She would. Not only was she almost as lovely as Johanna, but she had a title and fortune of her own to bargain with, something Johanna did not have.
Then again, the lovely Miss de Vos hadn’t given me the impression of being someone who’d take kindly to being shunted off to the side.
So yes, Francis had a point. Safer by far for Crispin to avoid them both.
“Let’s talk about something else,” I said. “I’m tired of discussing St George’s shortcomings. Whose estate is that over there, Constance?”
I pointed in the direction of a large manor house, also in creamy stone, built up against a low ridge some distance away. It looked like an oversized, bloated version of the Dower House, with its many windows reflecting the afternoon sunlight.
Constance looked at it, and then back at me, apologetically. “I’m afraid that’s Marsden Manor, Pippa.”
Of course it was. I gave it a baleful look and turned the other way.
Six
The Marsdens madetheir entrance just in time for supper, as the rest of us were waiting for the gong to sound.
The dowager Lady Peckham operated the Dower House on what was practically a skeleton staff. She had her chauffeur, of course, but he was still at Sutherland Hall with her and the Crossley. There was Cook, there was a kitchen maid, a single housemaid who handled both the bedrooms and the common rooms, and then there was Dawson the butler and Nigel the hallboy, plus a gardener, who shared the space above the garage with the chauffeur.
“None of us have help dressing,” Constance confided as we were getting ready in her room before supper. “Mother had a maid, but she up and left a week ago, without so much as a by your leave.”
I glanced up at her. I was in the process of putting on lipstick and powder at the makeup table, while Constance was leaning over me to adjust her fringe. “You’re not serious?”
She met my eyes for a second in the mirror. “I’m deathly serious. She woke up one morning, I think it must have been Wednesday, or perhaps Thursday—unless it was Tuesday; it wasn’t Monday or Friday—and announced that she had to leave.”
“Just like that? Without giving notice or any kind of warning?”
Constance nodded. “Mother tried to get her to stay another week so she could come to Sutherland Hall with us—she used to work for Lady Charlotte before I was born, and we thought she might want to see her old friends and attend the funerals—but she said no, something had come up and she had to go immediately. There was something about getting a phone call the night before, which Cook confirmed that Morrison took in the kitchen, but she said nothing to anyone about where she was going or why.”
“That’s strange,” I said.
“Isn’t it? It’s no bother to me, honestly. She wasn’t helping me anyway. But Mother and Johanna will have a hard time getting by without her.”
“Serves them right,” I said. “Why wasn’t she helping you?”
Constance shrugged. “I suppose nobody thought there was any help for me?”
“That’s silly. You’re just as worthy of help as any of the other women in the household. And with the way Johanna looks, she could honestly do with monopolizing a little less of the maid’s time and attention.”
“She doesn’t look like that without help, you know,” Constance said. “Not that she isn’t naturally beautiful. She is. That hair, and those eyes. But she doesn’t look like that when she gets out of bed in the morning. It takes work.”
“It takes work for all of us,” I told her, as I blew myself a final kiss in the mirror before I spun the chair around to look at her. “That dress is so much more becoming than the one you brought to Sutherland Hall. I was worried they had taken all the color out of your wardrobe, but I guess it was just that one hideous tobacco-brown dress.”
Constance ran a hand down the shimmering rose crepe satin gown she was wearing, looking rather pleased. It was quite a simple dress, with a deep V-neck that de-emphasized the roundness of her face, three layers of skirt—but no ruffles that added extra width—and a big droopy bow on one side of her hip. Because it was all the same color and fabric, it gave her a longer, slim line, and the color brought out the roses in her cheeks.
Unless it was the prospect of seeing Francis that was doing that, but if so, I wasn’t going to comment.
“I think,” she said apologetically, in response to my comment about the brown dress, “it was mostly because Johanna went to Wiltshire planning to snare either the Duke of Sutherland or his son, and she wanted to have every opportunity to dazzle without anyone dimming her glow.”
“That’s awful,” I said. “Not only is it extremely grasping of her to go after Crispin that way, but Aunt Charlotte has barely been dead a week. Surely she must realize that Uncle Harold wouldn’t be in a frame of mind to pick a new wife so soon?”
“To be honest,” Constance said, “I’m not sure what Johanna realizes. She doesn’t really think much about anyone but herself.”
Of course she didn’t. As if I couldn’t have worked that out for myself without Constance’s help.
“I really loathe her,” I said.
Constance nodded. “You and every other woman who has ever met her.”
