Silence in Hanover Close - Anne Perry [46]
There was another answer: either Julian, or Garrard, was a traitor, and the woman in cerise was the spy who had turned the man’s loyalty. It was simply coincidence that she had not been seen since Robert York’s death—she had been more careful, that was all.
No, that was silly too. If the woman in cerise had had nothing to do with Robert York’s death, why bother to think about her at all? She was just what she seemed, a paramour being indiscreet. Perhaps Julian had tired of her—or Garrard, at a stretch of the imagination—and she had become desperate and foolish enough to pursue him to his house.
Or again, maybe Harriet was leading a double life—possibly even keeping an assignation with Felix. And in such flamboyant clothes, so different from her usual attire that Aunt Adeline had failed to recognize her. In the middle of the night, when Aunt Adeline had presumably woken from sleep, that seemed more than likely. She sounded like a quaint old lady, at the best.
Would Emily herself grow into a quaint, lonely old lady, visiting relatives too often and so bored she lived other people’s lives vicariously, misunderstanding everyone and seeing things that were not there?
With this wretched thought Emily decided to get up, even though it was still only five minutes to seven. If the servants were startled, let them be. It would do them good.
She rang for her maid and had to wait several minutes for her to come. Then she had a bath and dressed carefully, as if she were to entertain someone of great importance—it was good for her morale—and went downstairs. Of course, her lady’s maid had warned the rest of the house, so she took no one by surprise. Whatever they felt, there was nothing in their faces but bland good-mornings. Carrying in the poached eggs, Wainwright looked like a church warden with a collection plate, and he put it down in front of her with the same reverence. She would have loved to startle him enough to make him drop it!
When she had finished breakfast and had taken three cups of tea she went to the kitchen. She thoroughly irritated the cook by interfering with the week’s menus, and then tried the patience of her own maid by checking on the mending and ironing of her gowns. When she finally realized how unfair she was being, she went into her boudoir, closed the door, and began to write a letter to Great-aunt Vespasia, simply because she would have liked to talk to her. She was on the fourth page of her letter when the footman knocked and came in to tell her that her mother, Mrs. Ellison, was in the morning room.
“Oh, ask her in here,” she answered. “It’s much brighter.” She covered the letter and with mixed feelings prepared to welcome her mother.
Caroline came in a moment later, dressed in a fashionable wine-colored barathea trimmed with black fur and a rakish hat which made her look more elegant than Emily could remember. There was a flush in her cheeks, doubtless the bitter weather, and she was full of good spirits.
“How are you, my dear?” She kissed Emily delicately and sat in one of the most comfortable chairs. “You look peaked,” she observed with maternal candor. “I hope you are eating well. You must look after your health, for Edward’s sake and your own. Of course, this first year is terribly difficult, I know, but another six months and it will be past. You must prepare for the future. By midsummer it will be acceptable for you to start mixing in a few suitable gatherings.”
Emily’s heart sank. The word suitable was like a damnation. She could imagine those gatherings: coteries of black-clad widows sitting round like crows on a fence, making pious-sounding, meaningless remarks, or else tutting over the latest giddiness of Society, picking it over endlessly because it was the only way they could participate in its life.
“I think I’ll take up good works,” she said aloud.
“Very