“Do you still intend to leave for Cloverton Hall in the morning?”
“I do. If all goes to plan, I’ll return in a fortnight or so—definitely by Michaelmas. Send word if anything interesting happens, will you?”
After settling things with Night, Lucas quit his office with the box under his arm and headed to his mother’s home—a large town house of red brick a few blocks from the shop.
The sun was already dipping down behind the uneven rooftops, shooting long yellow shafts of light through the smog and smoke rising from chimneys. He wound his way through the throngs of people and carts of vendors selling their wares.
Once he was at the town house door, there was no need to knock, but he still paused. He knew the conversation that awaited him on the other side of the door, and he was in no hurry for it.
Ever since his father died suddenly on that frigid winter night just after Christmas of the previous year, every visit to Lucas’s mother was the same. Grief’s devastating sorrow had seized her. What was more, the black marks against Father’s reputation in the weeks preceding his death had enraged her, and she refused to release the blame she’d assigned to his accusers. Lucas had hoped that time would soothe the wounds, but if anything, it seemed to freeze her in an unceasing melancholy that pilfered any joy.
Determined to provide a distraction, he lifted his hand and knocked on the door. The spindly, white-haired housekeeper, Mrs.Smith, who’d been with the Avery family for as long as he could remember, answered. Her grin creased her weathered skin, and she fixed her rheumy brown eyes on him. “You’re late today, Mr.Avery. I expected to see you earlier.”
“I know.” He stepped into the foyer and extended his black beaver hat toward her. “Is Mother at home?”
“She is, but she has a headache. She’s taken to her bed. Again.” She placed his hat on the side table. “That’s not all, I’m afraid. Aletter arrived earlier today that sent her into fits. I’m not sure what it’s about, but it had quite an effect. I’ll let her know you’ve arrived, though. She’s always glad to see you.”
Mrs.Smith gripped her skirt in her gnarled hand and turned to climb the entryway staircase, but then she stopped and pivoted. “I saw you pacing out there on the street from the window. Something on your mind?”
The question was a personal one, but there was no need for pretense with Mrs.Smith. How many times had her kind words eased his childhood anxieties and alleviated pressures when young life seemed insurmountable?
Yes, plenty of concerns weighed on his mind, such as how he was going to repair his business’s reputation, and how he would afford to keep not only his own small apartment but his mother’s home as well. But none of that could be discussed, regardless of the trust existing between them.
“All is well, Mrs.Smith.”
As if satisfied with the answer, she smiled and then shuffled up the staircase with slow, aged movements.
Lucas showed himself to the front parlor to wait. Inside the long, narrow chamber, the strong, ever-present scent of tobacco tricked his mind into believing that his father might actually be in the same room. He glanced toward the two portraits flanking the mantelpiece—likenesses of his mother and father from their wedding trip to Greece. How young they both appeared—how full of happiness and hope. Perhaps one day he’d have a marriage like his parents had enjoyed, but at the moment such a thing seemed a far-off fantasy.
“Why did you not come to visit me yesterday?” His mother’s airy tone interrupted his musings.
Margaret Avery stood in the arched doorway, clad in a high-necked mourning gown of somber ebony bombazet. Her pale, blotchy complexion and red-rimmed green eyes confirmed his suspicion—today her attitude and countenance would be no different than on his previous visits.
He skirted the question by closing the space between them, kissing her on her cheek, then offering her his arm to lead her back to the sofa. “Mrs.Smith tells me you have another headache.”
“This malaise is my constant companion these days.” She lowered to the sofa with a sigh and drew a woven blanket over her lap.
He sat next to her, noting the wan pallor of her cheeks and the dark circles looming beneath her eyes. “Perhaps a walk out of doors would help. We could walk to the park. It’s not too hot, the sun is out, and—”
“No, no.” She waved him off dismissively and retrieved a small stack of missives from the pocket of her gown. “I’ve no desire to be out of doors today.”
He gestured to the letter in her hand. “Mrs.Smith told me you received a troubling letter.”
“Hmm?” She lifted her chin, as if suddenly aware again of his presence. “Yes. From your aunt Frederica. She informed me that she intends to stay here again while she is in London before the Christmas season.”
He frowned, unsure of the problem. His aunt, who’d never been married, often visited for a few months each year. “Good. Her presence will be a welcome diversion, will it not?”
“It certainly will not,” Mother snipped. She stood and moved to the window, the thick folds of her gown rustling in the afternoon stillness. “I’ve no wish for company now. It’s cruel to suggest otherwise. In fact, I’m surprised she would suggest such a thing. I’m in mourning, after all.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Aunt Frederica loved Father too. She was his sister. It’s not good for you to spend so much time alone in the wake of all that’s happened. She’ll be a companion, and perhaps you—”
“I am not well enough for company. Anyone can see that.”
Lucas snapped his mouth shut. It did not matter what he said; in her current state she was predisposed to find fault in any suggestion.
Silence once again fell on the opulent parlor, and he turned his attention to the familiar setting. Beyond the portraits, the feel of the chamber was so uniquely his family’s. Blue-and-white Chinese vases flanked the three bay windows overlooking the street. A painted Indian screen stood in the corner, depicting life in Delhi. A collection of wooden and ivory carvings adorned the mantelpiece. It was the visual manifestation of the work his parents had so ardently adored.
His mother used to share his father’s love of the exotic, but now she never inquired about the business. In the weeks following her husband’s death, the mere reference to it would fling her into a state of despondency. Consequently, Lucas mentioned it only when absolutely necessary. And now it was absolutely necessary.
