Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
Geneva and Jesse parted in the foyer. He went up to his room to have a bath before dinner, and she went in search of Honor. She found her sister and Rose in the library, sitting close to the fire and talking quietly, their heads close together.
“Jesse was looking for you,” Honor said when she noticed Geneva standing in the doorway. “Where were you?”
“By the old well.”
“What were you doing there?” Honor’s eyes glinted with suspicion.
“Taking a walk.”
“Alone?”
“Yes.”
Geneva suddenly recalled what Rory had said about her sister, and her stomach soured with resentment.
Honor looked so sweet and innocent sitting there, hardly more than a child.
But she had grown up, and Geneva hadn’t noticed.
No one had. And now she was working for herself and trying to assure her own future, free of her sister’s shadow.
“Where’s Jesse now?” Rose asked.
“He thought he’d have a bath before dinner.”
Rose nodded. “He’s so handsome. Looks just like Rudolph Valentino, don’t you think? And such lovely manners. I thought all Americans were brutes.”
“Why would you think that?” Geneva asked irritably. She’d never realized what snobs everyone was until now.
Rose shrugged, and Geneva supposed she was simply repeating what her mother had said.
She could be childish at times, and unlike Honor, who had grown into a beautiful young woman, Rose was rather plain and at times quite awkward.
Aunt Clarissa had been dramatically beautiful at that age, but Rose had taken after her father.
She had wide blue eyes, but her light brown hair was pin straight, and her nose and mouth were too wide to conform to modern standards of beauty.
She was also a bit overweight, thick through both the shoulders and the waist, and had hands and feet that were unusually large.
Geneva was certain Aunt Clarissa tormented her daily, but Rose was the sort of person who turned to food when she was angry or disappointed.
And this past year, it must have been her only source of comfort.
“I hadn’t realized you two had met,” she said to her cousin.
“We ran into him earlier,” Rose replied but didn’t mention where. Geneva supposed they had met Jesse while out walking.
“Won’t you join us?” Honor asked. “It’s hours yet until dinner.”
Geneva would have preferred to go up to her room, but she had been spending a lot of time on her own, so she pulled up a chair and sat down next to the girls. It was warm by the fire, and, since no other lamps had been lit, the library felt cozy and safe.
“I’m starving,” Honor said.
“Me too,” Rose chimed in. “Maybe we should ring for tea.”
Geneva wasn’t very hungry and would have happily forgone dinner, but a cup of tea would be just the thing.
“I’d rather have chocolate,” Honor said. She walked over to the bellpull and gave it a tug. “We’d like a pot of chocolate, and some scones if there are any left over,” she informed the parlormaid.
“Can you please bring me a cup of tea, Sally?” Geneva asked the woman before she retreated.
“Of course, my lady.”
The girls chatted easily, but Geneva stared into the leaping flames, suddenly too worn-out to participate.
She kept going over her conversation with Rory, and felt torn between sadness and relief.
Perhaps in a different world they might have been happy, but she could see now that their relationship had been doomed from the start, just as Honor had predicted.
That hadn’t stopped her from making a play for Rory herself, but Geneva had the feeling that Honor probably wanted something quite different from the handsome Irishman.
She wasn’t looking for a future, or even love.
Perhaps she’d simply wanted to know what it was like to be kissed.
If she craved anything beyond that, Geneva wasn’t prepared to dwell on it.
Rory would be gone in less than a fortnight, so she’d have one less problem to occupy her mind.
Sally brought a loaded tray and set it on the low table.
There was a pot of chocolate, four scones, clotted cream, and jam, and a smaller pot of tea for Geneva.
Cook had also sent up a plate of ginger biscuits.
The tea was wonderfully hot and strong, and Geneva helped herself to a biscuit.
She felt queasy, and her head was beginning to ache, probably the result of the tension she had felt earlier.
Honor and Rose paid her no mind as they fixed their scones and sipped on the chocolate.
“What ship did Jesse arrive on?” Rose asked as she brushed the crumbs from her fingers.
“The RMS Olympic,” Honor replied.
“He must have met the passenger who died on the crossing.”
“What passenger?” Geneva asked.
Rose leaned in closer, her voice conspiratorial.
“Mother doesn’t like me to read the papers, but I sometimes purchase a copy of the Telegraph when I go out for a walk and read it in my room.
Then I throw it on the fire, so she doesn’t find out.
I’ve been so isolated, it makes me feel a little better to know what’s going on in the world. ”
“So, what happened on the Olympic?” Honor hurried her.
