1846, Winter
Dear Hadleigh,
This will be the last letter I write. I fear your ongoing silence is a reply in and of itself, and the last thing I wish is to be a nuisance to you. Please know that I will continue to think of you and pray for your happiness and health. Whenever you are ready, I will be here.
Your ever faithful,
Livy
1847, Spring
My Dearest Livy,
I beg your pardon for my silence and thank you for your many letters. Even though I did not reply, I read each of them, often more than once. They were beacons in the darkness and gave me hope during what has been a long and rather unexpected journey. I am pleased to report that I am now recovered and plan to return to Society next month. It is my fondest wish that your face will be among the first that I see, little friend.
Please convey my regards to your family.
Your servant,
Hadleigh
22
The day after Longmere’s death, Livy sat with Pippa in the latter’s drawing room. Glory, Fi, and Charlie were there as well. Pippa’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Hunt, had left a few minutes ago to tend to funeral arrangements for their son-in-law.
Before they departed, Mrs. Hunt had drawn Livy aside in the hallway.
“Keep an eye on Pippa, will you?” she whispered, bright concern in her blue eyes. “She did not sleep a wink last night. She is not taking Longmere’s death well.”
“Can you blame our daughter?” Her husband, Gavin Hunt, did not whisper. A tall, powerfully built man with a scar on his right cheek, Mr. Hunt said derisively, “The bastard didn’t even have the decency to exit in a proper manner.”
“Now, darling, you mustn’t speak ill of the dead,” Mrs. Hunt began.
“I spoke ill of him when he was alive,” Mr. Hunt reminded her.
“Well, you are consistent, I grant you that.”
At his wife’s exasperated tone, Mr. Hunt’s lips twitched. He put a large, proprietary hand on her waist. “I’m constant, Percy, which is more than I can say for that penniless, pompous fop. What Pippa saw in him, I’ll never understand.”
“As a painter herself, Pippa was drawn to his artistic sensibilities,” Mrs. Hunt explained.
“I was a cutthroat.” Mr. Hunt snorted. “Did you see me wanting to marry a lady cutthroat?”
Mrs. Hunt’s gaze flitted upward. “Come along, dear. We have a meeting with the florist.”
She dragged her husband off.
Now Livy shared a settee with Pippa, and her heart ached to see her friend’s waxen countenance. It was as if Pippa’s inner lamp had been doused: her blue eyes had lost their sparkle, and her hair was dull and lifeless, pulled back in a severe knot. The frock she wore had been hastily dyed for the occasion, the heavy black deepening the shadows beneath her reddened eyes.
For several minutes now, Pippa had been staring off into space.
Worried, Livy asked, “Could I pour you some tea, Pippa?”
“No. Thank you.” Pippa’s reply was monotone.
“Perhaps there is something else you would like?”
“Actually, there is.” Pippa’s gaze sharpened and circled the room. “Now that Mama and Papa are gone, I want the truth: was my husband’s death an accident?”
