“That would be lovely,” I replied as I shrugged out of my coat. Yet I still felt as if a great weight hung around my shoulders. The evening had been even more exhausting than I had expected, and it must have shown on my face.
“Why don’t you get to bed?” Mrs. Ford said gently. “And I’ll make sure Tommy does the same.”
“I would be so very grateful.”
“It is no trouble at all,” she insisted as she took my coat. “Get some rest. I’ll be in with your tea shortly.”
“Thank you.”
I proceeded down the hall, stopping to give Tommy a good-night kiss, then entered my bedroom. As the door clicked shut behind me, I slumped against it with a sigh.
Agatha mentioned some writer you knew on Corfu.
My lips twitched, and I pushed away from the door, furiously unbuttoning my dress as I went. But it was of no use. I could not rid myself of those memories. And heaven knew I had triedveryhard these last months. Yet it seemed that assoon as I had set sail for England, I was forced to acknowledge the continued existence of Stephen Dorian: famous mystery author, scandalous divorcé, and, yes, a writer I knew on Corfu.
Upon returning to London, I had expected that his popular Inspector Dumond series would line the shelves of bookstores. But I was entirely unprepared for how often I would encounter them casually strewn on side tables, taking up dusty corners of charity shops, or even left behind on the chairs of the neighborhood tearoom. Why, even Aunt Agatha had his first few novels crammed into an overflowing bookcase in the parlor.
And then there were the newspapers.
I had never paid much attention to the gossip columns, but Cleo lived for them, and as we crossed the Continent and grew closer to England, her access to the very latest news increased exponentially. She had excitedly shared every single line written about Mr. Dorian, and given that we were trapped together on both boats and train cars for days, there wasn’t much I could do to avoid it without admitting to feelings I did not care to discuss with anyone. So instead, I had to listen. To all of it.
While Mr. Dorian had largely kept to himself on Corfu, it seemed that now he was a regular man about town, attending various plays, soirees, lectures, and restaurant openings nearly every night—and always with a different woman. Begrudgingly, I acknowledged that at least he was rather egalitarian in the company he kept, as a variety of aristocrats, actresses, artists, and even fellow writers were named. The man might be a cad, but at least he wasn’t a snob.
I could not fault Cleo entirely for her interest. After all, this was someone we knew. Someone who had come to the house on Corfu for dinner, even. But I still felt a twinge in my chest every time she told me the whereabouts of a man I very much wished to forget.
However, now that Cleo was boarding at her new school in Hampstead, I was blessedly ignorant of Mr. Dorian’s latest movements these last few weeks. And I intended to remain so for as long as possible.
I had just finished changing into my nightclothes when there was a soft knock on the door and Mrs. Ford entered with the tea tray.
“Here we are,” she said, setting the tray down on the small table before the hearth. “I also brought the hot-water bottle. There’s a chill in the air tonight.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Ford,” I replied, with palpable relief. “I really did underestimate how ill prepared I was for a chilly English fall.”
The housekeeper gave me an indulgent smile as she poured out the tea. “Not to worry. Your aunt sleeps with one all winter. And she hasn’t spent over a decade in Greece.”
I sat down in the high-backed chair by the table and tucked the wool-wrapped bottle against my torso. A contented little sigh escaped my lips while Mrs. Ford handed me a cup of tea.
“Much better,” I murmured as I accepted the cup. “And Tommy?”
“Already asleep,” she assured me. “He was chattering away about his cousins, then dropped right off.”
We both chuckled. “He had great fun with them this evening. So much that he’s going to spend the night there tomorrow,” I said, then took a sip.
“That will be nice. And you will have a little time to yourself.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m afraid I’ve agreed to accompany my sister, Delia, to a gallery opening.”
Mrs. Ford raised an eyebrow. “You don’t sound very excited about it.”
I hesitated a moment as I gathered my thoughts. “Apprehensive would be more accurate. My sister and I were neverthat close growing up. Then I married and moved abroad while she was still young. We don’t really know each other, frankly, and our lives are very different now.”
Mrs. Ford gave me a thoughtful nod. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“No,” I said quickly. “It’s not. But my mother seems to think that I can exert some sort of influence over her, and she is likely to be disappointed. Both because I don’t think that is necessary, and I doubt Delia would even listen to me if I tried,” I said on a laugh. “She’s an artist, you see. Not married and doesn’t seem to have much interest in changing that.” Unless Mother was right and her connection to this Charles Pearson was more than a friendship. I ran my finger along the rim of the teacup. “But I might not be the best person to recommend the institution anyway,” I murmured.
The housekeeper cocked her head in surprise. “Truly? You regret your marriage?”
I turned my gaze to the softly glowing hearth. “I love my children more than anything on this earth, and I was very happily married while my husband was alive. But widowhood has been another matter entirely,” I admitted. “I suppose … I suppose I find it hard to recommend marriage when it can only ever end in death. In sadness.”
