‘I should retire.’
‘But it is early yet.’
‘I am very sleepy.’
She rose, and Ralph followed her to the door.
‘I will escort you—’
‘No, please—’ She turned, knowing tears were not far away. ‘I would prefer to be alone. Please remain with your family.’
He raised her hand to his lips, and the now-familiar heat shot through her veins. She said, to distract herself, ‘We have more guests arriving tomorrow. I will need to have my wits about me for that.’
‘You managed very well tonight.’
She glanced down. The skirts of her midnight-blue silk looked black in the dim light. Mourning colours for a dead wife. She raised her head, forcing a smile.
‘I am doing what you employed me for, my lord.’
He did not correct her, and she went out, closing the door quietly behind her.
* * *
‘Ralph, where is Lucy?’ Margaret called across the room as she closed the lid of the piano.
He had no idea how long he had been standing at the door. Long enough to imagine Lucy crossing the hall and climbing the stairs, her silken skirts whispering about her and the little silver stars in her hair twinkling in the light of her bedroom candle.
‘She has gone to bed.’ He added lightly, ‘No doubt you have tired her out with your endless questions.’
‘Pho, we have been unusually restrained,’ Meg retorted, coming across the room and taking his arm. ‘There are so many questions we could have asked. Such as, why have you chosen a woman who looks so much like your late wife?’
‘She would not have been able to answer that.’
‘No, but you can.’ She squeezed his arm. ‘Well, Ralph?’
‘She is nothing like Helene.’ He saw Margaret’s cynical smile and shrugged. ‘Very well, there is a passing likeness.’
‘Helene is gone, Ralph. You cannot bring her back.’
Margaret was the sister nearest to him in age and temperament. He was not used to seeing sympathy in her eyes, but it was there as she murmured the quiet words.
‘I have no wish to bring her back,’ he muttered. ‘I just want—’ He stopped. This was his burden, and he would not share it. Instead, he smiled at his sister. ‘I want you and Caro to look after Lucy. This house party will be something of a trial for her.’
Lucy rose early the following morning. After a night’s repose nothing seemed quite so bad and she decided to go out. She dressed quickly, but when she went downstairs she found that Margaret and Caroline were before her.
‘Ah, so you are going out walking, too,’ Caroline greeted her cheerfully when she met them in the hall. ‘We are going to Druids Rock. Will you join us?’
The prospect of congenial company was too tempting. The three ladies went off together, the sisters setting a brisk pace, which suited Lucy very well.
‘This is a favourite walk of ours,’ said Caroline as they headed for the wicket gate on the far side of the lawn.
‘Really? Even after the accident?’
‘Well, that was very sad, of course,’ said Margaret. ‘We always spare a thought for Helene when we go this way, but we enjoy the walk, and the views from Druids Rock are spectacular.’
‘Besides,’ said Caroline, ‘I am sure many dreadful things have happened there in the past. The Druids, you see.’ She lowered her voice and said with relish, ‘Dark deeds, sacrifices and satanic rituals!’
‘Hush, Caro, you know that is all nonsense. Pay no heed to my sister, Lucy. She has a penchant for horrid mysteries and Gothic tales.’
‘But you must admit it does add a touch of excitement,’ said Caroline. ‘Oh! What has happened here?’
They were approaching the gate into the old ride, and Lucy looked up with some surprise. The trees had been cut back, allowing the sunlight to pour onto the path.
‘It has been opened up,’ cried Caroline. ‘And about time, too. Now we shall be able to ride this way again. This must be for you, Lucy. Ralph told us you are a bruising rider.’
Lucy blushed and shook her head, wishing he did indeed care enough to do such a thing for her.
‘And the undergrowth has been cut back so we can walk three abreast,’ declared Margaret, linking arms with her companions. ‘It is quite shocking how overgrown it had become in the past couple of years. Since Helene did not ride much this path was rarely used, but after the accident Ralph closed the gate and never came this way any more.’
‘Accident!’ Caroline gave a snort. ‘Everyone knows she killed herself.’ When Margaret protested she waved her hand. ‘It is best that Lucy knows the truth, Meg, if she is going to live here. It was recorded as an accident, of course, but Helene must have been very distressed to go out without changing her gown.’
‘You think she was distraught?’ asked Lucy, curiosity overcoming her reluctance to discuss the matter.
Margaret looked at Caroline.
‘We think she and Ralph had quarrelled that day,’ she said. ‘Or rather, that he had upbraided her, for she was such a soft little thing she never argued with anyone. There was a brittle quality to her at the play that evening, and Ralph was looking decidedly grim. At the end of the night we all thought Helene had gone to bed. Of course with so many people in the house it was all noise and confusion, and it wasn’t until the following morning we discovered she had gone out.’
‘It was quite dreadful when her body was brought back to the house,’ added Caroline. She gave a shudder. ‘I have never seen Ralph so pale. And later, after dinner, he had the most terrible row with Adam.’
‘Adam Cottingham,’ queried Lucy. ‘His heir?’
‘Yes. We were all gathered in the drawing room, and Adam had clearly been imbibing far too freely, for suddenly he burst out, “You are to blame. You pushed her to this, you cold devil. If she had not married you she would still be alive!” And Ralph never said a word. He just stood there, that closed look on his face—you know the one, Sis—until Adam stormed out of the room.’
‘That is right,’ nodded Margaret. ‘And Ralph said, in the quiet way he has, “He is right.” And then not another word upon it.’
‘So he blames himself for her death,’ muttered Lucy.
‘Yes, but he should not,’ declared Caroline. ‘No one could have been more kind or forbearing, and you will know by now that that is not Ralph’s nature. He went out of his way to look after his wife. Helene was very mild-mannered and kind to a fault, but she had no spirit. She crumbled at the first hint of disapprobation.’
‘Caro—’
‘It’s the truth, Meg. Oh, everyone loved Helene and I believe she was determined to be a good wife, but she was unhappy. Ralph did his best, as soon as he realised what a nervous little thing she was he did everything in his power to set her at her ease. We never heard him raise his voice to her, did we, Meg?’
‘No, he was most forbearing.’
‘It’s my belief she was unstable,’ remarked Caroline, considering the matter. ‘She would burst into tears at the slightest provocation. I found her extremely tiresome, and I only saw her occasionally. How Ralph kept his temper with her I do not know!’
‘Caroline!’