“This from you, Peter FitzGerald? An Irishman with family estates in Kildare?”
“Anglo-Irish, my lady, and British to the core. We landowners prefer to hold on to our property. At least, the little my junior branch of the family has left.”
FitzGerald’s glance drifted over Susan’s shoulder. She turned to see Princess Louise striding toward the stables.
“By the time you return from Balmoral with the queen, Louise will be gone. She travels to London with us for an extended stay at Marlborough House.”
“Good,” he said. “The princess could use time away from her mother.”
The queen had little patience with illness, real or imagined, or with prolonged emotional distress.All but her own,Susan thought.
“Louise asked me to try to trace Lizzie’s sister. I’ll write to the authorities in Dublin. They may know where to find Brigid Dowling.”
FitzGerald frowned. “Do you think it’s necessary to—”
“Wouldn’t you like to know if your sister were dead?”
He started to say something and then looked away. “I must pack.” The major bowed.
Susan watched him stride across the lawn.A little stiff in the back?She dragged off her bonnet, unclasped the black mourning brooch pinned at her throat, and dropped them on the bench. Then she walked to the grove’s edge and faced the sea, undoing the hook-and-eye fastening at the top of her bodice. She opened the black-trimmed fabric at her neck and lifted her face to the breeze, dragging strands of her fair hair away from her face.
Brigid Dowling, where are you?After a moment, Susan thought,Louise … I wonder.A map might jog the princess’s memory. Susan strode back to the house, re-hooking her bodice and thinking,An atlas. That’s what I need.She would look for one in Osborne’s well-stocked library and show it to Louise. Then she could send a letter to the officials at Dublin Castle, mentioning the name of a town.
Another letter—a dead girl’s letter—had traveled from the pillar box near Osborne House’s gate and by steamer across thestrait to Southampton. From there, it went by train to Bristol and by boat across the Irish Sea. From the city of Cork, it bumped along in a pony cart to Clonakilty village, and then traveled in a postman’s pack to Lansdowne Hall. There, a housekeeper set it aside to await the return from Dublin of the mistress of the house and her maid, Brigid Dowling.
CHAPTER 3
In November, Julia and her family returned to a still-simmering London. Anger lingered through the autumn. By December, little had changed. Headlines shouted, Irish protesters filled the parks, and editorials demanded harsh measures to quell the unrest.
Dr. Lewis looked up fromThe Times. “The prime minister has banned all demonstrations.”
Julia swallowed a last bite of scrambled egg. “Has he the power to do that?”
“The opposition will challenge it.” Her grandfather folded the morning paper. “Seven hundred years,” he said, shaking his head. “It’s seven centuries since we first invaded Ireland, and we’re no closer to a ‘united’ kingdom.”
“No one likes to be tied to another by force.” Julia stood and planted a kiss on her grandfather’s head.
“You’re off then? A busy day?”
“Lots of respiratory ailments this week, but we’ll see.”
Julia sorted through several medical journals, waiting for the morning’s mail. It had been nearly two months since she’d hada letter from Richard. There were endless explanations: if only she could think of one that satisfied her.Surely Sergeant O’Malley would tell me if something had happened to him?
Julia gave up and descended the town house steps. She spotted the postman rounding Finsbury Circus’s curving pavement and waited. But the morning post brought only bills and letters for her grandfather.
For months, Inspector Richard Tennant tracked Edgar Romilly across the Continent. From Paris to Berlin and on to Antwerp, the distance between them grew. He’d come full circle, back to the City of Light, and was as much in the dark as ever. Then, with only weeks left of leave, came a glimmer. A note from Lt. Jules Picard of France’s criminal bureau brought the inspector to a Paris café near the train station that served Lyon. He’d instructed the inspector to pack an overnight bag.
Tennant spotted Picard at a small streetside table, smiling at a dark-eyed waitress who swiped a slow circle around the marble top. She laughed at something he said and sauntered away. Picard eyed the sway of the girl’s hips as she slipped between tables.
“You haven’t changed, Jules.”
“Richard.” Picard stood and greeted his English friend in the French fashion, gripping his upper arms and leaning in for a quick brush to each cheek.
Tennant glanced at the retreating waitress. “Madame Picard is well?”
“She enjoys the country air and rarely visits Paris, so everything arranges itself.” Picard double-twitched the arched eyebrows that made him look perpetually amused.
“Nearly twelve years since the Crimea.” Tennant dropped his carpetbag and sat.
