“And do not fidget,” she scolded. “I do not trust a fidgeter.”
We sat for some minutes in silence. I looked about the room, memorising the paintings and mentally moving the shepherdess from the landscape into the still life of apples and cheese.
“Julia, do not furrow your brow like that. It will give wrinkles and it makes you look simple.”
I widened my eyes. “I am sorry, Aunt Dorcas. Would you like for me to read to you?”
I reached for a book on the night table, but she flapped an irritable hand at me, shooing me away.
“I am in no mood for reading,” she said.
“Then why don’t you tell me about your adventures?” I coaxed. “I think you enjoyed yourself whilst you were away.”
She fixed me with a cold stare, her bosom quivering with indignation. “I was in fear for my life, and you think Ienjoyedmyself?”
I blinked at her. “In fear of your life? From whom?”
Aunt Dorcas clamped her lips shut and shook her head. “I must say no more,” she murmured, her lips still tightly closed.
I shrugged. “Very well. I will leave you then. Good night,” I said, rising.
“It was that boy, Ludlow,” she said, and I turned back, assuming my chair once more.
“The murderer? Yes, it was. He confessed, more than once, in fact.”
She took the edge of the sheet in her fingers, worrying the lace like prayer beads. “He did not work alone,” she said, more to herself than to me. “It was her.”
I froze in my chair, uncertain of how to proceed. She was entirely correct, a woman had been involved. But Ludlow had not chosen to expose Lucy, and the girl was on her way to be married to a man who would make her life agony. Most would say justice had already been satisfied.
“You need not confirm it,” she said, nodding. “Your face is an eloquent one, Julia. It was always thus, even as a child.”
“Very well,” I admitted. “He did say he murdered Snow because of a woman. Snow was blackmailing her for some wrongdoing she had committed in her youth.”
Aunt Dorcas gave a little groan and covered her mouth.
I half-rose from my chair. “Aunt Dorcas, are you quite all right? Shall I ring for a maid?”
She shook her head, almost violently. “No, sit. And what we speak of in this room tonight must never be repeated,” she told me, fixing me with those dark toadlike eyes. “Swear it.”
“I swear.”
She relaxed a little then, but resumed her twisting of the lace. I heard a tiny rip and made a note to tell Portia to have it mended. Poor Aunt Hermia. Yet another sheet damaged during this house party. Between the guests and the cats there would be nothing left to put on the beds.
“Did he tell you why she was being blackmailed?”
“No. He simply said it was a youthful peccadillo.”
To my astonishment, she laughed. Not the tiny giggles she often affected, but great, heaving, gulping sobs of laughter that frightened me. After a moment the laughter turned to coughing and I was forced to intervene.
“Thank you,” she said finally, recovering herself. “But it was not necessary to hit me so forcefully. I think you have bruised my back.”
She gave me a reproachful look as I resumed my chair again. I said nothing and she paused, her expression faraway and touched with sorrow.
“This was no youthful peccadillo,” she said finally. “Emma was being blackmailed because she murdered my sister.”
I stared at her, gripping the arms of the chair so tightly I could not feel my hands. “No, it was Lucy he killed for, Lucy who was being blackmailed by Mr. Snow.”
Aunt Dorcas looked at me pityingly. “Are you so certain?”