“It matters,” Dottie replied. “It always matters what people think.”
“I’ll make the rounds of the neighbors,” Robert said. “Tell them the story. That way we’ll have the truth circulating among the better class of people in these parts, at least. I’ll start this afternoon.”
Dottie looked like she’d swallowed a lemon. She hated Robert’s social activities and refused to participate in them, but even she could see that in this instance they’d be useful. “I suppose,” she managed ungraciously.
“Besides,” Robert said, “I’ll get good mileage out of it. My nephew coming home a hero, just now, after all this time.” His smile, aimed at Alex, was almost wolfish. “If that isn’t worth a few drinks, I don’t know what is.”
“Very well,” Dottie said with sour finality. “But it does leave the question of Manders.”
“Yes.” Alex’s voice was distinctly cool. “It leaves the question of my wife.”
Everyone looked at me. My cheeks heated. Robert looked from me to Alex, a knowing smirk on his face. I felt as transparent as glass, as if everything that had happened—and hadn’t happened—last night was obvious. “The work Dottie needs done doesn’t stop just because Alex has come home,” I said.
Next to me, I caught the subtle vibration of Alex’s shock. He hadn’t thought I’d want to stay on as Dottie’s companion. Well, he wasn’t the only one with surprises. Besides, at the moment Dottie was more familiar to me than he was.
Dottie didn’t even blink. “I have a full schedule,” she agreed. “However, Manders, I do not expect you to be productive today, so I am granting you the day off. You may do as you wish and report to me tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“You can hardly think to keep my wife in your employ, Aunt,” Alex said, his tone dipping dangerously low.
“She can if I wish it,” I returned.
Robert’s smirk widened. I stayed anchored to my seat, holding his gaze. I have reasons for not telling you my reasons. Alex had his own purpose here—let him follow it, then, and I’d follow mine.
Frances and her murderer were my purpose. I would find out what had happened, husband or no husband. Staying on as Dottie’s companion was the best way.
Dottie adjourned the meeting. I needed escape; the air of Wych Elm House was too close, the corridors too dark and musty. Though it was raining, I found the driver and asked him to bring around the car. I walked to the kitchen vestibule and took the black mackintosh from its hook. There was mud on the back from when I’d lain in the ditch, looking up at Princer. I found a brush and quickly got rid of the dried dirt. Then I found my hat and my gloves.
When I returned to the hall, just as the motorcar was brought around, I found Alex standing by the front door in hat and coat, an umbrella tucked under his arm.
“Where are we going?” he asked me.
I stopped. I wanted to escape, but I’d also planned to try to question David Wilde in town. “Shopping,” I said.
“I see.” His gaze was steady on me from beneath the brim of his hat. Behind him, the rain splashed against the thick panes of decorative glass in the door.
“Alex,” I said, “you just promised Dottie you’d stay in the house.”
“No, I didn’t,” he said with unassailable logic, “though that was a good try. In fact, I object to letting you leave unaccompanied.”
“We just talked about this,” I protested. I took a step toward him, thinking to brush past him, but he would not let me by. “You’ll stir gossip if you go to the village.”
“And I’ve already said I don’t give a damn,” Alex said. He bent down to me, the shadows in the dim hall inky black beneath the brim of his hat. He put two fingers beneath my chin and lifted it. “You are stuck with me, Jo,” he said. “For better or for worse. We are married. You are stuck with me forever.”
I swallowed. I could feel my pulse in my throat. “Then I’ll stay home,” I rasped.
“If you prefer,” Alex said. “It’s a rainy day, and we have nothing to do. We can certainly spend the day in bed.”
I tore myself from his grip and wrenched the front door open, striding out into the rain. He followed me easily, taking my arm as I stepped into the motorcar. For a long moment, as the driver started the car and we began to move down the drive, I could not look at him. My own husband. We had spent long, sensuous afternoons together once, listening to the rain against our bedroom window as we lay in bed. I forced myself to turn and look at him. “That was uncalled for,” I said.
Alex sat back in the seat cushions, his umbrella between his well-formed knees. “What’s uncalled for,” he complained mildly, “is that my wife won’t spend the afternoon in bed with me after three years away.”
I gaped at him. “Can you blame me?”
“Certain parts of me blame you a great deal, yes.”
“Then those parts should have come home sooner,” I snapped.