“I suppose I do. In my day, knighthoods were awarded for bravery, as a military honor, that sort of thing. Not to every tradesman who devised a new mousetrap.”
“Well, whatever it was made him a rich man,” Rebecca defended. “He left his wife with an impressive house and fortune.”
“No children?”
“He had one son with a first wife, who died young. Sir Donald left everything to his second wife. He has long been estranged from his son.”
“Perhaps because the son disapproved of his second wife.”
“Mamma!” Frederick protested again.
Rebecca felt a spar of loyalty straighten her spine. She did not like admitting she’d needed her position, but neither did she like hearing her employer unfairly maligned.
“Before you say more, my lady, I think it fair to tell you that I am companion to Lady Fitzhoward and have been for a twelvemonth now. And while she may possess her share of asperity, she has also been generous and kind to me.”
“Lady’s companion?” Frederick’s mother repeated, taken aback.
Rebecca forced herself to hold the woman’s gaze, overcoming the urge to duck her head in embarrassment. “Yes.”
Lady Wilford sucked in a breath. “Oh! That’s it!”
“What is, Mamma?” Frederick asked. “Are you suggesting Lady Fitzhoward was once—” he chuckled uneasily—“a lady’s companion?”
Staring off into her memory, the dowager said, “Not ... exactly.”
After luncheon, Sir Frederick rose to walk his mother out to the Wilford carriage. Rebecca bid them good-bye and started toward Lady Fitzhoward’s room to make sure she was all right.
As Rebecca stepped into the cloisters, she saw it again—the black habit billowing out behind a retreating figure.
Her heart lurched. Someone was masquerading as the abbess once more. Miss Newport? Or the unknown man?
What should she do? Go back into the hall and remain out of sight? Or confront whoever it was, although the prospect terrified her?
Sir Frederick appeared behind her, as if hearing her silent cry for help.
“Miss Lane.” He studied her expression and his eyes narrowed. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
Rebecca pointed to the swathed figure striding quietly through the opposite side of the cloisters.
She whispered, “I know you did not believe me when I said I saw a ghost. But there. Look. Tell me I am imagingthat.”
His jaw tightened. “I see it too. And it is no ghost.”
In a flash, Frederick sprinted around the corner and shouted, “Stop!”
With the swiftest glance over his or her shoulder, the figure began running. Rebecca glimpsed a pale face framed by a white wimple. Not a veiled specter this time.
Frederick chased the fleeing figure around the cloisters and through the door that led back into the hall. The figure’s gait struck Rebecca as feminine this time. What was Miss Newport up to now?
Rebecca turned and hurried after them.
She had just reached the hall when Sir Frederick caught up with the dark figure, grabbed her shoulder, and whirled her around to face him.
Rebecca slowed, then stopped altogether, mouth slack in dawning dismay.
The woman staring back at them was plain, middle-aged, and not familiar in the least.
———
