* * *
When I moved into the nave, I was astonished to find Sir Cedric there with Emma and Lucy, dressed in travelling clothes and surrounded by their baggage. Sir Cedric was quite purple in the face and yelling at Aquinas.
“Sir Cedric, contain yourself,” I said crisply. “There is no call for that sort of behaviour. Now, what is the trouble?”
Sir Cedric was sputtering too much to speak, so Aquinas stepped in. “Sir Cedric and his party wish to leave and have requested a carriage and baggage wagon to take them to the station in Blessingstoke. I have had no instructions from his lordship on the matter, and I am uncertain of his wishes.”
I looked at the little trio of travellers. Sir Cedric had lapsed into furious muttering under his breath. Lucy and Emma stood a little apart, Lucy biting at her lip while Emma stood so straight I thought her back would snap from the strain of it. Their faces were white and nervous, and I pitied them thoroughly.
“Aquinas, order the conveyances.” Father had taken the coachman to London, but Whittle, the gardener, was a fair hand at the whip when necessary, and one of the footmen could manage a baggage wagon as far as Blessingstoke.
Aquinas bowed and withdrew to make arrangements. Sir Cedric pulled his greatcoat tighter about his girth, his expression almost, but not quite, mollified. Lucy shot me a look of pure gratitude before sinking down to sit on one of Cedric’s trunks. Emma laid a hand on her shoulder, and it occurred to me then she would also have to tread on eggshells if she hoped to stay in her future brother-in-law’s good graces.
“Sir Cedric, I presume you are returning to town? Father must give your direction to Scotland Yard. They will want to speak with you about this business with Mr. Ludlow.”
“Do not speak his name to me,” he thundered, his face purpling again. “No, I do not mean to return to town. We leave for Southampton. I mean to be aboard ship tonight.”
It took me a moment to grasp what he was saying. “You are leaving the country? Tonight? But Mr. Ludlow will need you. He must present a defence to the charges of willful murder, as well as the attack against Emma and Lucy. Statements must be given, and references to his character. I grant they will not weigh heavily as he has confessed, but you must help him.”
“Must I?” His tawny lion’s eyes narrowed to something small and mean. “He has disgraced himself, and me by association. I do not mean to stay here whilst I am made sport of by the newspapers. He will be tried for the murder. To have the attack upon Lucy and Emma made public would be unacceptable. We leave for India tonight. Lucy and I will be married on board the ship, and we will remain in India until this is all quite finished.”
“You mean until Henry hangs for what he did?” I asked brutally.
Sir Cedric looked at me appraisingly. “I was quite right about you. You need a husband. Someone with a firm hand to keep you in line. You are far too forward and mannish.”
I inclined my head graciously. “How kind of you to notice. In that case, permit me to wish you as pleasant a journey as you deserve.”
I exchanged pecks on the cheek with Emma and Lucy. Emma was in complete command of herself, although her manner seemed brittle, as if her nerves were stretched taut as a bowstring. I did not envy her future in Sir Cedric’s employ.
“Thank you, dearest Julia,” she murmured into my ear. “You helped to save my darling girl, and I cannot ever repay such a debt.”
She squeezed my hand and turned away, blinking furiously. Lucy was inclined to cling. Her lips were bleeding a little where she had chewed them, and her nails were bitten to the quick. Eventually, I detached her from my neck and patted her arm. I took my leave then, but as I mounted the stairs I took one last look over my shoulder. Sir Cedric was fussing over some imaginary scuff Lucy had left on his bag. Lucy was on her knees, buffing at it. And behind them stood Emma, her expression blank as a marionette’s as she watched them both.
I met Portia at the top of the stairs and quickly related the news that Cedric was leaving his cousin to the mercy of the law, without recourse to money or influence to help his defence.
“I never liked him,” Portia said stoutly. “I wonder if Lucy knows what she is doing?”
I tipped my head thoughtfully. “I think she begins to see it, and to worry. But it is too late. If she puts a foot on the deck of that ship, she has as good as married him. What is that you are carrying?”
Portia unrolled the bundle of white linen. “A ghost,” she told me, pointing to the two charred spots where the holes for eyes had been burnt. “The maid found it in the linen cupboard this morning. Christopher Sly has decided at last to admit people to her nursery.”
I held it up, touching the blackened holes lightly. “But I thought Charlotte was our only ghost,” I murmured.
Portia shrugged. “I could not care less, my heart. I only know I have to explain to Aunt Hermia why one of Grandmama’s prized sheets from France is ruined.” She put a finger through the hole and waggled it at me. “I do not suppose you would like to break the news?”
I took the sheet and gave her a quick kiss on the cheek. “I would be happy to do it.”
Portia peered at me. “Are you starting a fever? You are unnaturally decent this morning.”
I smiled at her, thinking of Lucy and Emma and the lives they would lead. “I am merely exceedingly grateful that we are ladies of independent fortune,” I told her. And I left her, staring after me in puzzlement.
THE TWENTY-SEVENTH CHAPTER
Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind.
—A Midsummer Night’s Dream
After I left Charlotte, I had no desire for company. But I still carried Plum’s sketchbook, and I knew he would want it back. A page had come askew when it fell, its corner poking out from between the thin morocco covers. I opened the book to put it to rights, and suddenly realised the page was not part of the sketchbook at all. In fact, it was not even a page. It was the corner of an envelope, a thick, creamy envelope stamped several times over with Italian postmarks. There was a letter inside, written in formal Italian and penned in a thin, ornately spidery script. The paper bore the cipher of the Palazzo Fornacci in Florence.