Chapter 3
My aunt’s London residence was not far from my parents’ home, just across the way from Hyde Park.
As a young woman, she had essentially been married off to a much older associate of my grandfather’s.
But, in her own words, her late husband had been “reasonably kind, blessedly inattentive, and was gracious enough to die not long after the wedding.” This left her with a good deal of money, which she turned into a great deal thanks to some canny investments.
He also left her the stately town house we currently inhabited while my aunt wintered in Italy.
The walls were painted in a shade of pale yellow she claimed matched the interior of a villa she had stayed at once on Lake Como, while the rest of the house was filled with treasures she had collected during her various trips over the years.
But unlike my parents’ residence, my aunt’s home felt distinctly cozy, and we had settled in quite easily.
It also helped that my aunt kept her staff very small, which I preferred.
In addition to her housekeeper, there was a maid of all work, a coachman who also functioned as both a handyman and gardener, and a cook who came a few times a week, while other staff were hired as needed.
On Corfu, Mrs. Kouris assisted me with the cooking and cleaning, but that was all.
As my aunt did not employ a butler, her housekeeper, Mrs. Ford, essentially occupied both roles.
And from what I could tell, the woman was so efficient, she could have run a British warship all by herself.
As Tommy and I entered the foyer, she came to greet us.
“Hello, Mrs. Harper. How was your dinner?”
“Long,” I answered, just as Tommy said, “Splendid!”
Then I barely got his coat off before he scampered away to his room.
She gave me a sympathetic smile and took his coat from me. As my aunt’s most trusted and longstanding employee, Mrs. Ford was well aware of the mutual disdain between Agatha and my mother. “Shall I make you some tea and warm some milk for Tommy?” she asked as she hung up Tommy’s coat.
“That would be lovely,” I replied as I shrugged out of my coat. Yet I still felt as if a great weight hung around my shoulders. The evening had been even more exhausting than I had expected, and it must have shown on my face.
“Why don’t you get to bed?” Mrs. Ford said gently. “And I’ll make sure Tommy does the same.”
“I would be so very grateful.”
“It is no trouble at all,” she insisted as she took my coat. “Get some rest. I’ll be in with your tea shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I proceeded down the hall, stopping to give Tommy a good-night kiss, then entered my bedroom. As the door clicked shut behind me, I slumped against it with a sigh.
Agatha mentioned some writer you knew on Corfu.
My lips twitched, and I pushed away from the door, furiously unbuttoning my dress as I went.
But it was of no use. I could not rid myself of those memories.
And heaven knew I had tried very hard these last months.
Yet it seemed that as soon as I had set sail for England, I was forced to acknowledge the continued existence of Stephen Dorian: famous mystery author, scandalous divorcé, and, yes, a writer I knew on Corfu.
Upon returning to London, I had expected that his popular Inspector Dumond series would line the shelves of bookstores.
But I was entirely unprepared for how often I would encounter them casually strewn on side tables, taking up dusty corners of charity shops, or even left behind on the chairs of the neighborhood tearoom.
Why, even Aunt Agatha had his first few novels crammed into an overflowing bookcase in the parlor.
And then there were the newspapers.
I had never paid much attention to the gossip columns, but Cleo lived for them, and as we crossed the Continent and grew closer to England, her access to the very latest news increased exponentially.
She had excitedly shared every single line written about Mr. Dorian, and given that we were trapped together on both boats and train cars for days, there wasn’t much I could do to avoid it without admitting to feelings I did not care to discuss with anyone.
So instead, I had to listen. To all of it.
While Mr. Dorian had largely kept to himself on Corfu, it seemed that now he was a regular man about town, attending various plays, soirees, lectures, and restaurant openings nearly every night—and always with a different woman.
Begrudgingly, I acknowledged that at least he was rather egalitarian in the company he kept, as a variety of aristocrats, actresses, artists, and even fellow writers were named.