“A passenger died the night before the ship was due to arrive in Southampton. The ship’s surgeon thought his death was suspicious, so the captain radioed to shore, and the police came aboard before the ship docked.”
“And?” Honor pressed, her eyes round with curiosity.
Rose looked distinctly disappointed. “The police surgeon carried out a postmortem. Natural causes, I’m afraid. It seems he came into contact with something that caused him to go into anaphylactic shock.”
“Can that really happen?” Honor exclaimed. Rose nodded wisely. “But wouldn’t he know if he was fatally allergic to something?”
“Maybe he’d never encountered it before,” Rose speculated. “And perhaps it was his first time traveling first-class.”
“He must have enjoyed some fancy dinners.
“And cocktails,” Honor said. “I’d never had a gin fizz before. Imagine if it killed me.”
“It happens very rarely,” Rose said.
“How do you know?”
“It said so in the paper. The article said that a bee sting, shellfish, or even strawberries can cause anaphylaxis. Little chance of getting stung by a bee in December, but he might have had a bite of lobster or shrimp without realizing it. It could have been in the soup,” Rose mused.
“Or maybe someone dropped a sliver of strawberry into his cocktail.”
“The poor man,” Geneva said. “And how ghastly for his traveling companions.”
“He was traveling alone,” Rose said.
“What was his name?” Honor asked.
“William Heller. There was a photo of him in the paper.”
“I’d have loved to see it.”
“I still have the newspaper,” Rose replied. “I used it to wrap Mother’s Christmas gift, so it wouldn’t shatter in my case.”
“Can we see it?” Honor asked.
“I’ll be right back.”
Rose hastened upstairs and returned a few minutes later with a crumpled page.
She smoothed it out on her knee, then instantly snatched it up so the ink didn’t smudge her skirt.
She handed the page to Geneva. She and Honor bent over the page, staring at a grainy photograph that must have come from the man’s passport.
He looked to be in his thirties, and had dark hair that was parted on the side and brushed back, dark eyes, and a pencil moustache that brought attention to his prominent nose and narrow face.
It wasn’t an attractive face, but there was something arresting about it.
“He looks like he had a short fuse,” Rose said.
“What do you mean?” Honor asked.
“Just like someone who’d easily lose their temper over something silly.”
“He does,” Honor agreed. “Looks like a right sod.”
“Honor, the man is dead,” Geneva reminded her. “And neither of you knows anything about him.”
Honor shrugged. “Will they send his body back to America?”
“They already have,” Rose replied. “He was repatriated.” She stumbled over the unfamiliar word. “At least his family will get to say goodbye. It’s important to say goodbye,” she added.
“Yes, it is,” Geneva agreed, and Honor nodded.
They had not seen their mother before she died.
She had been taken to hospital, and Geneva had not been able to attend the funeral.
She had been ill with a fever. For the longest time, she’d thought she would see her mother walking down the street or at church.
Sometimes she thought she heard her voice coming from the drawing room or from the sitting room, where she used to discuss household matters and plan the menus with Cook.
And sometimes Geneva dreamed of her. Her mother always chided her in her dreams, and she woke feeling tearful and sad.
Jack had said that their mother was haunting her because she had been a disobedient daughter.
She knew now that he had been teasing her, but at the time she had believed him, and had prayed for forgiveness every Sunday at church.
She hadn’t got to say goodbye to Jack either, since his body had not been shipped home.
He had been buried in a mass grave somewhere in Belgium.
And she had been only twelve years old when Edwin died.
She had not been allowed in the sick room for fear of catching smallpox.
The clock chimed the hour, and Geneva stood.
She needed to rest before dinner. A headache was building behind her eyes, and she’d have to endure hours of banal conversation dominated by Aunt Clarissa, but she couldn’t cry off.
Her father rarely came downstairs during the day, but he intended to come down to dinner tonight.
And how many more dinners would they have together?
Geneva preferred not to think about that as she mounted the stairs and entered her room.
Before she lay down, she selected the gown she was going to wear, a dusky blue silk, then walked over to her dressing table.
She was going to wear her mother’s sapphire earrings tonight.
In memoriam, she thought as she opened her jewelry case and lifted out the earrings.
They sparkled in the light, and Geneva’s eyes blurred with tears when she recalled the last time her mother had worn them.
She didn’t want to wear them, she decided.
It was too painful. When she went to replace the earrings in the case, her gaze settled on the box that held the claddagh ring, and she was suddenly sure it had been moved.
Someone had been in her room and had rifled through her things. What had they been looking for?