“I don’t dislike him,” Thea hedged. “He’s quite… unobjectionable.”
“See?” Polly said.
“Quite. In fact, I can see his gravestone now:here lies Nigel Pickering-Parks, unobjectionable husband and passable fellow to all those who knew him.” Rosie huffed. “If you won’t look for a more suitable match, I’ll just have to find rich and handsome lords for both of us.”
It was Polly’s turn to cast her gaze heavenward. “How are you going to do that, pray tell?”
The other girl shrugged. “I buy you a bonnet whenever I buy myself one, don’t I?”
“A husband is not the same as a bonnet!”
“I suppose that’s true.” Rosie’s eyes widened innocently. “One can’t replace them nearly as easily when they’ve gone out of style, can one?”
Polly’s lips twitched, but she said severely, “So one better make the right choice the first time around. A title isn’t everything, you know.”
“Of course it is, silly.” Rosie tapped her chin with a finger. “Who knows? Maybe there’s a pair of twindukessomewhere. Whoever came out first would technically be His Grace—but the other would likely have a courtesy title. Because I love you so, I’d giveyouthe older brother.”
“You’d make such a sacrifice for me?” Polly said dryly.
“What can I say?” Rosie’s expression was angelic. “I’m a martyr.”
A shared look—and they both burst into giggles.
~~~
A while later, Polly stood at the back of the salon waiting for Rosie and Thea’s performance to begin. The room was stuffy, the heavy scent of perfume not entirely masking the underlying human smells. At first glance, the patients filing in appeared well-groomed and fashionably dressed, yet Polly saw the miasma that surrounded them like a fog and recognized it as… despair. Beneath that smothering cloud, bright and clashing colors flitted like desperate butterflies trapped in a glass jar. The suffocating atmosphere made Polly’s lungs strain for air.
“Ah, there you are, Miss Kent.”
Mrs. Barlow approached in a swish of chartreuse silk. The proprietress wore her dark hair in a simple twist, her jewelry sparse and tasteful. The widow of a prosperous factory owner, she’d purchased this once-ailing resort built upon mineral springs and transformed it into what her pamphlet described as a “haven for healing.”
From the tour of the house Mrs. Barlow had given them earlier, Polly could find no fault with the advertising. The main house had been redone in a crisp, Palladian style and boasted separate wings for male and female patients. There were spacious rooms for entertainment, including the present salon.
Although they hadn’t yet toured the grounds or the famed baths, the windows near Polly displayed the manicured splendor behind the main house. Graveled paths wound past flower beds and leafy hedges. Mrs. Barlow had explained that the Roman springs lay just beyond the garden, along with small private villas reserved for her most distinguished residents.
Everything appeared first-rate, yet Polly couldn’t quell her unease. A large part of it had to do with the proprietress, whose aura was the same color as her dress: a sickly shade of green.
“As you can see, my charges are on their best behavior,” Mrs. Barlow said, her features schooled in a pleasant mask. “This performance is to be a reward for them.”
Polly saw the patients filing like obedient schoolchildren into rows of hard-backed chairs. The charges darted nervous glances at the perimeter of the room where attendants, men and women dressed in severe grey uniforms, stood like sentinels. Behind them, sunlight glinted off the iron bars over the windows.
Polly suppressed a shiver. “I hope the residents will enjoy the selection of music.”
“Oh, they will.” Mrs. Barlow’s smile had the sharp gleam of teeth.
A brouhaha suddenly came from the front of the room. One of the charges, a ginger-haired gentleman, shouted at a male attendant, “I do not wish to sit!”
“If you’ll excuse me, Miss Kent?” Mrs. Barlow said brusquely.
The proprietress glided over to the resident. She spoke softly to him, her serene expression never changing, and yet the man turned ashen, his glow snuffed like a candle. He lowered himself into the chair, visibly shaking. Triumph wriggled like black snakes through Mrs. Barlow’s aura; with a satisfied smirk, she headed off.
Polly’s temples throbbed. Hopelessness hovered over all the patients like storm clouds, the feeling so oppressive that she couldn’t breathe. Spotting a nearby door that looked to lead into the gardens, she headed toward it.
Once amongst the hedgerows, she lifted her face to the sun, willing its warmth to permeate her chilled insides. She sensed so much suffering inside that house—and yet she was helpless to do anything about it. She had no solid evidence, nothing to point to… except her own freakish intuition.
She kicked a pebble out of her path. She knew she would have to turn around soon, but her nerves were still jangled. Her gaze caught on a wooden structure just past the hedgerows, and curiosity nudged aside some of her unease. Was that one of the Roman baths? A distraction would prove welcome at the moment.
Drawing in another breath, she went to see what she would find.
