“Into my much smaller study. But I had resigned myself to storing some of them in the attic.”
“And now?”
“The workmen had already knocked through the wall when she died, and it has remained that way since. For a time, I vacillated between removing the entire wall as planned or patching the hole. Now I am considering having an archway built between the rooms, but to otherwise leave the library as is.”
“That sounds a good compromise.”
“Do you think so?”
“Yes. I like it. A clever solution.”
“Good. Thank you. That eases my mind.”
Eventually, he led her up to the first floor.
As they ascended the long flight, Rebecca wondered if these were the very stairs his wife had fallen down. Kitty’s words whispered through her mind,“A fall ...? And her asgraceful as could be, and using those same stairs every day for years? Others say Sir Frederick ... pushed her.”
A chill crept up her neck at the thought.
To dispel it, she said brightly, “I recall a remarkably pretty sitting room up here. Your mother’s favorite, I believe.”
“Yes, it is much as it ever was.”
He led her to it. The corner room was a snug, cozy size for family use, with windows on two sides.
She walked to one, then the other. One three-light window overlooked the bowling green where she had learned to play, and beyond it, a patchwork of pastures and fields backed by rolling hills—a lovely, bucolic view she had often admired. The other looked toward the church and graveyard, with Fowler’s Wood beyond.
“My wife did not like this room,” he said. “The view of the churchyard was distasteful to her, and she judged the furnishings too old-fashioned. She had plans to alter it as well, but that never happened.”
“Again, I am sorry for your loss. I hope it is not disrespectful to disagree with her. I think this room delightful as it is, but then, I always have.”
She didn’t say it to contradict his departed wife, nor to place herself in a more favorable light. It was simply the truth.
She looked up to find him watching her—his expression curiously intent. He crossed the room, stopping just in front of her and taking her hand. She inhaled sharply and held her breath.
Voice low, he said haltingly, “Miss Lane, I wish ... That is,I ... don’t want to make you uncomfortable, but I would like to say that being with you again—”
A loud bang shattered the air and the tension between them.
“What the deuce.” Frowning, he dropped her hand and turned, striding from the room.
She followed to search for the source of the unwelcome and untimely noise, her hand still tingling from his touch.
They found a workman crouched in the passage, picking up a large brass wall plate. “Sorry, sir.” He inspected the engraved surface. “No harm done.”
“Good, good.” Frederick glanced at her. “Well, as we are here...”
He showed her an opulent guest room and his wife’s bedchamber and adjoining boudoir, all fitted up in a lavish, oriental style popular with the recently ascended King George IV.
Rebecca did not like it at all, but refrained from saying so. Then again, she doubted she would like anything that changed the Wickworth of her youth.
He gazed dully at his deceased wife’s toiletry items on the dressing table: hairbrush and combs, scent bottles, and rouge pot.
“I suppose it is time to discard these things.”
Rebecca thought it wisest not to reply.
Before leaving the estate, Frederick took her out to the stable so she could see his old horse, Warrior, beginning to show his age in the greying of his muzzle.
