portion.’ He glanced quickly at Joanna, and she thought she saw something like shame in his face.
Harriet gave a forced laugh. It sounded ugly in the grandly furnished room, reverberating off crystal and marble. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she said.
‘I will engage Dr Taylor as your accoucheur,’ said Nicholas. ‘I understand he attended my cousin’s wife, and is a respectable man. He studied at Oxford, I believe. I trust you do not object?’
‘It hardly matters,’ she said. ‘I must go and rest. Joanna?’
Joanna tried not to look at Chichester as she followed Harriet, but she could not help glancing back once. He caught her gaze, and held it, before she looked away.
‘Joanna,’ he said, as she turned. ‘I require your presence here for a moment – once you have seen Mrs Chichester to her bed.’
She nodded.
As she supported Harriet up the stairs she glanced up, and blinked in the white winter light streaming in from the cupola in the staircase hall. It was so beautiful that she paused, and felt Harriet tug on her. If only I could breathe it in, she thought, like vapour; it would make me new again.
In Harriet’s room, Joanna helped her to the bed. As she passed her secretaire, Harriet let her hand trail over the polished veneer of purple tulipwood and mahogany. The key sat in its lock, the lank ribbon hanging from it. Once, the ribbon had been pale blue, but Harriet had taken to wearing it around her neck, and now it was grey from its proximity to her skin. She must have put the key back in the lock that morning.
‘You may open it if you wish,’ she said, catching Joanna’s eye as though daring her to do so. ‘For in there lies what was once the promise of happiness.’
‘I won’t open it, madam,’ said Joanna. God knew what was in there, but she didn’t want to. And for all Harriet’s dramatics, she thought, it probably contained nothing but the detritus of a privileged childhood: a feather here, a piece of ribbon there, a jewel.
She excused herself from the room with a low curtsey, and ran back down the stairs. Mr Chichester was waiting in the staircase hall. He did not respond to her smile with one of his own.
‘Renard, the silversmith, has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Do not tell her; she should be spared the shock of it, for now.’
Joanna could say nothing; her face was frozen in its customary blankness, but her lips parted with shock, and she felt heat gathering in her face. Mr Chichester’s gaze softened. ‘It is a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Our streets are not safe.’
Joanna shook her head, and managed a poor curtsey as he walked away. She was glad he had instructed her not to tell Harriet; she had been particularly fragile of late, and Joanna had the feeling that the loss of the silversmith would send her into a fit of the vapours.
‘Did I hear aright?’ said one of the footmen, approaching her as she stood immobile, one hand on the balustrade. ‘Is the French silversmith dead?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and turned away. She ran up to the first landing, then through the hidden door so she could go up the back stairs. She needed movement, and solitude, to calm her feelings. She made her way up to the servants’ floor, where she had a room to herself.
When Harriet was at her most trying, she asked Joanna to sleep near her, but Joanna preferred her garret room. She had requested it specifically when Harriet’s mother had interviewed her, and on her first day Mrs Holland had handed over the key, raising her eyebrows as she did it.
Once inside the room she closed the door behind her, turned the key, and sat on the bed. She still felt hot, and slightly sick, as though she was beginning a fever. She put her head in her hands.
Damn Renard, she thought. Damn his sly looks and his cold eyes and his flattering tongue. Even in death, he had found a way to disarrange everything. It was not just that she would have to deal with Harriet; there was something else,
Harriet gave a forced laugh. It sounded ugly in the grandly furnished room, reverberating off crystal and marble. ‘Is that all you have to say?’ she said.
‘I will engage Dr Taylor as your accoucheur,’ said Nicholas. ‘I understand he attended my cousin’s wife, and is a respectable man. He studied at Oxford, I believe. I trust you do not object?’
‘It hardly matters,’ she said. ‘I must go and rest. Joanna?’
Joanna tried not to look at Chichester as she followed Harriet, but she could not help glancing back once. He caught her gaze, and held it, before she looked away.
‘Joanna,’ he said, as she turned. ‘I require your presence here for a moment – once you have seen Mrs Chichester to her bed.’
She nodded.
As she supported Harriet up the stairs she glanced up, and blinked in the white winter light streaming in from the cupola in the staircase hall. It was so beautiful that she paused, and felt Harriet tug on her. If only I could breathe it in, she thought, like vapour; it would make me new again.
In Harriet’s room, Joanna helped her to the bed. As she passed her secretaire, Harriet let her hand trail over the polished veneer of purple tulipwood and mahogany. The key sat in its lock, the lank ribbon hanging from it. Once, the ribbon had been pale blue, but Harriet had taken to wearing it around her neck, and now it was grey from its proximity to her skin. She must have put the key back in the lock that morning.
‘You may open it if you wish,’ she said, catching Joanna’s eye as though daring her to do so. ‘For in there lies what was once the promise of happiness.’
‘I won’t open it, madam,’ said Joanna. God knew what was in there, but she didn’t want to. And for all Harriet’s dramatics, she thought, it probably contained nothing but the detritus of a privileged childhood: a feather here, a piece of ribbon there, a jewel.
She excused herself from the room with a low curtsey, and ran back down the stairs. Mr Chichester was waiting in the staircase hall. He did not respond to her smile with one of his own.
‘Renard, the silversmith, has been murdered,’ he said. ‘Do not tell her; she should be spared the shock of it, for now.’
Joanna could say nothing; her face was frozen in its customary blankness, but her lips parted with shock, and she felt heat gathering in her face. Mr Chichester’s gaze softened. ‘It is a terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Our streets are not safe.’
Joanna shook her head, and managed a poor curtsey as he walked away. She was glad he had instructed her not to tell Harriet; she had been particularly fragile of late, and Joanna had the feeling that the loss of the silversmith would send her into a fit of the vapours.
‘Did I hear aright?’ said one of the footmen, approaching her as she stood immobile, one hand on the balustrade. ‘Is the French silversmith dead?’
‘Yes,’ she said, and turned away. She ran up to the first landing, then through the hidden door so she could go up the back stairs. She needed movement, and solitude, to calm her feelings. She made her way up to the servants’ floor, where she had a room to herself.
When Harriet was at her most trying, she asked Joanna to sleep near her, but Joanna preferred her garret room. She had requested it specifically when Harriet’s mother had interviewed her, and on her first day Mrs Holland had handed over the key, raising her eyebrows as she did it.
Once inside the room she closed the door behind her, turned the key, and sat on the bed. She still felt hot, and slightly sick, as though she was beginning a fever. She put her head in her hands.
Damn Renard, she thought. Damn his sly looks and his cold eyes and his flattering tongue. Even in death, he had found a way to disarrange everything. It was not just that she would have to deal with Harriet; there was something else,
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