dimness of the interior after the still-bright light outdoors. A moment passed before her eyes adjusted then she headed for the shelves.
“Miss Dearne? Phyllida?” A young lady, overdressed in a fluttery peach gauze with two flounces topped by a rouleau, sat on a bench where she had been leafing through a thin volume. She raised a plump hand in its peach kid glove.
Prostrated by grief indeed. Phyllida managed a false smile. “How do you do, Mrs. Enderby?”
“Maria, please.” The girl twisted the handle of the gaudy peach-colored parasol that rested at her side. “Poor dear Louisa and I were such friends, it doesn’t seem right you should call me anything else.” She sniffed, drew a wispy lace-edged handkerchief from the frilled reticule that hung from her wrist and dabbed at her noticeably dry eyes. “Such a dreadful time for you,” she murmured. “I am so glad to see you have gotten away from the house for a little while.”
“I needed to return these.” She held up the twin volumes.
Maria Enderby nodded. “I remember Louisa telling me about that book. Have you read Marmion yet?” The girl sighed. “Such adelightful story.” She studied the marbled cover a moment. “Do you know, it is the most fortuitous circumstance, meeting you like this.”
“Is it?” Phyllida managed to maintain her smile.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it though. Not now, I mean. Not when you’ve managed to escape it all.” She looked up, earnestness on every feature of her plain face.
“It’s quite all right,” Phyllida lied. “What may I do for you?”
“It’s my letters, you see. I wondered if I might have them back.”
“Your— Oh, to Louisa, of course.”
Maria Enderby nodded eagerly. “We corresponded with one another after she left the seminary. I stayed on for another term, you must know. There-there must be quite a stack, for we wrote faithfully. At least twice a month.”
“I’ll set them aside for you as soon as I find them.”
Maria looked up quickly. “You don’t know where they are?”
Phyllida shook her head. “Her papers are not in any order—yet. I shall have to sort through the lot.”
“No!” the young lady cried, agitated. “You mustn’t put yourself to any bother. I-I’ll come and help. Yes, that will be best. I’ll return to Allbury House with you and search. You mustn’t trouble yourself.”
Phyllida raised her eyebrows.
Maria Enderby met her questioning gaze then looked down almost at once. Her shoulders seemed to droop. “There are certain…confidences I was so unwise as to commit to paper, which I would not want anyone else to read.”
“I see.” Phyllida forced the amusement out of her voice. “I promise no one will look for them but myself and I need do no more than glance at the signatures to know if they came from you. I am not one to pry.”
A heavy sigh of relief escaped Maria. “No, you are not, thank heavens.” She smiled warmly. “I am very grateful, Miss Dearne—Phyllida. I do believe I can trust you.”
“Of course you may.” Phyllida took her leave of the young lady and turned once more toward the shelves. Poor girl, if she indeed had been indiscreet in her letters. Phyllida knew well her sister’s penchant for using just such information to the detriment of others.
She reached for a volume then froze, her hands only inches from the leather spine. Indiscreet confidences. What exactly might the girl have disclosed? And just how sorry was Maria Enderby to see her old school friend dead?
That thought plagued her during her return to Allbury House. As she entered the august portal though, her mind was given a new, and very unpleasant, direction. The hushed atmosphere closed in about her. A maid, red-eyed from recent weeping, hurried past, her arms filled with the black crepe that made Phyllida think of mausoleums. At the top of the first flight of stairs the door into the main drawing room stood open. Through it she glimpsed the solemn-faced
“Miss Dearne? Phyllida?” A young lady, overdressed in a fluttery peach gauze with two flounces topped by a rouleau, sat on a bench where she had been leafing through a thin volume. She raised a plump hand in its peach kid glove.
Prostrated by grief indeed. Phyllida managed a false smile. “How do you do, Mrs. Enderby?”
“Maria, please.” The girl twisted the handle of the gaudy peach-colored parasol that rested at her side. “Poor dear Louisa and I were such friends, it doesn’t seem right you should call me anything else.” She sniffed, drew a wispy lace-edged handkerchief from the frilled reticule that hung from her wrist and dabbed at her noticeably dry eyes. “Such a dreadful time for you,” she murmured. “I am so glad to see you have gotten away from the house for a little while.”
“I needed to return these.” She held up the twin volumes.
Maria Enderby nodded. “I remember Louisa telling me about that book. Have you read Marmion yet?” The girl sighed. “Such adelightful story.” She studied the marbled cover a moment. “Do you know, it is the most fortuitous circumstance, meeting you like this.”
“Is it?” Phyllida managed to maintain her smile.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t mention it though. Not now, I mean. Not when you’ve managed to escape it all.” She looked up, earnestness on every feature of her plain face.
“It’s quite all right,” Phyllida lied. “What may I do for you?”
“It’s my letters, you see. I wondered if I might have them back.”
“Your— Oh, to Louisa, of course.”
Maria Enderby nodded eagerly. “We corresponded with one another after she left the seminary. I stayed on for another term, you must know. There-there must be quite a stack, for we wrote faithfully. At least twice a month.”
“I’ll set them aside for you as soon as I find them.”
Maria looked up quickly. “You don’t know where they are?”
Phyllida shook her head. “Her papers are not in any order—yet. I shall have to sort through the lot.”
“No!” the young lady cried, agitated. “You mustn’t put yourself to any bother. I-I’ll come and help. Yes, that will be best. I’ll return to Allbury House with you and search. You mustn’t trouble yourself.”
Phyllida raised her eyebrows.
Maria Enderby met her questioning gaze then looked down almost at once. Her shoulders seemed to droop. “There are certain…confidences I was so unwise as to commit to paper, which I would not want anyone else to read.”
“I see.” Phyllida forced the amusement out of her voice. “I promise no one will look for them but myself and I need do no more than glance at the signatures to know if they came from you. I am not one to pry.”
A heavy sigh of relief escaped Maria. “No, you are not, thank heavens.” She smiled warmly. “I am very grateful, Miss Dearne—Phyllida. I do believe I can trust you.”
“Of course you may.” Phyllida took her leave of the young lady and turned once more toward the shelves. Poor girl, if she indeed had been indiscreet in her letters. Phyllida knew well her sister’s penchant for using just such information to the detriment of others.
She reached for a volume then froze, her hands only inches from the leather spine. Indiscreet confidences. What exactly might the girl have disclosed? And just how sorry was Maria Enderby to see her old school friend dead?
That thought plagued her during her return to Allbury House. As she entered the august portal though, her mind was given a new, and very unpleasant, direction. The hushed atmosphere closed in about her. A maid, red-eyed from recent weeping, hurried past, her arms filled with the black crepe that made Phyllida think of mausoleums. At the top of the first flight of stairs the door into the main drawing room stood open. Through it she glimpsed the solemn-faced
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