Chapter 8 #2
I awoke, feeling bleary-eyed and disoriented, some hours later and glanced at the small bedside clock and groaned.
It was half-past noon already. I fought the urge to continue sleeping, as I would surely pay for it later that evening.
Slowly, I sat up while the events of the previous night and morning filtered through my woolly brain.
And yet, despite all that had occurred—all that I had witnessed—it was one memory in particular that brought an immediate frown to my face.
I had seen Mr. Dorian, of all people. I did take some comfort in the fact that I had been wearing a very fine gown, then immediately chastised myself for caring in the first place.
After all, this was a man who had not even seen fit to say good-bye to me before leaving Corfu and made no attempt to contact me afterwards.
And I suppose it’s only a coincidence that your initials happen to match the dedication in his latest book?
I grimaced as I recalled the inspector’s insinuation.
Regrettably, I had also made the same inference at first. But even if that was the case, that blasted book dedication was probably Mr. Dorian’s idea of a joke.
Or maybe he had simply run out of people to dedicate books to, so why not include the silly little widow who typed up the blasted thing?
Just as I felt my cheeks heat, I gave myself a shake.
No. I refused to dedicate any more time or emotion to that man.
I certainly had not known he would be at that party, and would have avoided the place if I had.
Would you?
I ignored the sly voice in my head as I threw back the coverlet.
However, the room was shockingly cold, and I immediately retreated back to the bed.
Goodness, was this room always so frigid?
But then I looked towards the hearth and found the fire had entirely gone out.
Well, that explained it. I tugged on the bellpull and then headed for the wardrobe.
There must be something I could throw on.
As I recalled, I hadn’t taken very much with me when I left for Greece on account of the vast difference in climate and had to purchase a whole new wardrobe when we arrived in Athens.
I tugged open the heavy wooden door of the wardrobe, which always had a habit of sticking, and was hit anew with the scent of dried rose petals.
It was mostly empty now, as I’m sure Delia had raided the best bits long ago.
A sad-looking pair of shoes remained, along with a few plain skirts and shirts that I couldn’t blame her for not taking.
But there on a hook hung a heavy wool cardigan that would do quite nicely.
I grabbed it and pulled it on, then found a pair of thick cotton socks to match.
Now that I had on an extra layer, I shuffled over to the washstand to wipe my face and clean my teeth.
I had just finished when there was a scratch at the door, and it opened.
A young, brown-haired maid bustled in with a tray. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. We forgot you were in here, and no one tended the fire this morning,” she said in a great rush.
“Entirely understandable,” I said, as she set down the tray on a table, then set about lighting the fire.
“Mrs. Reynolds gave us all a good dressing-down just now,” she said with a sheepish glance over her shoulder. “It won’t happen again.”
The corner of my mouth lifted. As I recalled, the housekeeper could be rather terrifying when she was in a lather over something. “I will speak with her. It’s really no trouble. And I will not be staying another night,” I insisted, mostly for my own benefit.
The maid flashed me a grateful smile, then turned back to the hearth.
I approached the table and looked over the tray.
She had brought me a pot of tea and some rolls with jam and butter.
A bit spartan, but then I had missed breakfast, and no doubt they were right in the middle of serving luncheon downstairs.
“What’s your name?” I asked as I poured a cup of tea.
“Deirdre, ma’am,” the maid replied.
“How long have you worked here?”
“A little over a year.”
I hummed in response as I took a sip, savoring the strong brew.
I didn’t like to admit it, but no one could make a pot of tea like the English.
It simply tasted better here. I very much wanted to interrogate Deirdre about what she knew about my family, but the girl had endured enough this morning on my account.
So I settled for a more innocuous question.
“Is my sister awake?”
“No, ma’am. But your mother wishes to speak with you. When you are ready, of course,” she hastened to add.
My lips flattened. I had expected as much, but was surprised that Jack had already been back here to talk with her. Did that man ever sleep? “I see. And I take it she is downstairs having luncheon?”
“Yes, I believe so. With Mr. Everly.”
