By consensus, the tone of the house party was consciously and deliberately altered. As Portia sat sipping tea in the drawing room, she couldn’t help but note that Kitty wouldn’t have approved. The atmosphere was akin to that of a large family gathering, but without any attendant gaiety; those present were comfortable with each other and seemed to have dropped their masks, as if deeming themselves excused by the circumstances from maintaining the usual social facades.
The ladies had retired there; no one expected the gentlemen to join them. The company sat in groups about the long room, talking quietly, no laughter, no drama, just gentle conversation.
Conversation designed to soothe, to settle, to let the horror of Kitty’s murder and the very concept of the investigation now upon them slide into the background.
The Hammond sisters remained pale, but had started to cope; Lucy Buckstead was little better. Winifred, in dark navy, a color that didn’t suit her, looked pallid and wan. Mrs. Archer had not come down for dinner.
As soon as their tea had been drunk, everyone rose and retired. There seemed an unstated sentiment that they would all need their rest to face what the morrow and Stokes’s questions might bring. Only Drusilla had thought to ask Portia what Stokes was like, whether she thought him competent. Portia had answered that she rather thought he was, but there seemed so little evidence that the matter may well remain unresolved.
Drusilla had grimaced, nodded, and moved away.
On helping Lady O to her room, Portia noted the threatened trestle bed had indeed been set up by the empty hearth, on the other side of the room from the main bed. Lady O’s maid was there to help her mistress undress; Portia retreated to the window seat, only then noticing that her own clothes had been fetched from her room. Her gowns hung on a string stretched across the room’s corner; her linens and stockings were neatly laid in her chest, sitting open in the corner. Lifting her head, she saw her brushes and hairpins, her perfume flask and combs all neatly arrayed on the mantelpiece.
Sinking onto the cushioned window seat, she looked out at the darkening gardens, and put her mind to devising an excuse to go wandering that Lady O would accept.
Nothing useful had occurred to her when the maid came to ask if she desired any help getting out of her gown. She shook her head, bade the maid good night, then rose and crossed to the bed.
The candle on the nightstand had already been blown out; Lady O lay propped high on her pillows, eyes closed.
Portia leaned close and kissed her papery cheek. “Sleep well.”
Lady O chuckled. “Oh, I will. Don’t know how you’ll fare, mind you, but you’d better get along and find out.” Eyes still closed, she lifted a hand and made shooing motions toward the door. “Go on, now—off with you.”
Portia simply stared. Then decided she had to ask, “Get along where?”
One old eye cracked open; one black eye transfixed her. “Where do you think?”
When she stood staring, mind swinging wildly, Lady O snorted and closed her eye again. “I’m rather more than seven—gracious heavens, I’m more than seventy-seven! I know enough to recognize what’s going on under my nose.”
“You do?”
“Indeed. Mind you, I’m not sure that you do, and he certainly doesn’t, but that’s as may be.” She settled deeper into her pillows. “Now off you go—no sense wasting time. You’re twenty-four—and he’s what? Thirty? You’ve both wasted time enough as it is.”
Portia couldn’t think how to respond, in the end decided not responding was wisest. “Good night, then.” Turning, she headed for the door.
“Wait a minute!”
At the irritated command, Portia turned.
“Where are you going?”
She pointed to the door. “You just said—”
“Great heavens, gel—do I have to teach you everything? You should change your gown first.”
Portia looked down at her magenta twill. She seriously doubted Simon would care what she wore; knowing him, she wouldn’t be wearing it for long. Lifting her head, she opened her lips to ask why it mattered—
Lady O sighed. “Change into the day gown you intend wearing tomorrow. That way, if any one sees you coming back in the morning, they’ll simply assume you got up early and went for a walk. If they see you in the corridors tonight, they’ll assume you got ready for bed, then remembered something you needed to do, or I’ve sent you to fetch something.” She let out an exasperated snort and fell back on her pillows. “You young things—the things I could teach you . . . but then again”—she closed her eyes; a wicked smile curled her lips—“as I recall, learning them was half the fun.”
Portia grinned; what else could she do? Obediently, she stripped off the magenta twill and wriggled into a day gown of blue poplin. As she struggled to do up the tiny buttons closing the bodice, she thought of Simon—shortly struggling to undo them again. Still, Lady O’s suggested practice made eminent sense . . .
She stopped, lifted her head, struck by a wayward thought, a sudden suspicion . . .
When the last button slipped into place, she walked, not to the door, but back to the bed. Pausing by the bedpost, she looked at Lady O, wondered if she was sleeping . . .
“Still here?”
“I’m just going, but I wondered . . . did you know Simon would be here, attending the house party?”