curiously taking in the scene below before the curtain dropped and she vanished from sight.
‘Lord Sallinger,’ Miss Faversham replied, her smile a mere flicker of her lips, her nod barely discernible, and he knew himself to have been dismissed by an expert.
Then she swept past in a rustle of smart blue velvet, and her maid cast him a long sideways glance out of those dark, liquid eyes, a living extension of her mistress’s contempt.
CHAPTER FIVE
The morning of Mrs Lovett’s funeral dawned cold and grey. Eleanor dragged herself out of bed and consented to be dressed, but one unsteady glance in the mirror persuaded her to rest another half an hour with cold lotion on her neck and face, and two of Suzanne’s special ‘herbal compress’ bags pressed against her eyelids to relieve the puffiness.
The loss of her usual radiance stung, and made Eleanor even more resentful that Sallinger would be at the funeral today. It was as though the man’s very presence had the power to remind her how much she had changed, that she was no longer the fresh-skinned eighteen year old with whom he had been so wildly, so passionately in love.
But what an ill-chance it had been, to be walking into the village to meet the vicar, and to run into Sallinger himself, coming out of that pretty little cottage at such an early hour.
She had looked up and seen the red-haired woman at the window, gazing down at her with an impertinent expression, as though she had only just risen from her bed – a bed she had perhaps shared with his lordship, the guilt on his shocked face suggesting that explanation.
So it was true that Sallinger was having an affaire de coeur with Mrs Underwood, and right under her husband’s nose!
By the evening, Suzanne had uncovered more information for her, namely that the unfortunate husband was a blind veteran of the war, according to the understairs gossip, which made Sallinger’s behaviour all the more despicable. It must be simple enough, after all, to deceive a blind man, even under his own roof.
Eleanor had listened to her maid’s catty repetition of the servants’ gossips with a churning stomach. She did not know why this confirmation of Sallinger’s libidinous ways should upset her so much, but it had been difficult to hide her reaction from Suzanne’s shrewd gaze.
Once her maid had taken herself away for the night, Eleanor had thrown a hideous old Chinese vase across the room in a seizure of violent rage – then spent the next half an hour on her hands and knees, hunting for broken shards and throwing them guiltily into the hearth.
Now she was barely able to face going downstairs to greet the Lovetts, her guests for the duration of the funeral. How could that infuriating man reduce her to a tangled mess of nerves without even being in the house?
Damn him!
By the time she felt presentable enough to descend the stairs, her guests were already at the breakfast table.
After Eleanor had visited them and put her carriage at their disposal, Mrs Lovett’s grown-up children had grudgingly consented to travel up from Oxfordshire for the funeral. It was not an over-long journey, yet they had shown no sign of being inclined to make it. Indeed, Eleanor felt sure that her mention of the terms of Mrs Lovett’s last will and testament had made the difference and finally prompted them to come. The family were in trade now, and not wealthy, as she had known, but once Mrs Lovett’s jewellery and various possessions were sold, there would be a little money. Enough, perhaps, for the younger Lovett boy to enter polite society for a season or two.
Still, the older Mr Lovett had been strangely reluctant to come down to Warwickshire. She had always assumed that friendship had prompted her father to allow the widowed Mrs Lovett to live at the Hall for a peppercorn rent. It was clear, however, that the
‘Lord Sallinger,’ Miss Faversham replied, her smile a mere flicker of her lips, her nod barely discernible, and he knew himself to have been dismissed by an expert.
Then she swept past in a rustle of smart blue velvet, and her maid cast him a long sideways glance out of those dark, liquid eyes, a living extension of her mistress’s contempt.
CHAPTER FIVE
The morning of Mrs Lovett’s funeral dawned cold and grey. Eleanor dragged herself out of bed and consented to be dressed, but one unsteady glance in the mirror persuaded her to rest another half an hour with cold lotion on her neck and face, and two of Suzanne’s special ‘herbal compress’ bags pressed against her eyelids to relieve the puffiness.
The loss of her usual radiance stung, and made Eleanor even more resentful that Sallinger would be at the funeral today. It was as though the man’s very presence had the power to remind her how much she had changed, that she was no longer the fresh-skinned eighteen year old with whom he had been so wildly, so passionately in love.
But what an ill-chance it had been, to be walking into the village to meet the vicar, and to run into Sallinger himself, coming out of that pretty little cottage at such an early hour.
She had looked up and seen the red-haired woman at the window, gazing down at her with an impertinent expression, as though she had only just risen from her bed – a bed she had perhaps shared with his lordship, the guilt on his shocked face suggesting that explanation.
So it was true that Sallinger was having an affaire de coeur with Mrs Underwood, and right under her husband’s nose!
By the evening, Suzanne had uncovered more information for her, namely that the unfortunate husband was a blind veteran of the war, according to the understairs gossip, which made Sallinger’s behaviour all the more despicable. It must be simple enough, after all, to deceive a blind man, even under his own roof.
Eleanor had listened to her maid’s catty repetition of the servants’ gossips with a churning stomach. She did not know why this confirmation of Sallinger’s libidinous ways should upset her so much, but it had been difficult to hide her reaction from Suzanne’s shrewd gaze.
Once her maid had taken herself away for the night, Eleanor had thrown a hideous old Chinese vase across the room in a seizure of violent rage – then spent the next half an hour on her hands and knees, hunting for broken shards and throwing them guiltily into the hearth.
Now she was barely able to face going downstairs to greet the Lovetts, her guests for the duration of the funeral. How could that infuriating man reduce her to a tangled mess of nerves without even being in the house?
Damn him!
By the time she felt presentable enough to descend the stairs, her guests were already at the breakfast table.
After Eleanor had visited them and put her carriage at their disposal, Mrs Lovett’s grown-up children had grudgingly consented to travel up from Oxfordshire for the funeral. It was not an over-long journey, yet they had shown no sign of being inclined to make it. Indeed, Eleanor felt sure that her mention of the terms of Mrs Lovett’s last will and testament had made the difference and finally prompted them to come. The family were in trade now, and not wealthy, as she had known, but once Mrs Lovett’s jewellery and various possessions were sold, there would be a little money. Enough, perhaps, for the younger Lovett boy to enter polite society for a season or two.
Still, the older Mr Lovett had been strangely reluctant to come down to Warwickshire. She had always assumed that friendship had prompted her father to allow the widowed Mrs Lovett to live at the Hall for a peppercorn rent. It was clear, however, that the
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