Page 80 of Murder in Moonlight
Grey did not move, let alone turn.
“Your pardon, sir,” Davidson drawled. “Mrs. Winsom wants you, and I want past.”
To Constance’s relief, Solomon stood aside and Davidson sauntered past. She heard him greet Mrs. Winsom on his way.
The lady appeared just outside the door in dark outdoor clothes, black crepe on her bonnet. “Mr. Grey, might I have your escort? I find myself eager to walk now the rain has gone off.”
Indeed, a beam of watery sunshine had brightened the room. Solomon greeted his hostess with a bow, though his frowning gaze quickly returned to Constance.
She did not want him to see her weakness. She did not want to be weak. “I shall leave you to it,” she said lightly. “Enjoy your walk.”
His brow twitched. For a moment he seemed about to dig in his heels, however much it offended his hostess, the recent widow, and that warmed her heart, though she needed him to go.
She willed him to see it.Go with her. You might learn something important. They would need to very soon, for she had this sick feeling in the pit of her stomach that the tension at Greenforth was about to snap into fresh catastrophe.
He turned away from her and politely offered his arm to Mrs. Winsom.
Constance waited, listening to their footsteps recede across the hall and the murmur of their polite voices. But only when the front door had closed behind them did she draw in a shuddering breath and leave the billiard room.
Despite what her head knew, she did not feel safe. She longed for the stout, loyal footmen of her own establishment, whose very presence protected her and her girls. Had she become too dependent on them? Too fearful?
No, she was just a realist who had faced much worse than one angry, selfish man with a billiard cue. And yet she was undeniably shaken. She looked about the empty hall as she crossed to the stairs, felt the hair on the back of her neck prickle as she climbed. She was ridiculously glad to see the chambermaids in the passage as she made her way to her own room, where she closed and locked the door behind her.
Only then did she sink into the armchair and wait for the trembling to stop. It had been too long since anyone had threatened her. She had grown too soft.
But she had survived. Even before Solomon had come—whyhadhe come?—she was back in control. Still, he would have stayed with her had she shown the slightest need, the slightest desire for his company. And that was sweet.
*
“I have notleft the house for days,” Mrs. Winsom said as they walked through the gardens toward the woods. “I began to feel trapped there.”
Solomon nodded. “A little fresh air and exercise are necessary to all of us.” Although he could have done without it at this moment. He was more worried about Constance. She had smiled and looked as self-assured and unconcerned as always,and yet he knew she was not. More, he knew Davidson was the cause.
“Mr. Davidson has almost beaten me.”She meant he had not touched her, but he had come close. He had threatened, and that, Solomon would never forgive. But she was his first concern. He did not want to be with the grieving widow right now, though he pitied her. He had to make the effort to concentrate on her, for apart from anything else, she could well hold the key to this whole mystery.
“I had almost forgotten it is summer,” Mrs. Winsom said. She sounded bewildered. “It feels as if months have passed instead of a mere couple of days. Or perhaps as if time has stopped in one terrible moment.”
Solomon nodded. “It will be hard to adjust. But you are not alone. You have your children.”
“I am blessed,” she said, with a slight crack in her voice. “Shall we walk through the woods?”
“If you wish, though the ground will be wet.”
After recent events, the wet clearly did not even register with her. She walked in silence for a while. Solomon assumed he was there merely for companionship, perhaps for the familiarity of a male escort.
“He was having an affair, you know,” she said abruptly. “My husband. With my friend.”
“It must be very painful.”
“She was not the first. I doubt she would have been the last. Nor am I the last wife who will suffer in such a way.” She swallowed. “It’s odd how much I miss him.”
“He was a very likeable man.”
She nodded. “Too likeable. He assumed he would always be forgiven. Like a beloved, overindulged child.”
He looked down at her, aware that no one had ever seriously considered her as a suspect for more than a moment. “Do you forgive him?”
She looked away, her smile faint and rueful. “Not for dying.”
