Rebecca nodded, a new wave of dread washing over her. Why was that man in Swanford?
As they were finishing their tea, the Wilfords’ steward arrived, and again Rebecca tried to rouse her brother. “John?” she hissed through the door. “Mr. Jones is here for the rent. John?”
In the entryway, the stoic man shifted from foot to foot. “That’s all right, miss. Don’t want to spoil your homecoming. I’ll return another time.”
Face hot with embarrassment, Rebecca replied, “Thank you, Mr. Jones. I apologize for the inconvenience.”
And later, when Rose began setting platters of food on the dining table, Rebecca tried again. “John? Dinner is almost ready. Please join us.”
No reply. She pressed her forehead to the solid wood and added on a plaintive note, “John? Do answer. You begin to worry me.”
Finally, she returned to the kitchen and said, “You have a key to his room, do you not?”
Rose nodded as she poured gravy into a sauceboat. “Used it once when he didn’t respond, but he flew into a rage and warned me never to use it again.”
Rebecca raised her chin. “Well, he has not warnedme.”
Rose handed over the key from her chatelaine, worry lines on her brow. Rebecca didn’t blame her. She was worried too. Worried her brother might have done himself a harm.
Rebecca strode down the passage, took a deep breath, andinserted the key into the lock. Then she pushed the door open, the hinges creaking in protest.
There he lay, eyes closed, half-dressed, disheveled, lying amid jumbled bedclothes, wadded papers, teacups, empty whiskey bottles, smaller suspicious-looking brown bottles, and plates of half-eaten food. The air was foul with the cloying odor of sweat and spoiled meat.
She wrinkled her nose. “John?”
No reaction. Her heart banged hard.
“John!” she repeated sharply, slogging through the debris to the bed and shaking his shoulder.
His eyelids fluttered open. “What!” Displeasure and confusion puckered his face. “Becky? Why are you here? Leave me alone.”
What’s wrong with you?She wanted to shout, but the lump in her throat stopped her. She knew what was wrong—to some degree at least. He had never been quite right since that fall from the tree. The resulting head injury had left him confused, lethargic, and moody. A condition that had grown worse over recent years, exacerbated by a deep depression of spirits and too much drink.
And the cause?
She knew it all too well.
Frederick Wilford glanced around the Wickworth drawing room into the hall beyond. Everywhere he looked, the furniture, mirrors, and silent clocks lay shrouded under protective white Holland cloths—and had been for two years.
Will I never be able to put the past behind me?he asked himself.Forgive her ... and myself?
The sound of hammering from upstairs seemed to poundright into his brain. He rubbed ineffectually at his throbbing temples.
The front door burst open, the caller not bothering to knock.
“Freddy? I’m here!”
Frederick stepped into the hall to greet his younger brother, who lived in London but visited every year at Christmas and Frederick’s birthday.
Dapper, fair-haired Thomas set down his valise and handed his greatcoat to the suddenly appearing footman.
Frederick looked past him, expecting to see his valet. “Your man not with you?”
“No. Went off and got himself married, poor fool.” Then his brother glanced around, eyes wide. “You still have everything covered? Really, Freddy, this place is like a mausoleum.”
“Good day to you too, Tom. Welcome home.”
Thomas shook his head. “Wickworth has not been my home in ages, thankfully. Who would want to live here? Ghosts? Certainly not living, breathing people.”
