“You’re here!” Amelia exclaimed, enveloping me and the freed carry cot in a hug. She planted a quick kiss on Bess’s forehead, snatched the diaper bag from Declan, and tugged me up the stairs and into the high-ceilinged entrance hall.
Amelia Thistle was a petite, pleasantly plump widow in her early sixties. She was also a world-renowned watercolorist. She found inspiration in nature and spent much of her time tramping through the countryside, clad in a bulky pullover, a ratty rain jacket, and corduroy trousers, with her painting gear crammed into a grubby old day pack. Her complexion was ruddy and she wore her gray hair in a perpetually tousled knot at the back of her head, but though she preferred to dress down, she knew how to dress up.
She’d clearly made an effort to put her best foot forward for her prospective sisters-in-law. Her flowing, knee-length silk gown looked as though she had painted it herself, then dipped it in water to make the pastel colors run together. It was striking, but not showy, and its soft violet shades played off the amethyst in her antique engagement ring.
“Come into the morning room,” she said, pulling me across the entrance hall. “We’re saving the drawing room for later.”
I assumed that “later” meant “when Charlotte and Honoria arrive,” and that Amelia wished to make a good impression on them by ushering them into a room that was marginally more formal than the morning room. They would, no doubt, find the morning room insipid.
I thought it was lovely. The walls were a delicate shade of apricot, the windows were hung with gold brocade drapes, and the furnishings were light and feminine, with slender cabriolet legs and embroidered upholstery. Porcelain figurines graced the white marble mantel shelf, and the silver filigree desk set on the rosewood writing table was so finely wrought it could have been made of lace. Willis, Sr., had put the finishing touch on the morning room when he’d replaced its oil paintings with a selection of his fiancée’s superb watercolors.
Amelia had added an unexpected splash of color to the decor by placing a bright-red bouncy chair in the middle of the room. The chair looked slightly out of place on the Aubusson carpet, but when Bess saw it, she gave a squeaky chortle and began to kick like mad. She was very fond of the bouncy chair.
Amelia dropped the diaper bag on the settee near the windows, then prowled the room like a caged lioness while I placed Bess in her favorite piece of furniture. I secured the safety restraints, to keep my rock ’n’ roll girl from launching herself into the stratosphere, then sat back on my heels and looked up at Amelia.
I intended to put our time together to good use. Having made an appointment to see Marigold Edwards, I was ready to tackle the second item on my agenda: soliciting Amelia’s opinion of her.
“Are you sure you haven’t pulled those straps too tight?” Amelia asked, peering at the bouncy chair. “We wouldn’t want to cut off Bess’s circulation.”
“Bess is fine,” I said through gritted teeth. “Where’s William?”
“Oh, he’ll be along as soon as he finds out that Bess is here,” Amelia said fretfully. “He’s been shut up in his study all morning. He called it his hurricane shelter. I haven’t the least idea what he meant by it.”
I grinned knowingly, got to my feet, and seated myself on a non-bouncy Regency armchair near Bess.
“It’s a little joke he picked up from his son,” I explained. “Bill called me Hurricane Lori when I arranged William’s housewarming party. You must be Hurricane Amelia.”
Amelia drew an indignant breath, then sank onto the settee and began to laugh.
“I have been behaving like a lunatic,” she admitted. “I feel as if I should be doing something, but everything’s been done, so I keep walking in circles, moving things that don’t need to be moved, then moving them back to where they were in the first place. Hurricane Amelia, indeed.” She shook her head and chuckled. “Poor William. I drove him into his study.”
“You’ve got stage fright,” I said. “Who wouldn’t? It’s easier to meet future in-laws than it is to contemplate meeting them. You’ll be fine once the show gets under way. In the meantime, let’s talk about anything but Charlotte and Honoria.”
“Oh, yes, let’s,” she said imploringly. “If I touch another ornament, Deirdre will lock me in the cloakroom and throw away the key.”
“We can’t have that,” I said, smiling. “I’m a little parched, though. May I have a glass of water?”
“Good Lord,” said Amelia, jumping up from the settee. “I’ve officially lost my mind. Forgive me, Lori. I forgot that nursing makes you thirsty. I should have had a pitcher of water waiting for you. I’ll be right back.”