The man might be a cad, but at least he wasn’t a snob.
I could not fault Cleo entirely for her interest. After all, this was someone we knew. Someone who had come to the house on Corfu for dinner, even. But I still felt a twinge in my chest every time she told me the whereabouts of a man I very much wished to forget.
However, now that Cleo was boarding at her new school in Hampstead, I was blessedly ignorant of Mr. Dorian’s latest movements these last few weeks. And I intended to remain so for as long as possible.
I had just finished changing into my nightclothes when there was a soft knock on the door and Mrs. Ford entered with the tea tray.
“Here we are,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table before the hearth. “I also brought the hot-water bottle. There’s a chill in the air tonight.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ford,” I replied, with palpable relief. “I really did underestimate how ill prepared I was for a chilly English fall.”
The housekeeper gave me an indulgent smile as she poured out the tea. “Not to worry. Your aunt sleeps with one all winter. And she hasn’t spent over a decade in Greece.”
I sat down in the high-backed chair by the table and tucked the wool-wrapped bottle against my torso. A contented little sigh escaped my lips while Mrs. Ford handed me a cup of tea.
“Much better,” I murmured as I accepted the cup. “And Tommy?”
“Already asleep,” she assured me. “He was chattering away about his cousins, then dropped right off.”
We both chuckled. “He had great fun with them this evening. So much that he’s going to spend the night there tomorrow,” I said, then took a sip.
“That will be nice. And you will have a little time to yourself.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I’ve agreed to accompany my sister, Delia, to a gallery opening.”
Mrs. Ford raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound very excited about it.”
I hesitated a moment as I gathered my thoughts. “Apprehensive would be more accurate. My sister and I were never that close growing up. Then I married and moved abroad while she was still young. We don’t really know each other, frankly, and our lives are very different now.”
Mrs. Ford gave me a thoughtful nod. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s not. But my mother seems to think that I can exert some sort of influence over her, and she is likely to be disappointed.
Both because I don’t think that is necessary, and I doubt Delia would even listen to me if I tried,” I said on a laugh.
“She’s an artist, you see. Not married and doesn’t seem to have much interest in changing that.
” Unless Mother was right and her connection to this Charles Pearson was more than a friendship.
I ran my finger along the rim of the teacup.
“But I might not be the best person to recommend the institution anyway,” I murmured.
The housekeeper cocked her head in surprise. “Truly? You regret your marriage?”
I turned my gaze to the softly glowing hearth.
“I love my children more than anything on this earth, and I was very happily married while my husband was alive. But widowhood has been another matter entirely,” I admitted.
“I suppose … I suppose I find it hard to recommend marriage when it can only ever end in death. In sadness.”
We were both quiet after that, and the silence went on for so long that I jerked in surprise when Mrs. Ford grasped my hand. She stared at me with her dark eyes full of sympathy.
“You were made a widow very young, with two young children. That is a difficult cross for anyone to bear, and it is no surprise that you feel that way. When I lost my Alan ten years ago, we were both older and our children grown. But do try to remember all the joy you experienced when your husband was alive. If you could go back and make different choices, would you really give it all up?”
My throat tightened, and I shook my head, for I knew no other answer would do. She squeezed my hand and gave me a satisfied smile. “Get some sleep. Things always seem hopeless this close to midnight.”
“I will.”
Then she left the room, and I turned back to the firelight.
There was more that I hadn’t shared, of course.
Things Mr. Dorian had told me about my husband that threatened to destroy the man I had thought him to be.
Things I still hadn’t been able to confirm nor deny.
Because I hadn’t decided which was worse: learning that my husband had actually been involved in a black-market antiquities scheme or doubting him enough in the first place to seek the answer.
Either path would mean a betrayal of some kind.
So for now I did nothing except sit with these thoughts.
But, deep down, I knew that would not satisfy me for much longer.
Eventually I would seek the truth, and I could only hope that the answers I found would not destroy me further.