“I’ll leave you something, although you may not need it by tonight.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
“Is Miss Allingham awake?”
He nodded. “Miss Mary is in the morning room.”
Julia followed him into a bright, south-facing room. Mary had abandoned her coffee and plate of eggs and sat at the desk by the window. She had pen and paper to hand and an address book held open by a paperweight. But the page was blank, and she was staring into the back garden.
Alfred cleared his throat. “Doctor Lewis, Miss Mary.”
“Julia.” She seemed to shake herself awake and stood. “How kind. Alfred, will you bring Doctor Lewis a fresh pot and a cup?”
They moved across to the breakfast table and sat. “How did you sleep?”
“Deeply . . . and dreamlessly, thank God. But I’m having some difficulty focusing this morning.”
“An aftereffect of the sleeping draught. Another coffee and it will wear off.” Julia eyed the plate. “Not eating as well as you slept?”
Mary shook her head.
“You should try, but not this.” Julia carried the congealing eggs to the sideboard.
“Charles and I always ate here in the morning. The dining room is too formal and filled with mahogany.”
“A room with happy associations.”
“My . . . Louisa rarely joined us. She usually breakfasted in bed. But that desk was hers. She wrote all her letters and organized the household from it.”
“You were sitting there when I came in.”
“Yes . . . I must get over the idea that certain objects and rooms were hers if I’m to live here happily.” She considered and said, “I never liked the desk. All that Louis Quinze gilt and filigreed inlay.”
“Get rid of it. Buy something that is yours.”
“Yes.”
Julia nodded at the abandoned address book. “What task had you attempted?”
“Funeral arrangements. I was looking for . . .” Mary’s voice caught. “It seems too hideous to bury her with Charles.”
The servant returned with coffee. Mary said, “Thank you, Alfred,” in a steadier voice. After he closed the door, she poured and said, “I thought burial with her father at Highgate Cemetery would be best.”
“That sounds right.”
Mary replaced the pot and folded her arms. She stared down at her untouched cup. Julia let the silence stretch out.
“I wonder . . . I wonder if we’d talked about it more. Louisa’s miscarriages. I tried, but not hard enough. My brother was useless when it came to such things. And Charles was the one . . .” Mary bit her lip. “Louisa’s pain, her bitter disappointments. . . they must have festered like an infection of the soul.”
“I know a little about what you’re feeling, Mary. About the ache of not having aided someone you loved. I speak from experience. It takes time, and it helps to speak of it with someone you trust.”
“I’m lucky in my friendships. And Will. He’s upstairs, sleeping in my bedroom chair.” Mary waved impatiently. “I couldn’t care less about appearances. Such nonsense. But he . . .” She smiled. “Silly man, there was plenty of room in my bed. But my last waking awareness was of him, sitting in the chair. And when I woke up, there he was. I tucked a blanket around him and came downstairs. Anyway, we are to be married soon.”
“That is happy news. Best wishes, and I congratulate Mister Quain.”
“I’m just glad that he asked—and I said yes—before Louisa . . .” Then Mary said in a rush, “I wouldn’t want him to think I was marrying him out of loneliness or gratitude or anything else. I love him and want to be his wife. That’s the simple truth.”
Julia smiled and said, “Simple. Now, tell me, what are your plans?”
