That was the least of her cares, so she lifted her gaze and held out the pottery shard.
“It happened again,” she said, grateful her voice didn’t rise. “Someone tried to hit me with a falling urn.”
“An urn?”Lady Clarice rested her hand on the red-and-gold damask of a newly-delivered settee. “I wasn’t aware we kept any at Cranleigh?”
Of course, you weren’t. They don’t gleam and glitter.
Melissa tamped down a sigh. “There are six of them along the edge of the terrace roof. Now there are five.”
“And the dirt?” April came to stand beside her mother. “Did you fall into a flowerbed when you were hit?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I’d been struck.” Melissa frowned at her stepsister. She couldn’t help it. “The dirt is because the urns are decorative planters. They hold ivy.”
Have you never noticed?
Ignoring her explanation, April scrunched her nose. “You will have to bathe before dinner. You smell like roots and damp soil.”
“Scents I favor to the heaviness of your perfume,” Melissa returned, taking some satisfaction in how April and her mother both tightened their lips.
“You will mind your manners, Melissa.” Lady Clarice considered her, her face as chilly as the dark afternoon outside the once-library’s windows.
Thunder was just beginning to rumble in the distance and rain could be heard as it started to strike the windows. Melissa smiled when April shuddered and hurried to claim a spot before the fire. Lady Clarice and her daughters loathed rainy days.
Melissa loved them, as well they knew.
“The weather is not divine justice,” her stepmother said, just as the wind quickened and a whirl of dead autumn leaves spun past the windows. “No one in this house pushed an urn off the roof. Not a soul here wishes to harm you. You suffer the wild imaginings of your mother’s Scottish blood.”
“I do not suffer my Scottish blood.” Melissa raised her chin. “I thrill to it.”
“Exactly what I meant.”
“She is a heathen,” April announced, all but rumpling her nose. “How else can she enjoy such appalling weather?” She shuddered and held her hands to the hearth flames. “She should go there, live among her beloved rocks, mist, and cold. Nothing but rain and sheep and bearded men in garish skirts.”
“Cranleigh is my home.” This time Melissa’s voice did crack. She truly loved Cranleigh. But her mother’s heart beat inside her. Born here or otherwise, she’d always felt out of place in oh-so-manicured England. More drawn to her mother’s homeland, a place she’d never seen, but knew that she’d love so much.
“Cranleigh isourhome,” her stepmother reminded her, remaining silent about whose fortune kept the estate running, and who footed the bills for the extravagances she and her daughters indulged.
“Our home?” Melissa knew she sounded bitter.
Lady Clarice’s chin lifted. “You know that is so.”
“Then we should all care that a madman is running about Cranleigh.” Melissa placed the pottery shard on one of the new mother-of-pearl inlaid tables, not caring if the shard’s jagged edges damaged the table’s gleam. “Someone pushed the urn off the roof. And it was done deliberately.”
“Now, Mellie…” Lady Clarice paused as wind rattled the window panes and a fresh burst of rain pelted the glass. “This storm has been brewing all day. It’s wicked.” She glanced at April who was looking at Melissa as if she were a bug. “A strong gust will have toppled the urn. The dread thing must be ancient. I’m surprised it hadn’t already crumbled, all of them up there.”
“They were made to last.” Melissa spoke to her stepmother, ignoring April’s freeze-her-to-ice gaze.
“You do appreciate old things, don’t you?” Lady Clarice raised a brow.
Melissa folded her arms, aware of what was coming.
“Sir Hartle Hutsby’s home is Tudor.” Lady Clarice drew a breath, warming to a favorite topic. “Rosedale Hall even boasts a delightful fourteenth century thatched farmhouse on its estate. The countryside thereabouts is unspoiled and tranquil. You would be content there.”
“Indeed, I would – without Sir Hartle.”
“He would make a fine husband.”
Melissa lifted her chin. “He is nearly as old as his home.”
