“Ah. I see. My condolences.”
“Were you ... acquainted with my father?”
After a slight hesitation, she replied, “No. We were never ... introduced.”
Another odd response.
He said, “And I don’t believe I am familiar with the name Fitzhoward. You are not from this county, I take it.”
No shake of the head. Only her eyes moved. “My husband’s name. From Manchester. We spent his last few years in Cheltenham. Spa town, you know, hoping to restore his health. The effort did not succeed.”
“Then you have lost a spouse as well.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, almost two years ago now.”
“I am sorry.” The woman’s gaze slid to Rebecca and away again.
“Well. I won’t keep you. Good night, ladies.”
“Good night,” Lady Fitzhoward replied.
Miss Lane said nothing, but her large hazel eyes held his, making him reluctant to turn away. With effort, he bowed and took his leave.
———
Throughout the meal, Rebecca had tried to rouse her courage to walk over and speak to Mr. Oliver, but doing so seemed like such a presumptuous intrusion. He, not to mention Lady Fitzhoward, would likely think her incredibly forward. That thought kept her rooted to her chair.
Sir Frederick’s coming to their table had given her a welcome excuse to put off the uncomfortable task.
After he left the dining room, Lady Fitzhoward turned speculative eyes her way.
“That honor was due to you. You two are apparently well acquainted?”
For some illogical reason, Rebecca’s face heated. She lowered it, looking down at her serviette again as she folded it with far more precision than the task required.
“Oh, I have known him for years,” she said in what she hoped seemed a casual manner. “My father was his tutor when he was a boy. And after Papa married as a mere curate, the Wilfords granted him the living of All Saints Church. My brother and I grew up as neighbors to them.”
“I see.” Lady Fitzhoward studied her face. “And were you acquainted with his wife as well?”
Rebecca fussed with the cloth. “I met her, once or twice.”
“I suppose she was very beautiful and accomplished?”
Rebecca felt the old ache, and said in a hollow voice, “Yes. She was.”
Rose had written to let her know Lady Wilford had died, and Rebecca had felt no joy at the news.Poor Frederick.
Lady Fitzhoward watched her a moment longer, then gathered up her reticule and stood. “I shall see you tomorrow, I trust?”
“I shall be here.”
After her employer left, Rebecca finished her coffee, and then followed her out. Passing by the hall, she noticed Sir Frederick standing within, looking up at something. The walls held carved niches from portrait level to the ceiling. In place of the old religious icons that must once have filled them now stood small statues of Greek gods and other fanciful figures.
“What has caught your attention?” she asked, walking over to join him.
He pointed to one of the niches. “That statue. It’s meant to be the first abbess, the one who built the abbey. How young and carefree she looks.”
