She let out a trill of laughter and his heart lightened as he joined in with her. “Shall we pick the new carpets together next month, when the builders are finished with the alterations to the house?”
“I should like that very much,” Cordelia said, squeezing his arm.
They passed by a side table that had a basket with a stack of mail from America. It was where Hibbert put the family correspondence.
“Oh, I forgot,” he said, handing her letters to her. “These arrived for you, but I didn’t know when you were coming home, so I didn’t send them on.”
Her large eyes widened at the sight, and she eagerly took them from his hands. Flipping through them one by one, the light in her eyes seemed to dim with each name and then died out entirely. She handed him back two of the letters. One from her father, and the other from her mother.
“Please have these returned to the sender,” she said, her voice on the edge of tears. “I am a little done in from travelling, and if you do not mind, I shall have my dinner in my room.”
“As you wish,” he said, cursing himself that he hadn’t waited until the morning to give her the letters so that they might have spent more time together.
He watched her lovely figure walk slowly, with a definite droop, up the stairs.
17
The new mattress was like heaven, but she hadn’t slept well at all the night before. There had been no fire in the hearth, even though it was February. Miss Vaughn brought her breakfast tray, which consisted of gruel thick enough that it might have been useful in cement work. Clearly, the servants had not forgiven her for making changes to the abbey yet. Although, how anyone would like to go down two flights of stairs to use the water closet, she would never know. Or why they would prefer sleeping on lumpy mattresses, with unknown bugs in them, instead of the new down-feather ones.
If the renovations were not the problem, it must be she.
She felt like an alien entirely in another world at Ashdown. She had almost not come back. Even in January, London had been lovely; but Paris was like visiting home. She’d visited the city so many times before and she knew several people there, Parisians and Americans, all of which were happy to see her and were most welcoming. She had not eaten even one meal alone. Everything was warm and beautiful, and she felt as if she’d belonged.
Thomas must have worried that she wasn’t coming back, for the relief was visible in his face when she returned after four weeks. It had taken her that long to run out of excuses to stay away.
From her husband.
From the woman he loved.
What a tangled mess Thomas’s debts and her mother’s ambitions had made. And now all three of them had to live with it. She could no longer hide at the Savoy, sipping cocktails, purchasing more textiles, and dreaming about kissing Stuyvesant. This was her life and there was no escaping it.
Glancing at the letters on her side table, a new wave of tears fell down her face. Edith’s letter had been the shortest and probably the most honest. Her sister was happy, now that everyone wanted to be her friend again because Cordelia was a countess. She wrote merrily of new dresses and her upcoming visit to Newport. Cordelia read the letter so many times the night before that she knew all the words by heart.
The next letter in the stack was from Alida, who cheerfully offered to murder Thomas for her, followed by a letter from her twin, Julia, who had sent it separately so that Cordelia could enjoy opening more mail. Julia was always so thoughtful. The last letter was from Lucy, who seemed to be as miserable as she was and nearly as friendless without her.
Cordelia sniffed and laughed out loud. Of course Stuyvesant hadn’t written. Why would he? He had already proven that he did not care enough to save her from a marriage not of her choosing.
She did not have evenonefriend in England. Not one soul who wished to spend time in her company. Except possibly Thomas. But her feelings forhimwere as complicated as his were forher. Thomas genuinely seemed to enjoy her company and often gazed at her with admiration; but then his eyes would flicker toward Penelope. It appeared that she still held his heart as Stuyvesant did hers, even though Cordelia knew her former friend no longer returned her sentiments. Love was not rational or practical.
Tugging on the cord, she waited for Miss Vaughn to come and dress her. At least,sheseemed to like her. Cordelia thanked the woman and wandered down the stairs until she reached the old dining room, where the grand piano her father had sent as a wedding present had been placed. She opened the lid and began to play Bach.
Music had always been her greatest companion.
Her love.
She poured her loneliness, her foreignness, and her frustration into the notes as they soared into the air—lilting and lovely. Cordelia played until her fingers were sore. She should be opening the mountains of wedding gifts in the ballroom. But she didn’t want to because they reminded her of home.
Leaning against the piano, she heard discordant notes and remembered the old instrument that she’d played on the first night. It was no equal to the grand piano and would need to be donated somewhere. Perhaps to the village school that she’d passed on her way there. She would go right now and ask the teacher. Any excuse to leave the dreary abbey.
She called for her carriage but did not ask for Miss Vaughn to accompany her on the trip. There was no need for a companion if she was only travelling a couple of miles to the village.
Cordelia arrived at lunchtime. She saw the children eating from their pails outside of the school in the cold air. She opened the door. There was a prim woman in her late twenties, with a small pair of spectacles and dark brown hair, pulled severely back. She sat at a desk at the front of the room by the chalkboard.
“Lunchtime is not over yet,” she said, without looking up.
“I am afraid that I did not bring my lunch.”
At the sound of Cordelia’s voice, the woman’s head popped up from the papers that she was grading. She knocked a pencil off her desk as she rushed to stand up and curtsy. “My lady.”
