Rose hesitated, then said, “I am not the first housekeeper to feel uneasy around her master, to never know if I’m to receive a word of praise or rebuke. But it is hard sometimes, especially as he was once such a sweet lad and so fond of me.”
Tears pricked Rebecca’s eyes. Over a sudden lump in her throat, she managed, “I am sorry.” She swallowed and said, “I hope you realize we would be lost without you. Especially John, although he might not admit it. However, I would understand completely if you wanted to find another place, somewhere more ... pleasant.”
“And where would I go? Who would give me another place, at my age?” Rose shook her head. “I don’t know what will become of me if John has to give up this lodge.”
“Don’t worry about that. If all else fails, I am sure Sir Frederick will find another place for you. But ... did not a certainyeoman farmer express interest in you? I remember him calling here. You might yet have a home and kitchen of your own.”
“Oh,” Rose said with a dismissive wave. “That was years ago. Mr. Fletcher brought me eggs and invited me to walk around his farm. He was very amiable—he just wasn’t for me. I know it’s foolish, especially after all this time, but I was in love once when I was young. And even now, I can’t help but compare every other man to him, and they all come up wanting. Not that there have been many, mind, but a few. I was not as pretty as Daisy, but he admired me, or so I thought. He moved away and married, yet I still think about him from time to time.”
“Where is he? Any idea?”
“No. I’ve not heard a word from or about him in thirty years. I try to tell myself he’d be fat and bald by now, though I know better. He’d still be trim, and have that full head of hair. It might be silver, but he’d still have it. And laughing eyes and a devilish smile.” She shook her head. “I’d be embarrassed to see him, old hag that I am, round and wrinkled, my figure long gone.”
“You are not a hag at all,” Rebecca assured her. “And a few pounds and wrinkles would not matter. Not to a man who cared for you.”
Rose smirked. “You’ve read too many romance novels. A man may admire a woman’s mind or virtue, but the attraction starts by what hesees. Unless, maybe, he’s blind.” Rose added with a saucy wink, “Know any blind men with a snug home and sunny kitchen?”
Rebecca grinned. “I am afraid not.”
“Nor I—more’s the pity.”
Rebecca set her gloves and bonnet on the side table and stood. “Well, I had better talk to John.” To herself she added,Before I lose my nerve.
Rebecca knocked and gingerly opened the door, expecting to find John asleep under the bedclothes, perhaps suffering the ill effects of drink ... or worse.
Instead she found him sitting in his desk chair, turned to face the window, the fading evening light illuminating his profile.
“What are you doing sitting here in the dark?” she gently asked.
“Hating myself.”
“Oh, John.”
“You would think I would be happy he’s dead, would you not?”
She bit her lip, then said softly, “Are you?”
He shook his head. “Maybe for a few minutes, but after? No. It’s all vanity. Futility. Over.”
She took a deep breath and said, “Your manuscript was not in Mr. Oliver’s room. I looked. We did find a few burnt pages in the grate—your title page and a few others, but not your whole manuscript. Do you know what happened to it?”
He gestured vaguely to a stack of paper half-hidden by a discarded pair of trousers.
She swallowed, her heart beating hard. “So you went to his room to retrieve it?”
He nodded.
“When?”
“You know when. The night I came to the hotel. I started having doubts after you gave it to him.”
“Why? Did you have reason to believe Mr. Oliver might be killed?”
He winced.
She looked again at the jar on his desk, the paintbrush still propped inside. She also recalled the pages hanging on a line in the spare room, left to dry.
“I have to ask. Did you spread arsenic on the pages I gave to Ambrose Oliver? Is that why you were looking for a paintbrush and rat poison? To kill him?”
