Chapter 10 #2
The door was not locked. That was the first surprise — Viola had imagined it sealed like a tomb, and it opened on an ordinary latch, into an afternoon-lit room that smelled of old paper and beeswax and, faintly, of lavender.
The second surprise was how small it was.
The grandest rooms of Stoneleigh stood below, and Lady Warrington had done her life’s work in a chamber scarcely larger than Papa’s study at home — a plain desk, much used, a worn chair with its cushion flattened by years, and shelves of ledgers in a neat, strong hand.
Her spectacles still lay upon the blotter, folded, as though she had only stepped out. A novel sat on the desk’s corner with a ribbon marking her place, three chapters from the end.
“She never finished it,” Viola said, foolishly, for there was nothing else to say.
“No.” Mrs. Hartley stood in the doorway, her hands folded, her composure absolute and paper-thin. “She said she already knew how it would end and meant to catch the author out. She was wrong about that, as it happens. It ended quite differently.” A pause. “She would have been delighted.”
Viola laughed, and her eyes filled at the same time, and neither seemed wrong.
She walked the little room slowly, touching nothing, reading the spines of the ledgers — parish names, years, the quiet accounting of decades of care.
The woman who had upended her whole life had sat in this flattened chair, by that inkwell gone dry, and thought of her.
Of all of them. It made her feel less like a stranger in the house than anything had yet.
“I shall want the fire laid in here, I think,” she said at last. “And the door left open, so the room airs. She would not want it kept as a shrine.”
“No, Miss Trent.” Mrs. Hartley’s voice was very steady. “She had no patience for shrines. She would want it used.”
* * *
“You are to meet Lord Carrington?”
Viola nodded as the carriage rolled into the heart of London. “Yes, I am.”
“For what purpose?”
“To discuss the house and Lady Warrington’s will.” Hannah stared at her, wide-eyed. “Surely you cannot think it an absurdity?”
“Absurdity? No. Not at all.” Hannah’s brows lifted. “Though you must know how it will look. They will see you together again, and that after you danced with him last night, and took a turn about the room.”
Viola turned to the window, striving for an air of unconcern. “We both wish to learn why Lady Warrington gave me this house. That is all. And besides, he cares very little for what society says.”
“So it would seem.” Hannah’s voice was light, the sunshine flooding the carriage. “And you, sister? Is it only Lady Warrington’s will that makes you so eager for his company?”
Viola frowned. “I do not know what you mean.”
“Oh, yes, you do.” Hannah did not relent. “You danced with him, you walked the room with him, and you came home with color in your cheeks and a brightness in your eyes that owed nothing to the heat of the ballroom. Do not pretend, Viola.”
Heat flooded Viola’s face at once, as if Hannah had knocked a shield from her hands.
“He is handsome and kind, that is all,” she said, faltering.
“I am grateful for his trust in me.” She tried not to think of the steadiness in his voice, the humor that softened his face, the strange safety of being claimed for a dance by a gentleman whose motives were honest.
“You think he has no real wish to possess Stoneleigh?”
“When first I spoke with him, and after what Miss Galbraith said, I did think he wanted it given to him. That he felt himself owed it, almost.”
“And now?”
A smile touched Viola’s lips, though she did not turn.
“Now he is different. The way he brought me that anonymous letter, let me read it, told me he did not believe a word — that began to let me trust him. He has stood up with me before all of society and cared nothing for what they made of it.” She looked back at Hannah, who nodded slowly.
“His wish to find answers is easy to understand, is it not? In seeing his confusion, in sharing it, the tension that was between us has eased. I find I look forward to discovering why Lady Warrington did this. I am certain he feels the same.”
Hannah tilted her head, her eyes shrewd. “Do be careful,” she said softly. “A gentleman like that, without meaning to be, can be dangerous all the same.”
Viola nodded and slipped her hand into her pocket, finding her father’s watch chain there.
She did not quite know why she carried it, perhaps simply for the reminder of him, but it steadied her.
“I see why you might worry, Hannah. But there is no cause,” she lied, pretending she felt nothing more than appreciation for the gentleman.
“Besides, you will be present. You will see for yourself that our talk concerns nothing but how we are to discover Lady Warrington’s reasons. ”
Her sister said nothing, only gave a small, lopsided smile that told Viola she did not believe the promise for a moment. Viola turned to the window, her heart already quickening at the thought of seeing Lord Carrington again.
* * *
Gunter’s was busy with the ton, the warm air thick with sugar and spice and the hum of fashionable talk.
Viola let Hannah go in first — her sister lingered only long enough to settle her at a corner table before excusing herself to greet an acquaintance across the room.
Sitting alone, waiting for both Hannah and Lord Carrington, Viola prayed she would not be too closely watched.
Surely, by now, enough time had passed that the ton had found fresher things to whisper of?
It had not. Even here she felt the attention shifting toward her. She kept her posture composed, her hands folded in her lap, but the awareness of every glance set her skin prickling. She looked to the window, as if attention there might summon Lord Carrington the sooner, and let out a slow breath.
“Miss Trent?”