Delia had mentioned that our parents usually had supper alone in their rooms, so I was glad to learn luncheon was a more communal affair.
The fire was beginning to catch, so Deirdre rose. “Do you need anything else, ma’am?”
“No. Thank you, Deirdre.”
With that, she bobbed a quick curtsy and scurried from the room, leaving me alone once again.
As I was not in a great rush to face my mother and attempt to explain anything about the previous evening, I enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in front of the now roaring fire.
Then I returned to my wardrobe and pulled out some of my old clothes.
The pickings were very slim indeed, but I did not want to wake Delia simply to retrieve my discarded dress.
She needed lots of rest to fortify herself for what lay ahead.
My shoulders tightened instinctively at the thought of mourning a lost love, but I could still recognize how far I had come since Oliver’s death. Especially since the spring.
I brushed aside some very inconvenient thoughts and mindlessly pulled out a skirt and blouse.
They fit more tightly than my usual clothing, but nothing I couldn’t manage for a few hours.
I also found some old underthings and stockings in the chest of drawers.
When I was done dressing, I looked over my reflection in the bronze-edged, full-length mirror.
A smile touched my lips. In my navy wool skirt and white shirtwaist with the frill at the collar, I rather looked like a university student—that is, if one didn’t get close enough to notice the faint lines around my eyes.
I chuckled at the thought, then sat at my old vanity table and began to pick apart the worst of the snarls in my hair with an ivory comb.
Once that was accomplished, I brushed out my hair, then tied it back into a simple chignon at the back of my neck.
I still looked a touch too pale, and there were distinctive shadows beneath my eyes, but there was no use in fussing any longer.
I had never managed to satisfy my mother anyway, no matter how much effort I put into my appearance.
She always seemed to find something to criticize.
Whether it was as small as a loose lock of hair or as inherent as the curve of my smile, I was always lacking in some specific way.
I had learned many years ago that it was better not to seek her approval, for then I would not be quite so disappointed by her inevitable criticism.
Absently, I rubbed my palms on the front of my skirt and stilled my hands.
“No more dithering,” I murmured to myself.
Besides, the sooner I spoke with her, the sooner I could leave and get Tommy.
The thought filled me with a rush of love that brought me to my feet.
I clung to that feeling as I headed for the door.
These last hours had been so terribly dark and filled with such sadness and worry.
I was struck anew by how very grateful I was for my two children and the joy they had brought me over the years.
Without them, I was certain I could not have gone on after Oliver’s death.
I had just reached out to turn the knob when there was a knock at the door, and it opened, not a moment later, to reveal my mother standing in the doorway. “Hello,” I chirped at her sudden, unexpected appearance. But she was too busy looking me over to notice my surprise.
“Are you wearing your old school clothes?”
I rather thought the incredulous tone of her voice was a bit much. I didn’t look that ridiculous.
“My other clothing is in Delia’s room,” I replied. “So I picked something out of the wardrobe.”
Her sharp gaze fell on the furniture in question. “I didn’t even know anything was still in there. I thought we gave it all to the maids or the charity shop.”
I cleared my throat. Then Delia hadn’t raided my old wardrobe after all. “Well, I’m glad you didn’t so I wasn’t forced to wander the halls in my nightgown.”
This little quip was met with an unamused tilt of her head, and I wondered for a moment if my mother thought anything was funny.
I certainly had never seen her utter more than a light, ladylike chuckle, and even then, it had been more out of politeness rather than a genuine response.
It was just another thing about her that would forever remain a mystery.
She swept farther into the room and looked back at me over her shoulder. “I hope you slept well?”
I nodded, as I knew from long experience she wasn’t really interested in the answer.
It was merely a precursor to what she truly wanted to discuss.
She stopped by the hearth and turned to face me.
Then I noticed her hands were locked tightly at her front.
She opened her mouth to speak, then hesitated.
Then it dawned on me: she was nervous. My mother.
I moved towards her, as if drawn by some unseen force to see this up close.
“You spoke with Jack,” I began, when it became clear she would not broach the subject first.
“Yes. He came here just after breakfast.”