He takes a heavy breath and exhales. “Find those memories and get yourself home, my dear. We have even more to sort out than I thought.”
“I’ll do what I can. Good day, Mr. Gould.”
“Mrs. Winthrop, listen carefully. You cannot trust anyone right now. You haven’t full use of your faculties yet and anyone may claim to know you, be related to you. This probate case is becoming quite public, on account of Lady St. Laurent choosing herservantto care for her heir and estate. And to receive a decent allowance, to boot.”
If I can find footing for my life. If I turn up sane.
“It’s in all the papers. You’re the darling of the working class, and everyone will wish for a piece of the St. Laurent fortune. Ask questions of everyone. Be direct. And watch for people who evade answering.”
I cling to the cord, feeling myself slip. My soul needs to put down roots, to latch on somewhere. And Gould is trying to sever any connection before it’s even taken hold. “Very well.” I chew my lip. “I’ll be in touch.” I drop the receiver and look into the clerk’s shocked face. I spin to leave, but then it occurs to me that I might have asked Mr. Gould to wire money. But I haven’t any idea where he can send it, or when it will be repaid.
Mind racing, I roam the town, poking about for the whittler. For anyone else who knew my mother. Before long, I realize my stomach is growling and I’ve been gone for hours. I create allsorts of apologies and explanations for AJ on my way back, but then I reach the cave.
It’s empty.
Chapter 14
Meredaysintoourmarriage, and I’ve lost my husband already. Yesterday’s fish and chips roll about in my stomach as I edge toward the water to look for a head bobbing above the surface. Only fishing boats crowd the waters.
Watching the shore fill with tourists, I fist my skirts and make a run for the cave, searching for any evidence of AJ, any clue.
Shoes. AJ’s best shoes are here. So is his spare clothing. Everything he’s packed, in fact. It’s all here, neatly folded in his open valise, waiting for him to return.
Because he will.
Then I see the note weighted by a rock, fluttering against the sand.Come to the Headland Hotel at three o’clock. Dress smartly.
Has this been here the whole time?
I slip into the deep cavern and change, scandalized and shaking, as I undress in what is technically the out-of-doors. I slip into my only “best” in the carpet bag—a high-waistedpeacock affair, green fabric with vibrant blue sash and collar to set it off.
Struggling into low kid boots and twirling my hair into a humble twist, I stash everything into our two modest bags and carry them along, following the directions he left. I climb the winding coastal path until I stand before the grandest estate I’ve ever seen. A four-story red and white brick Georgian perched on a cliff that overlooks the water as a queen watches over her subjects.
It’s even grander inside. Plush rugs quiet my footfalls and a man in livery approaches with a bow and takes my bags.
“Oh, I’m not staying the night.”
“I’ll just keep these for you in our storage, then. Now, how might I help you?”
“I’m looking for my husband,” I say, voice tight. The room sparkles with crystal chandeliers, sunshine through gauzy curtains and silver service upon white linen tablecloths. Gentle music hangs in the air.
“Yes, ma’am. Right this way. Mrs. Winthrop, I presume?”
I nod, exhaling in relief, and he leads me into the tearoom where the pianoforte music eases my tension.
At least if there is nothing else, there is music.
I sit near the bar and chat nervously with Eleanor, a server close to my age who busily sets out teacups and pours pot after pot of steaming liquid. I tell her I’m waiting on my husband—and yes, he truly is coming—and attempt to look less pathetic while I wait alone.
“We’re from Dunn House,” I mention, as if she ought to know it, and I hope she does. “Making our way back there, and I should think we’re not far, are we?”
“I wouldn’t know about much pas’ these shores, miss. I lead quite a dull life ’ere.”
Why has no one heard of the place? There cannot be many stately manor homes on this peninsula.
“Tea?” she asks, for at least the eighth time.
“No!” I clear my throat. Smooth my gown. “No, thank you. Heiscoming.”
