“I’m—I’m delighted that you enjoyed your ride.”
Somehow I could not look into those eyes, direct and questioning.
Wellington was waiting at the house to help her dismount.
She went upstairs to rest before she changed for dinner, and I sat down in the library, frowning over my pipe and wondering how the devil I was to tell her about Florence.
The worst of the business was that had my godfather told her of it in his letter it would have been for her to open the subject, and for me to relax and wait for what she said.
As things stood at present, the move must come from me. Even this would not have mattered had she been the woman I expected.
Why, in heaven’s name, did she have to be so different and play such havoc with my plans?
I washed my hands, and changed my coat for dinner, and put into my pocket the two last letters Ambrose had written me, but when I went into the drawing room, expecting to see her seated there, the room was empty.
Seecombe, passing that moment through the hall, told me that “Madam” had gone into the library.
Now that she no longer sat on Solomon, above me, and had taken off the head-shawl and smoothed her hair, she seemed even smaller than before, and more defenseless.
Paler too by candlelight, and her mourning gown darker in comparison.
“Do you mind my sitting here?” she said.
“The drawing room is lovely in the daytime, but somehow now, at evening, with the curtains drawn and the candles lit, this room seems the best.
Besides, it was where you and Ambrose always sat together.”
Now perhaps was my chance.
Now to say,
“Yes. You have nothing like this at the villa.”
I was silent, and the dogs came in to make distraction.
After dinner, I said to myself, after dinner is the time.
And I will drink neither port nor brandy.
At dinner Seecombe placed her on my right hand, and both he and John waited upon us.
She admired the rose bowl and the candlesticks, and talked to Seecombe as he handed the courses, and all the while I was in a sweat that he should say,
“That happened, madam, or this occurred, when Mr. Philip was away in Italy.”
I could hardly wait for dinner to be over and for the pair of us to be alone again, though it brought me nearer to my task.
We sat down together before the library fire, and she brought out some piece of embroidery and began to work upon it.
I watched the small deft hands and wondered at them.
“Tell me what it is that is bothering you,” she said, after a while.
“Don’t deny there is something, because I shall know you are not speaking the truth. Ambrose used to tell me I had an animal’s instinct for sensing trouble, and I sense it with you, tonight.
In fact, since late afternoon.
I have not said anything to hurt you, have I?”
Well, here it was.
At least she had opened a way clear for me.
“You’ve said nothing to hurt me,” I replied, “but a chance remark of yours confounded me a little.
Could you tell me what Nick Kendall said to you in the letter he wrote to Plymouth?”
“Why, certainly,” she said.
“He thanked me for my letter, he told me that you both of you knew already the facts of Ambrose’s death, that Signor Rainaldi had written to him sending copies of the death certificate and other particulars, and that you invited me here for a short visit until my plans were formed.
Indeed, he suggested that I should go onto Pelyn after leaving you, which was very kind of him.”
“That was all he said?”
“Yes, it was quite a brief letter.”
“He said nothing about my having been away?”
“No.”
“I see.”
I felt myself grow hot, and she went on sitting there so calm and still, working at the piece of embroidery.
Then I said,
“My godfather was correct in telling you that he and the servants learned of Ambrose’s death through Signor Rainaldi.
But it was not so for me.
You see, I learned of it in Florence, at the villa, from your servants.”
She lifted her head and looked at me; and this time there were no tears in her eyes, no hint of laughter either; the gaze was long and searching and it seemed to me I read in her eyes both compassion and reproach.
10
“You went to Florence?” she said.