
‘You had best
see my son,’ had announced the dowager at length, wafting a vague
hand and turning, presumably for support, to the stronger
female.
The latter had
taken charge. ‘I will see Langriville. He must know of this at
once. I imagine he will wish to question the girl. I will direct
Brumby to take her to the Little Parlour.’ Her beak of a nose had
turned in Flo’s direction. ‘Have the goodness to wait outside this
room, if you please.’
Unused to be
dismissed in such a fashion, Florence had felt her feathers
ruffling. But she had dropped a curtsy and withdrawn into the
saloon next door without remark. Given the future she had mapped
out, she had best accustom herself to such treatment. In a few
moments, the housekeeper passed through, giving Flo no more than a
frowning look, and returned in a moment to lead her here to await
the coming of Lord Langriville. By which time, it had been borne in
upon Flo that the news of Lady Langriville’s death had excited the
most attention. Which meant his lordship must have had no previous
knowledge of it. A most unwelcome realisation.
Florence found
herself wondering if she might escape the encounter, and then
wishing she had at least taken pains to acquaint herself further
with Lady Langriville’s history. She must count herself a fool, and
could only suppose Lord Langriville would think so too. Had it not
been obvious from the outset there had been an estrangement in the
marriage? In her compassion for a creature brought low, Flo had
wondered at the cause, but failed to recognise this
implication.
She felt cold
all at once, and a shiver shook her. Her gaze caught the empty
grate within the fireplace, and a sudden wave of loneliness washed
over her. She was anxious, chilled and, as she now realised from
the growing emptiness at her stomach, beginning to be hungry. And
if Lord Langriville had any notion of browbeating her with
questions she could not answer, he would soon learn his
mistake.
‘Miss
Petrie?’
Flo jumped in
her seat, turning towards the voice. It
large apartment, which boasted, notwithstanding a cosy arrangement
of upholstered sofas and armchairs before the fireplace, several
tables scattered about with attendant chairs, which explained its
designation by her guide as the card room.
‘Be seated,
miss,’ instructed Mrs Brumby, not without a disapproving sniff as
she gestured to a small sofa set at the far side of the
fireplace.
Since there was
but one other chair, placed before a harpsichord taking up almost
one side of the little room, Florence could make no other choice.
Once seated, she was aware of sudden weakness in her limbs. Buoyed
by the consciousness of doing right, she had braved all without
flinching. Only now, with the prospect before her of confronting
the master of the house, Flo began to feel as if her bones had
turned to jelly. She had come here for this precise purpose, but in
light of her interview with the dowager, she was unable to look
forward to it with composure.
The elder Lady
Langriville, a frail creature wearing an expression of settled
melancholy, had been both confused and upset by the story Florence
related. Had it not been for the presence of another woman,
formidable both in manner and appearance, Flo might have had
difficulty making the matter plain.
As it was,
neither lady apparently had the slightest interest in the discovery
of the jewel, which had brought her thus far. It had been in her
possession for all of five days and she had thought of nothing
else. But her hosts had fastened upon the role played in the tale
by the ruby’s owner, asking questions Florence was unequipped to
answer.
When exactly
had the lady died? Had she been long in London? Why had not Pinxton
written to inform them? How dared she continue to style herself
Lady Langriville? These, and other queries Florence deemed equally
rhetorical, she had been obliged to turn off with no satisfactory
response.
‘You had best
see my son,’ had announced the dowager at length, wafting a vague
hand and turning, presumably for support, to the stronger
female.
The latter had
taken charge. ‘I will see Langriville. He must know of this at
once. I imagine he will wish to question the girl. I will direct
Brumby to take her to the Little Parlour.’ Her beak of a nose had
turned in Flo’s direction. ‘Have the goodness to wait outside this
room, if you please.’
Unused to be
dismissed in such a fashion, Florence had felt her feathers
ruffling. But she had dropped a curtsy and withdrawn into the
saloon next door without remark. Given the future she had mapped
out, she had best accustom herself to such treatment. In a few
moments, the housekeeper passed through, giving Flo no more than a
frowning look, and returned in a moment to lead her here to await
the coming of Lord Langriville. By which time, it had been borne in
upon Flo that the news of Lady Langriville’s death had excited the
most attention. Which meant his lordship must have had no previous
knowledge of it. A most unwelcome realisation.
Florence found
herself wondering if she might escape the encounter, and then
wishing she had at least taken pains to acquaint herself further
with Lady Langriville’s history. She must count herself a fool, and
could only suppose Lord Langriville would think so too. Had it not
been obvious from the outset there had been an estrangement in the
marriage? In her compassion for a creature brought low, Flo had
wondered at the cause, but failed to recognise this
implication.
She felt cold
all at once, and a shiver shook her. Her gaze caught the empty
grate within the fireplace, and a sudden wave of loneliness washed
over her. She was anxious, chilled and, as she now realised from
the growing emptiness at her stomach, beginning to be hungry. And
if Lord Langriville had any notion of browbeating her with
questions she could not answer, he would soon learn his
mistake.
‘Miss
Petrie?’
Flo jumped in
her seat, turning towards the voice. It
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