Page 43 of Ghost in the Garden
Fury carried Constanceacross the garden so fast that she narrowly avoided bumping into the apple tree. Fury and disappointment and hurt and—What the devil had he meant about her mother?
Casting that aside, she concentrated on the partnership argument and on his belief that if she didn’t obey him, she was dissolving it. That was not the Solomon she thought she knew. Or had she ever known him? Had she not just been drawn to that beguiling mixture of danger and respectability? To say nothing of his beautiful person. And she thought it was friendship, love… Whatever name she gave it, had she really been so wrong?
She didn’t want to be wrong. She wanted this agency, this work, this partnership. She wantedhim, in whatever capacity she could. And she had just shut the door on him. Literally and metaphorically.
Was that really the end of it? Had something precious been broken between them? Somewhere, she knew he had been looking after her, but that was no excuse for laying down the law as though she were his servant, his tool. Under no circumstances could she ever be those things again. Not to anyone. That he was used to giving orders was no excuse. Not when he spoke to his partner.
And yet…
And yet she had a part to play, and to do so, she needed her wits about her. Knocking firmly on the back door, she thrust the quarrel aside to some small, lonely part of her mind where she refused to dwell.
Duggin opened the door. “Where’ve you been?”
“Evening off,” Constance said breezily, brushing past him into the kitchen. “Courtesy of the mistress. She hasn’t rung yet, has she?”
To her surprise, all the servants except the cook were sitting around the kitchen table, drinking a last cup of tea. No one wore outdoor clothing, or clothes spattered with mud or blood…
“Mrs. Feathers gone to bed?” she asked cheerfully.
“Obviously,” Duggin said.
Ignoring him, Constance fetched herself a cup. “Any tea left in the pot?”
“Enough for one,” Goldie said. “It’s yours.”
Constance took the long way back to the table, passing the closed door of Ida’s bedroom. Snores emanated from within.
Were we following a false trail? Or did she just beat us back to the house?
Constance poured herself a cup of tea and sat down. Everyone was looking at her. “What?” she said, as though surprised by their interest.
“You’ve only been here two days and you’ve already had an evening off,” Denise said resentfully.
“Well, Mrs. Lambert didn’t need me. I’m pretty flexible, as long as I get the time I’m owed. Anything happen here while I was gone?”
“Quiet evening,” Robin said. “Always is on a Thursday.”
“Why’s that, then?” Constance asked, quite aware of Duggin’s warning glare on the footman, who, however, only grinned derisively.
“His nibs stays in on a Thursday,” Robin said.
“He stayed in on Wednesday too,” Constance pointed out.
“How do you know?” Robin challenged.
“Because you were here. And because Mrs. Lambert told me.”
A bell rang. In the main bedchamber.
Her stomach twisted with nerves, but she took a last swallow of lukewarm tea and stood up. “Duty calls.” She had no idea what, if anything, any of them knew about the evening’s events, but at least none of them had attacked her.
Lambert, however, was a quite different matter. As she passed the ground-floor landing, she quickly tried the wine cellar door. Locked, of course. It would have to be in the middle of the night now before she could try to get back in…
She half expected Lambert to be lurking in the passage. That he wasn’t did not provide much comfort, for he could easily be in his wife’s bedchamber. She knocked once, drawing a breath for courage, and walked in.
Not for years had she been quite so prepared to dodge whatever blows came her way. She had already swerved and ducked before she realized only Angela was in the room.
She was fully dressed, still, standing near the window as she turned to face her.
