In her veined hands, she’d held a letter. Lady Fitzhoward stared down at it, face grey but eyes wide.
“What is it?” Rebecca had asked. “Not bad news, I hope.”
Lady Fitzhoward started as though awakening. “What? Howshould I know?” She struggled up with effort. “I have not yet stooped to reading your letters. Our forwarded post arrived this morning.” She thrust the unopened letter toward Rebecca, adding, “From home.”
Rebecca looked at the postal markings and recognized Rose’s handwriting. “It’s from my brother’s housekeeper.”
“Rose, I believe you call her?”
Rebecca nodded.
“What is her surname, by the way?”
“Watts.”
“Rose Watts?”
“Yes.”
“She never married?”
“No. Why do you ask?”
The woman shrugged. “Merely curious. You speak of her often.”
“We are fond of her,” Rebecca replied, thinking of the housekeeper’s generous nature and tart, forthright tongue.
Then she studied Lady Fitzhoward’s face once more, wondering why she looked so disconsolate.
“My lady, is something the matter? Are you not feeling well?”
“I am perfectly well. Quit fussing and read your letter.”
“All right.” Rebecca opened the seal and unfolded the page. As she read about Rose’s growing concerns over John’s behavior, and her plea that Rebecca return to Swanford as soon as possible, all other thoughts faded away.
———
Now Rebecca felt a quiver of unease to find Lady Fitzhoward looking similarly dejected, although this time she held no letter.
“What are you doing here, my lady?” she asked gently. “I thought you were visiting friends for Easter?”
The woman shook her head. “The truth is, I haven’t anyfriends. I told you that so you wouldn’t feel sorry for me. And my sister and I have been estranged for thirty years.”
Rebecca held out her hand. “Then come home with me.”
Engaging Robb to drive them, they made a brief stop for provisions at the High Street shops, then rattled through Fowler’s Wood. The late afternoon sunshine slipped through the tree branches like bars of yellow gold. Birdsong and the smell of wildflowers filled the air with promises of springtime.
Arriving at the lodge, Rebecca opened the door for Lady Fitzhoward and gestured her inside.
Rose met them in the entryway and drew up short, clearly startled.
Rebecca said, “Rose, this is Lady Fitzhoward.”
The housekeeper stared at her for three full ticks of the clock, then her mouth tightened. “No, it isn’t.”
“It is.”
Lady Fitzhoward, looking tense and pensive, rested gloved hands rather heavily on her walking stick. “Rosie,” she said simply.
