Mrs. Haylam called the third-floor parlor the Red Room, and it lived up to the name. The door had been left slightly ajar, and the light spilling into the hallway was tinted scarlet. The wallpaper, a leaf motif of red and darker red, had faded with time but lost little of its luster. More paintings crowded the walls, but even those were also predominantly finished in different shades of crimson. My eye caught on an ornately engraved writing set in the corner. Those quill pens looked like real silver.
Lee and his uncle sat on a low sofa, the window dressings behind gathered and folded like immense theater curtains. His uncle was having an animated conversation with a woman dressed all in black. I hadn’t seen her in the house before, but she looked comfortable enough on a fraying chair. A huge emerald sparkled on her finger, the only hint of color on her otherwise sober mourning costume. Her ebony hair, shot through with gray, had been tied in an elegant chignon at her nape.
“I really must protest, Mrs. Eames,” George Bremerton was saying. Red-faced, perched on the edge of the sofa, he bristled like a porcupine. The long cut of his sideburns emphasized his mastiff-like chin. “A woman of your means traveling without a chaperone? Preposterous. I insist you remain until we can accompany you at least as far as Ripon.”
The tea tray rattled as I struggled to ease inside the door, close it behind me, and then hurry to the table. Lee noticed the tremor in my arms and leapt to his feet, at once helping me maneuver the tray safely to the table. He flashed me a smile and then just as quickly returned to his seat. George Bremerton and this Mrs. Eames ignored my presence entirely.
“I manage passably well on my own,” the woman said. “A widow must. The waters of the spring here soothe my nerves and lessen the burden of grief. You ought to give them a try, you know; this is the best kept secret in all of England. Why deal with the marmaglia in Bath when you can enjoy the little spa here?”
She had a beautiful voice, a singer’s voice, melodious and accented. Italian, maybe, or French. From this angle I could better see her face, and that, too, was beautiful. She sat primly, her hands folded in her lap, her chin tilted back; it felt like I was watching a portrait sitting. I tore my gaze away from her and back to Lee, who subtly flicked his eyes toward his uncle and then rolled them.
Ah. So George Bremerton had noticed her distinct loveliness, too.
“I’m sure the waters are just fine, but that is beside the point. A widow must accept assistance when necessary,” George replied. “What of your sons? Could they not join you?”
“My sons are indisposed at the moment. They know their mamma is more than capable of handling herself. And now it is my turn to protest, Mr. Bremerton. This interrogation has rather exhausted me.” At last she noticed me bending over the table, pouring the tea and setting the service. “You will of course be a gentleman and let me take tea in peace.”
Peace appeared to be the last thing on George Bremerton’s mind. He had begun to sweat, and tugged at the ends of his sleeves. “Mrs. Eames, for heaven’s sake, please—”
Mrs. Eames silenced him with one hand, like an orchestra conductor finishing a song with a flourish. “You must not vex yourself, mio caro. It is not good for a man’s heart, something I know all too well. Visit the spa as soon as you are able; it will have a calming effect.”
“My condolences again, of course,” he said. “To lose a husband so suddenly. Simply awful.”
Mio caro. Italian then. I watched her dab at the perfectly dry corner of her eye. She sipped her tea and ate precisely one corner of a biscuit, all the while avoiding George Bremerton’s gaze. “Loss can be very oppressive,” she said finally. It had taken her a full moment to come up with a reason to escape his leering. “And this room, too! A lady must breathe. It is time I took some air; a turn about the grounds is just the thing, then of course a drink of the waters.”
Mrs. Eames stood, towering over me, and stared down her nose at me before turning with a flounce and gliding toward the door. Her plan did not go off quite perfectly, and George Bremerton was on his feet and following, giving his nephew a hasty nod good-bye before trotting to catch up with the widow.
“Please allow me to escort you, madam. The gardens are riddled with field mouse tunnels. I all but snapped my ankle in one yesterday. I will guide you safely on your walk.”
Her reply, positive or otherwise, was lost to the muting effect of the hall.
“Thank God that’s over.” Lee blew out a breath and sprang up from the sofa. “Uncle is such a dreadful flirt sometimes. He’s going to drive that woman mad with his badgering. It’s like he’s forgotten all about why we came here.”
The three of them had barely touched the tea, and I quashed an urge to nibble on what they’d left behind. Such waste. Mrs. Haylam would not approve, naturally, and so instead I knelt again and gathered the used cups and saucers onto the tray. At once I felt tension rise between me and the young man—there he stood, idle, while I scrambled to do my job. I took hold of the service to clear it completely, but Lee put up a hand.
“Don’t go just yet.”
“I have a long list of chores,” I replied, chewing the inside of my cheek with agitation. Perhaps you have nothing to do, fancy boy, but some of us must sing for our supper. He would be a nuisance if I had a mind to steal something here and there; I didn’t need him watching my every move. “My position here is so new, I wouldn’t want to give the impression that I’m lazy.”
“Just a moment or two?” he insisted. “I’ll take the blame if you get in trouble.”
“Well? Here I am.” I took a step back from the tray. The silver writing set winked at me from the corner. “Should you not be off on your grand adventure? I thought you were here to uncover the mystery of your parentage.”
Lee turned a dark shade of red, matching the room itself, and wandered to a bookcase in the far corner. He picked up a glass jar containing a few bird bones posed among moss and pretended to study it. “I would be, but Uncle George has fallen into distraction. Can I be totally honest with you, Louisa?”
“Yes.” As if I could stop him.
“You must indulge me. I did rescue your spoon!”
My sarcasm wilted in the face of so much exuberance. “Mm. I all but owe you my life.”
“Precisely! Ha!” His cheeks had faded to a pink color, his smile inconveniently charming. “You see, the plain truth of it is, I’m unbelievably, unbearably bored.”
“Bored?” I had to laugh at that as I joined him near the bookcase. Shifting aside the heavy draperies at the nearby window, I watched George Bremerton deliver the Italian widow to the garden, both of them stumbling over the holey ground. “You’ve not been here two days . . .”