CHAPTER 14 #2
Mourning did not flatter most women, but somehow the unremitting black only accentuated the woman’s delicate beauty. Silhouetted against the dimly lit corridor, her pale, porcelain-perfect face drew the eye, much like a moth to a flame.
“It is I who should be apologizing, Mrs. Sloane. I had not realized Miss Merton had guests,” replied Isobel. The dark silk rustled, stirring shadows on shadows. “Please, let us not stand on formalities. I am Mrs. Ashton.”
A graceful speech, quickly followed by a smile. And yet, there was no warmth to it.
Realizing the rooster was still in her hands, Charlotte flushed, feeling like a guilty schoolgirl.
“I know it’s horribly rag-mannered of me to be poking around in another person’s possessions, but this reminded me of a piece my late husband and I acquired in Italy.
” It was manipulative, perhaps, to hint at her own widowhood.
But maybe she could turn this initial awkwardness to her advantage.
The chill melted ever so slightly from Isobel’s lips. “It brings back fond memories?”
“Yes. But alas, ours was destroyed during the voyage back to England.” Charlotte set it back on the table. “Again, I apologize for my bad manners.”
A throaty laugh. “I, too, am a guest in this house, so be assured you’ve caused no offense. Most of the possessions you see don’t belong to me either.”
The widow had a unique vitality that most people would find appealing, thought Charlotte, seeing a spark come to life in the other woman’s eyes. Most especially men. Strange that Wrexford hadn’t made mention of it. He was usually perceptive about such things and quick to comment on them.
“But as it so happens, that rooster did travel here with us,” continued Isobel. “It was given to my husband as a jest by some friends. Like an owl, he tended to work in the dark of night, so he was not an early riser.”
Charlotte smiled politely.
“He found it highly amusing, though I’m surprised he brought it along on this trip.” The widow regarded it for a long moment. “I can’t say that I see its charms.”
“It has no intrinsic artistic value,” agreed Charlotte. “One would have to feel a sentimental attachment to see any worth in it.”
“I don’t claim to have an eye for art of any kind. I prefer music to paintings.” As the sound of approaching footsteps echoed in the corridor, Isobel shifted and then suddenly moved to the table and took up the figurine. “Please, I’d like for you to have it.”
“Oh, no, I couldn’t,” protested Charlotte, taken aback by the unexpected offer.
“You would actually be doing me a great favor,” responded the widow. “It would save me the trouble of transporting it back to Leeds.”
Before Charlotte could reply, Octavia hurried into the room, followed closely by Jeremy.
“Oh, you need not have troubled yourself to come to me, Mrs. Ashton,” Octavia exclaimed. The words belied the daggers in her eyes. “I was just seeing to having tea served to Lord Sterling and Mrs. Sloane before responding to your summons.”
Isobel eyed Jeremy, her expression inscrutable. “How kind of you to stop by, Lord Sterling.”
Charlotte realized that of course they must know each other.
“I’m so glad to have the chance to express my condolences in person, Mrs. Ashton,” he answered smoothly, as if he hadn’t heard the hint of friction in her voice. “It is a great loss for you, and for all of us who considered your husband a friend.”
“Thank you.” A pause as her gaze took on a speculative gleam.
Jeremy often drew such looks from women, thought Charlotte. But this one seemed strangely impersonal.
“Elihu enjoyed your company, and your intellectual curiosity,” went on Isobel. “Most of his investors are not particularly interested in his ideas, merely what they produce.”
Was that an edge of bitterness, wondered Charlotte. Or some other emotion?
Jeremy acknowledged her words with a small nod. “That’s very kind of you to say.”
The majolica rooster suddenly felt heavy as lead in Charlotte’s hands. The air of perfect politeness wasn’t fooling anyone. Beneath it crackled a current of tension.
Octavia’s eye was drawn to the flutter of color. “Ah, I see you’ve found Eli’s pet.”
The widow stiffened at the use of her husband’s name.
“He was very fond of that silly bird,” added Octavia.
“It seems Mrs. Sloane had a sentimental attachment to a similar one from her past,” replied Isobel. A pause, made with an actress’s instinct for effect. “So I’ve made it a gift to her. I know Elihu would be delighted that it will bring pleasure to someone who’ll appreciate it, now that he’s gone.”
The color drained from Octavia’s face. “But . . .”
“But what?” asked Isobel softly. Steel within silk. Her looks might deceive a great many people, but Charlotte wasn’t fooled. Beneath the widow’s fragile femininity, she sensed there was a will that would break before it would ever bend.
Octavia bit her bloodless lip.
“If Miss Merton would take comfort in having it as a token—” began Charlotte.
“She has a great many mementos of my husband, if indeed such things have any sentimental meaning to her,” said Isobel firmly.
“However, I doubt that is the case. Miss Merton has said on numerous occasions that she prides herself on being ruled by reason and practicality, not emotion.” A glance at Octavia. “Isn’t that so?”
“Yes.” The whisper had no breath behind it.
“So you see, Mrs. Sloane, the matter is settled. It gives me great pleasure to know the piece of pottery will have an appreciative home.”
Charlotte had no choice. To refuse the gift would appear unforgivably churlish. “That’s exceedingly generous of you.”
“Not at all,” replied the widow frankly. “True generosity is when you part from something that has value to you.”
Charlotte sensed her mettle was being tested. “Then call it charitable. An act of kindness to a stranger.”
Amusement touched Isobel’s lips. “I would have suggested pragmatic. As I said, it saves me the worry of transporting a fragile object—and the guilt of breaking something which Elihu enjoyed.”
“Pragmatism,” murmured Charlotte, “is, to my mind, a worthy trait.” Especially for a woman.
“Indeed.” The windows rattled as a rising gust slapped against the diamond-shaped pane. A spattering of raindrops ricocheted against the glass. Octavia started, but the widow didn’t flinch.
Isobel Ashton, decided Charlotte, would be a formidable enemy.
The shadows deepened and darkened within the room. A rattling suddenly sounded in the corridor as well, along with tentative footsteps. Looking uncertain, the young maid carrying the heavily-laden tea tray hesitated upon entering the room.
“Do come in,” said Isobel. “And please light the other lamps for our guests.”
“I think it might be better if we put off tea to another time,” suggested Jeremy. “I sense we’ve come at an inconvenient time.”
“No,” exclaimed Octavia. Her chin rose in challenge. “That is, there’s no need for you to go. If Mrs. Ashton has something she wishes to discuss with me, I’m perfectly happy to do so now.”
Isobel coolly ignored the protest. “Thank you, Lord Sterling. I appreciate your understanding. Another time would be best.” To Octavia, she said, “I wish to speak with you about Mr. Hillhouse and his whereabouts. I was obliged for the second time to inform Lord Wrexford that he was not here.”
“There’s no need for you to see us out,” murmured Jeremy. “The maid will do so.”
Charlotte shifted her gift and accepted his arm. As they turned to go, she couldn’t help but notice that Octavia had slumped back against the bookshelves. Although her hands were fisted in her skirts, they seemed to be shaking. And her face looked like death warmed over.