“Alessandro. I see that you have heard about Mr. Snow. It is a terrible thing.”
He shook his head. “Julia, I do not understand this. I knew nothing until Lysander came and found me. I was on the other side of the Abbey, in the room with all of the plants. I cannot think of the word.”
His brow furrowed in concentration, or perhaps in frustration.
“The conservatory?” I hazarded.
“Si,conservatory. I was there, and Lysander came to look for me. He said that Signore Snow has been murdered in the chapel, and that Miss Lucy, she has confessed to this horrible thing.”
I could feel the confusion emanating from him. I had left Father and Brisbane to finish their preparations in the game larder, and I knew I had but a moment until they appeared. For either of them to find me in a tête-à-tête with Alessandro was not a complication I relished.
I adopted my most soothing tone. “Yes, it is frightful. And what Lysander told you is correct. But my father has matters under control, and we must soldier on.”
He started, his skin going quite pale under its usual olive cast. “Soldiers? There will be soldiers here?”
“No, my dear. It is simply an expression we English use. It means we must do our duty and not give way to emotion.”
Alessandro blinked at me, and I realised then how impossible it would be to explain the concept of a stiff upper lip to an Italian.
I turned him and prodded him toward the door. “Come now. Father wishes us all gathered in the drawing room, and he will be along any minute.”
He cast a doubtful look at me over his shoulder, but he went without a murmur. If only every man in my life were so biddable, I thought ruefully. He paused at the door to permit me to enter first, and I made at once for the chair nearest Portia.
In the drawing room, the assembled company was solemn. Brandy and tea had been supplied, but no one seemed very inclined to partake. Cups and glasses were clutched in pale, nerveless fingers, and Charlotte for one, trembled so badly I thought her cup would shatter in its saucer. Plum stood by the window, glowering at the blackness beyond. Violante was grasping Ly’s hand so tightly their fingers had gone white.
“Where is Aunt Dorcas? And Hortense?” I whispered to Portia.
“Bed,” she murmured. “The old fright was tired, so Hortense saw her up to bed. Then she told Aquinas she was retiring herself. Something about a headache. They would not have heard the screaming, and I thought it best to let them be.”
I nodded. “Time enough for them to hear of it tomorrow.”
By way of reply, she took a deep swallow of whiskey, closing her eyes for a long moment. I could just see the fine lines at their corners, newly incised from fatigue. I felt a rush of affection for her then, and covered her hand with my own. She grasped it, and a ghost of a smile touched her lips.
Portia looked up in relief a moment later when Father entered, but it was Emma who rose, deadly pale but composed.
“My lord uncle!” she cried, her lips trembling. She bowed her head and raised a handkerchief to her mouth.
Father patted her back, a trifle awkwardly. “There, there, my girl.”
“What happened?” she asked him, simply, as a child might have done.
Father shook his head. “I do not know, save that Mr. Snow is murdered, by her hand, Lucy claims. She refuses to leave the chapel, and I have respected her wishes.”
“But why?” Emma demanded, pulling away. “It is so cold there. Why can she not go to her room?”
“My dear,” Father said, moving to take a chair by the fire, “I would have been perfectly willing to confine her to her room if she had wished it. She remains in the chapel by her own choice.”
“Confined to her room?” Emma followed him, sinking to a needlepoint hassock at his feet. “Why must she be confined at all?”
Sir Cedric interjected, his face stormy, “I imagine his lordship feels he has no choice.” His voice shook, as though he held the reins of his emotion, but only lightly.
Father said nothing, but merely looked at Emma, waiting for her to comprehend. Portia handed him a whiskey, and he gave her a feeble smile in thanks.
Emma shook her head slowly. “You cannot believe it of her. She could never have done this.”
Father took a sip of his whiskey. “Child, there is a dead man in my house, and a girl who claims to have killed him. I am compelled to believe her.”
Emma gave an anguished sob and tore at her handkerchief, shredding the fine lawn with her nails. “No! I will not believe it.”