clergyman, deep in conversation with Allbury.
Louisa’s body must have been laid out in state inside.
Phyllida turned on her heel and ran up the next flight of stairs. Only last night, not even twenty-four hours ago, Louisa had still been alive…
The oppressive aura of death hung about the house, and so it would remain, at least until after the funeral. Another whole day to get through… She didn’t know if she could bear the constant reminder of her loss. Then Allbury would depart with the hearse for the castle. She could only hope Lord Ingram would go with him.
She entered the Ladies’ Sitting Room just off the stairs and came to a halt, her troubled thoughts broken off. It looked—it was— different. Someone had rearranged the furniture. A different painting—a landscape—hung on the wall where Louisa had ordered a Holbein of an earlier Allbury to be placed.
Phyllida moved slowly about the apartment, detecting other changes. Confused, she returned to the stairs and started up once more.
A crash from the floor below caused her to reverse direction in a hurry. As Phyllida reached the landing Mrs. Battersea emerged from the first of two connecting drawing rooms, her arms loaded with an eight-branched candelabrum, an ormolu clock, three figurines and a small firescreen embroidered by Phyllida’s mother.
Phyllida ran forward and caught the screen as it slipped then carefully extricated it from the woman’s too full hands. “What is happening? I thought I heard a crash.”
Mrs. Battersea clucked her tongue. “That brass poker, it was.” She shook her head. “Over it went. That mad, her ladyship is.”
Phyllida gestured to her armload. “Whatever is going on?”
The woman’s lips tightened. “Redecorating, that’s what we’re doing, miss. Ordering things back the way they was, her ladyship is, back before his lordship’s marriage.”
“Removing every trace of her, is she?” Phyllida asked helpfully, fighting against the knot in her stomach.
The housekeeper, embarrassed, bobbed a curtsy and tried to move past.
“Countermanding every order her successor gave?” Phyllida pursued.
Mrs. Battersea rolled a nervous eye at her. “You see, miss, it’s—”
Phyllida took pity and waved her on. “I see exactly. Thank you, Mrs. Battersea.”
The woman hurried away with her burdens and Phyllida, still holding the screen, entered the drawing rooms.
The dowager marchioness, resplendent in a black silk robe over a white underdress, looked up from a box where she placed an assortment of knickknacks purchased at considerable cost by Louisa. An ostrich plume, dyed a decorous black to match her silk turban, bounced jauntily against her flushed, wrinkled cheek. Her disdainful gaze rested momentarily on Phyllida before she returned to her work.
Phyllida left her to it. She had best concentrate on collecting her own things—and those Louisa had brought from their parents’ home—if they were not to be disposed of along with everything Louisa had purchased since her marriage to Allbury. The dowager seemed intent on erasing every trace of Louisa’s presence in the house. Sooner or later—probably sooner—that would include Phyllida.
She shivered. There had been a certain viciousness about the way the woman pulled down Louisa’s ornaments and shoved them out of sight. No, the dowager marchioness did not mourn her son’s bride.
Phyllida made her way back to the sitting room and sank into a chair before the empty hearth. The dowager had hated Louisa and valued the family name. Maria Enderby—whose mind might be filled with as much frivolous nonsense as her gowns, for all Phyllida knew—could have been desperate to silence her friend. Lord Ingram—would he kill to keep Louisa from talking? But about what? Constance Yarborough—unpaid companion, former friend, now blatant object of charity—just how much had she come to resent it?
And what of the others who had visited the box that night? Maria’s
Louisa’s body must have been laid out in state inside.
Phyllida turned on her heel and ran up the next flight of stairs. Only last night, not even twenty-four hours ago, Louisa had still been alive…
The oppressive aura of death hung about the house, and so it would remain, at least until after the funeral. Another whole day to get through… She didn’t know if she could bear the constant reminder of her loss. Then Allbury would depart with the hearse for the castle. She could only hope Lord Ingram would go with him.
She entered the Ladies’ Sitting Room just off the stairs and came to a halt, her troubled thoughts broken off. It looked—it was— different. Someone had rearranged the furniture. A different painting—a landscape—hung on the wall where Louisa had ordered a Holbein of an earlier Allbury to be placed.
Phyllida moved slowly about the apartment, detecting other changes. Confused, she returned to the stairs and started up once more.
A crash from the floor below caused her to reverse direction in a hurry. As Phyllida reached the landing Mrs. Battersea emerged from the first of two connecting drawing rooms, her arms loaded with an eight-branched candelabrum, an ormolu clock, three figurines and a small firescreen embroidered by Phyllida’s mother.
Phyllida ran forward and caught the screen as it slipped then carefully extricated it from the woman’s too full hands. “What is happening? I thought I heard a crash.”
Mrs. Battersea clucked her tongue. “That brass poker, it was.” She shook her head. “Over it went. That mad, her ladyship is.”
Phyllida gestured to her armload. “Whatever is going on?”
The woman’s lips tightened. “Redecorating, that’s what we’re doing, miss. Ordering things back the way they was, her ladyship is, back before his lordship’s marriage.”
“Removing every trace of her, is she?” Phyllida asked helpfully, fighting against the knot in her stomach.
The housekeeper, embarrassed, bobbed a curtsy and tried to move past.
“Countermanding every order her successor gave?” Phyllida pursued.
Mrs. Battersea rolled a nervous eye at her. “You see, miss, it’s—”
Phyllida took pity and waved her on. “I see exactly. Thank you, Mrs. Battersea.”
The woman hurried away with her burdens and Phyllida, still holding the screen, entered the drawing rooms.
The dowager marchioness, resplendent in a black silk robe over a white underdress, looked up from a box where she placed an assortment of knickknacks purchased at considerable cost by Louisa. An ostrich plume, dyed a decorous black to match her silk turban, bounced jauntily against her flushed, wrinkled cheek. Her disdainful gaze rested momentarily on Phyllida before she returned to her work.
Phyllida left her to it. She had best concentrate on collecting her own things—and those Louisa had brought from their parents’ home—if they were not to be disposed of along with everything Louisa had purchased since her marriage to Allbury. The dowager seemed intent on erasing every trace of Louisa’s presence in the house. Sooner or later—probably sooner—that would include Phyllida.
She shivered. There had been a certain viciousness about the way the woman pulled down Louisa’s ornaments and shoved them out of sight. No, the dowager marchioness did not mourn her son’s bride.
Phyllida made her way back to the sitting room and sank into a chair before the empty hearth. The dowager had hated Louisa and valued the family name. Maria Enderby—whose mind might be filled with as much frivolous nonsense as her gowns, for all Phyllida knew—could have been desperate to silence her friend. Lord Ingram—would he kill to keep Louisa from talking? But about what? Constance Yarborough—unpaid companion, former friend, now blatant object of charity—just how much had she come to resent it?
And what of the others who had visited the box that night? Maria’s
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