I glared at her dully, but she wasn’t looking at me. I remembered her son, Martin, his hands clumsy on my shoulder blades as he embraced me. Had Dottie planned to marry me to him all along? How had she thought I would go along with it? I was only twenty-six, but I would never marry again. I pushed my plate away and rubbed my gritty eyes.
After breakfast we adjourned to the library, which Dottie used as an office. The impressive shelves along the back wall were stocked with books, but I saw immediately that they were dry old volumes, unread and used as a backdrop, like wallpaper. The large desk was covered with neat stacks of papers. In the room’s front corner was a small secretary table, placed near the window. Here she set me with pen and paper, a small moon revolving around her planet, to take dictation of her correspondence in the shorthand I had learned as a secretary. The pen and paper were only a temporary measure, she explained to me, since she had ordered a typewriter for me to use, which would arrive within the next few days.
Though I had not thought of my former job in years, it was uncanny how quickly I fell back into its habits. As I had many a time in my Casparov days, I blinked the tiredness from my eyes and hunched over my desk, settling into the numbing routine of work. Most of Dottie’s letters were to potential buyers of artwork, listing the pieces she had for possible sale, inviting the recipient to come to Wych Elm House to inspect them in person. There were letters to David Wilde regarding money matters I did not understand, as well as something to another lawyer about taxes on the property. Dottie spoke quickly, moving from one letter to the next as I scratched the words down without time to ponder what I was writing.
We had spent the morning this way when Martin came into the room. He was dressed just as a prosperous young man at home in the country would dress: wool trousers and a collared shirt under a pullover sweater. The bulk of the sweater filled out some of his hollows, but still there was no mistaking the unhealthy thinness of his body and the waxy pallor of his face. I had seen his prewar photograph so many times that I still felt a jolt when I looked at him, as if I was looking at an oddly familiar stranger I could not quite place. I also felt, to my horror, a shiver of embarrassed revulsion at the sight of him. It was uncalled for, and unkind, but I was still affected by last night’s dream and I could not help it.
“Good morning, Mother,” he said calmly. He turned his deep brown gaze briefly to me. “Cousin Jo.”
Dottie glanced at her watch, her expression warring between her habitual disapproval of late sleepers and the impossibility of censuring her beloved son. “It is eleven o’clock,” she said, settling for a statement of neutral fact.
“The journey yesterday fatigued me, I’m afraid,” Martin said.
“Are you well?” Dottie asked him. “Have you eaten? It is late for breakfast, but the servants—”
“The servants fed me properly, Mother. Please don’t worry.” He smiled at her, that charming smile that was so like Robert’s, and I wondered if Dottie could see he was lying, that he hadn’t eaten anything at all. “Do you think I could borrow your delightful companion for a time?”
My stomach twisted. Dottie shot me one of her narrow-eyed looks, this one somehow thoughtful and speculative. “You wish to speak to Manders?”
“I wish to go walking with Cousin Jo and show her the grounds,” Martin said easily. “Let me guess—you’ve kept her locked up in here, working her to death. Really, Mother! Cousin Jo is family, not an Egyptian slave. Has she even had a proper tour of the house?”
Dottie leaned back in her chair, inscrutable thoughts behind her eyes. If my suspicion was right, having Martin and me walk together played into her plans; however, she had not expected Martin to suggest it, and she hated surprises. “Very well,” she said at last. She turned to me as I tried to hide my terrified expression. “Manders, go take some air with Martin. Please return by two o’clock, as I’d like those letters finished by the end of the day.”
I did not move. My hands gripped the edge of my desk, the knuckles white.
“Jolly good,” came Martin’s voice. I turned my head, as stiff as if it were on rusty wires, and found him looking at me. He had that meaningful look in his eyes, the one he’d given me yesterday. “Get your coat, Cousin Jo,” he said. “There’s an autumn chill in the air.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was indeed chilled outdoors; it was the middle of September, and the sunlight was beginning to thin, the wind losing its warmth. Martin had put on a short wool jacket and wound a scarf of dark burgundy around his neck. His brown hair was longish and carelessly cut—the product, I realized, of months in hospital—and when he swung open the front door, it tousled in the wind like a boy’s.
As I tugged on my hat, a maid descended the staircase behind me, carrying an armful of linens. I turned to her as Martin waited for me in the doorway. “I’m sorry about the leaves,” I said.