“Em, yes. Just taking time to untangle.”
Rebecca lowered the kite, freed at last, to the outstretched hands awaiting it, then dropped the string as well.
She climbed carefully down, finally sitting on the lowest branch and preparing to jump. It seemed higher now for some reason.
Rebecca took a steadying breath and pushed off, stumbling to the ground. Getting to her feet, she saw the grass stain on her gown and inwardly groaned. Lady Fitzhoward had an exacting eye. She reached down and swatted ineffectually at the stain. Hopefully, Rose could help her remove it.
The little boy threw his arms around her knees, adding snot to the brownish-green stain.
The girl bobbed a curtsy. “Thank you, Miss...? May I ask your name?”
“I am Miss Lane, and you are most welcome.” Rebecca gathered her things and straightened. “May I suggest the village green for your next kite-flying adventure?”
Grinning sheepishly, the children nodded in agreement and waved her on her way.
Reaching the narrow footbridge, Rebecca crossed back over the river and continued through Fowler’s Wood, approaching the lodge from behind. The thatched cottage had once been the underkeeper’s lodge, but the Wilfords employed only one gamekeeper these days and had let the lodge to John and Rebecca on very easy terms. She had lived there with her brother for a few years until financial and relational strain had spurred her to seek a position as a lady’s companion.
At her knock, the elderly cook-housekeeper, Rose Watts, met her at the door, the dear, sagging features lifting into a smile at the sight of her.
“Miss Rebecca! What a happy surprise. Thank the Lord.”
Uncertainty flickered. “Is it a surprise, Rose? I did write and asked John to let you know when I would be arriving. Perhaps he has not yet received my letter.”
The woman’s gaze shifted to a basket on the sideboard, overflowing with newspapers and correspondence. “Or perhaps it is still in that pile.” Rose looked back at her. “You did receive my letter?”
“Yes, that is why I am here. Is John home?”
“’Course he is. He’s always home.”
Rebecca glanced from the dining parlour into the sitting room and saw that both were empty.
Rose sighed. “He’s in his room. Still asleep, most likely.”
“Asleep? It’s after three in the afternoon!”
The housekeeper’s lined face creased into an odd expression, half apology, half long-suffering frown. “It’s as I told you. Hestays up all hours, pacing back and forth and muttering to himself, then sleeps the day away. And when I try to talk to him about it, he becomes devilish angry.”
Rebecca went to knock on her brother’s bedchamber door.
“John? It’s Rebecca. I am back.”
No answer. She removed her hat and gloves and tried again. Still no response.
To distract herself from mounting alarm, Rebecca walked down the passage to the spare room where she usually slept, planning to stow her valise. She opened the door and froze. The room was an utter disaster. Between the door and bed, a small table haphazardly sat, piled high with sheaves of paper, as was the bed itself. Twine hung with pages stretched across the room. The side table and dressing chest were strewn with reference books, ink pots, spent candles, coffee cups, plates, piles of old clothes, and even John’s viola, which, as far as she knew, he had not played in years.
Rose stopped in the doorway behind her. “I am sorry, Miss Rebecca. He’s taken to using this room as an office and storeroom of sorts. I would have asked him to clean it—or done it myself—had I known when you were coming. What you must think of me! In my defense, John has kept me busy writing a clean copy of his new manuscript.”
“I understand.”
Rebecca gestured toward the pages hanging on the line. “Why are those there?”
“I believe he spilled something and is drying them out.”
“I see. I shall ... em, sleep on the sofa tonight, and we’ll sort it tomorrow.”
“Very well. Come with me to the kitchen. I have something else to tell you.”
She joined Rose for tea at the scarred wooden table. Theolder woman said, “Since I wrote to you, I have learned that a certain author, and you will guess who I mean, wrote to reserve a room at the Swanford Abbey Hotel. I heard it from Cassie Somerton herself—she’s head housekeeper there. He arrived last night, and word is spreading fast round the village. I worry what John might do.”
