Only then did Signa allow herself to turn from them, and toward Death.
“Please give the others that same warning,” she said, bowing her head in a silent thanks as she felt the cold slip away from her, understanding that Death had gone to do just that. Only then, as warmth slipped back into the room as the trio of spirits eased in the absence of Death’s presence, did Signa feel the prickle of eyes along her skin and know there was another watching her even now. She tried to snatch a glance at it, though as she turned, Signa saw only the hem of a dress disappear.
It was the same dress she’d seen when she’d arrived. Not a curtain billowing in the wind as she’d hoped, nor the spirit that had tried to kill her, but someone entirely new. Someone who’d been watching her from the moment she’d entered Foxglove.
Signa didn’t spare the trio another look as she crossed the floor to follow it toward a winding hall.
Though Signa knew better than to chase a spirit—though she had learned her lesson the night she’d followed Lillian into the garden and knew how foolish this was—it seemed that old habits died hard. Because at the end of the hall, Signa followed the faint flickers of blue that urged her forward, deeper and deeper into the bowels of Foxglove.
TWENTY-SEVEN
BLYTHE
IF ONE WANTED TO UNCOVER THE LATEST GOSSIP, THERE WERE TWO places to look:
First, the help. Not because they had any time for gossip, but because they were closest to a household’s best-kept secrets. Considering that so much of Thorn Grove’s staff was new, though, it didn’t seem there was anyone Blythe might be able to con into gossiping with her about what rumors they might have heard in town. Unfortunately, that meant she had to rely solely on her second source—the ladies of the season, who had entirely too much time for gossip, and loved to share whatever tidbits they’d picked up even if they were little more than flaking crumbs.
The morning Signa had left Thorn Grove, Blythe woke to find a note on her desk with a single name written upon it—Byron. It was Signa’s handwriting, and though no further explanation was given, she was certain it was a clue. And while it was better than trying to pluck leads for the duke’s murder out of thin air, part of Blythe wanted to burn the note and cast it from her mind.
Her family was a disaster enough without one more matter to add to the equation, and yet she couldn’t quit thinking about Byron’s behavior when they’d met with Elijah. He certainly seemed frustrated by Elijah’s position, though he also wasn’t out advocating on his brother’s behalf or trying to charm the prince as she had been.
It seemed that the weight of Elijah’s future rested entirely on Blythe’s shoulders, and so she would do what ladies of her age and status were expected to—invite others over for tea.
The only problem was that Blythe wasn’t convinced anyone would show up. She’d spent the morning pacing around her room, then the halls, then the parlor. And when she wasn’t pacing, she was sitting and stewing as nerves she hadn’t anticipated roiled through her.
Sheer desperation had Blythe nearly tumbling over from relief as Warwick entered the parlor with Charlotte Killinger, Eliza Wakefield, and Diana Blackwater in tow. Though Warwick had always been entirely professional, Blythe didn’t miss the extra pep in his step as he led the ladies to a table set for four. He looked as relieved for Blythe as she felt.
“I’m so glad you could make it!” Blythe put on her most practiced smile. Considering both her overwhelming relief and considerable amount of practice, no one could prove it wasn’t genuine. “Warwick, could you please see that tea is brought up?”
He bowed his head and hurried off, leaving the ladies to settle into their seats. Piping hot tea was brought—as well as two trays of dainty sandwiches and sweet pastries—before they could even get out their greetings. Eliza was the first to grab a lemon scone, slathering it with blueberry preserves that Charlotte had brought to share, courtesy of a sudden abundance of berries near her home. Eliza dropped a copious number of sugar cubes into her tea and stirred, stiff and awkward as she brought the cup to her lips.
Charlotte, too, was rigid in her seat. Given the argument between them, Blythe couldn’t blame her. Diana had yet to stir, watching the cup as though it might somehow leap from its saucer and attack her.
Blythe tried not to be offended. She supposed that since she had seen vines and ivy tear through the floor of her father’s study only a few days prior, savage teacups might not be out of the question. Though if one did manage to sprout to life and spray Diana with tea, Blythe might think to thank it.
She’d invited Charlotte not only because she was close to Everett these days but also as an apology and out of a hope to mend their relationship. The woman was too good a friend for Blythe to let slip away due to her own stubbornness.
Eliza was invited because it seemed there was something going on between her and Byron. Diana, however, Blythe had invited for two reasons: the first being that if she wasn’t, Diana would undoubtedly take offense and find something about the Hawthornes to spread gossip about, which was the last thing any of them needed. The second reason was that if Diana was there, news of this visit would spread throughout town by morning. Blythe figured it couldn’t hurt to help salvage the Hawthorne name a little more before the trial.
“It’s been ages,” Eliza crooned, sipping her tea. “When was the last time the four of us were able to take tea together?”
It had been well over a year. A year of her mother’s death, her own illness, and several months of a long, painful recovery that only Charlotte had cared enough to try to understand. Blythe had just begun feeling well enough to venture back into some semblance of her life the night the duke had passed.
“It’s been too long,” she said by way of answer, not caring to give them an exact number even if she had the months memorized. If she gave that number a voice, she feared it would somehow hold power over her. That she might suddenly fall back into the dark space she had clawed herself out of with every scrap of strength that she’d had.
“I’m surprised any of you were allowed to come,” Blythe said with a casual grace that didn’t match the way she scrutinized the group’s every motion in response. She was certain her being seen with the prince at the investiture had something to do with their availability.
“Your father hasn’t been tried.” Charlotte’s voice was as smooth as the springtime breeze, and just as calming. “And my father is wise enough to understand that the investigation is still ongoing, and that the papers will try to weave a story from anything these days.”
At least someone among them believed in her father’s innocence. Blythe hadn’t realized how much tension she’d been holding in her shoulders until it ebbed. She looked to Charlotte then, offering the smallest nod to signal that she was relieved to have her friend return.
Eliza didn’t need to explain her attendance—the duke had overseen her, and now Everett had filled the role. As busy as he was with his new role and taking over the estate, Eliza could very likely get away with anything these days. And that was if Everett even cared that Eliza was at Thorn Grove at all.
As for Diana, she’d still not said a word and had just taken her first sip. It was tentative, testing it. She kept glancing behind each of the girls as well, as though expecting a ghost to pop out and frighten them.
Blythe had no doubt her family had forbade her from coming, and that Diana likely had to wriggle her way to tea. She would have clawed a path to Thorn Grove if it meant being at the very source of the town’s latest scandal.
“Will Miss Farrow be joining us?” Eliza asked, scanning the place settings in search of a fifth.