But the emptiness glared back at him. Still silence battered at his ears. She was not here. There was no point in playing.
Imagination had never been his strong point. But then, he’d never needed imagination with Caterina. Her reality was overwhelming enough. His beautiful wife, vital, talented, and deeply, humanly flawed, had been wiped from the Earth in an instant, leaving nothing behind.
Except her money.
And the insulting suspicions of Sebastian Kellar, who had made it so difficult to get at her money while she was alive.
Well, there was no denying that it would be useful to Digby now.
He found himself staring at the naked pillows on the bed. Reaching out, he touched one, smoothed it as though preparing it for her lovely head.
No more.
Unbearable to be here. He was a practical man, and he had work to do. She had been such a distraction to him since he had first encountered her. He had been so helpless in her power, so doting that he had neglected his business. The loss of one shipment should not have been this catastrophic. But with hard work—God knew he needed that to keep the nightmares at bay—and Caterina’s money, he would save Montague and Son. That would be his legacy. And hers.
He sprang up and strode from the room, abandoning his violin like a sacrificial offering. He rushed downstairs to his study, where he penned a commanding note to his solicitor.
*
At some point,climbing the stairs with terror in her heart, Constance’s hand had crept into Solomon’s, for she became aware that he now held it with comforting firmness. Whatever she had to face at the top of the stairs, it would not be alone.
But still the fear could not be squashed, the sheer impossibility of life without her maddening, infuriating mother…
“Ma!” she called sharply. “Juliet!”
They entered her pleasant sitting room together. Constance saw her at once, sprawled on a sofa, her plump fingers curled as though around the glass so close to her on the table. Or the half-empty gin bottle that stood beside it.
The familiarity of her mother’s pose—she had found her like this dozens of times in childhood and beyond—should have eased her alarm. It didn’t. She pulled free of Solomon and flew to her mother, dropping to her knees, grasping her hand, groping for a pulse.
At least Juliet’s eyes were closed, without that dreadful, blank stare of death. Beside her, lying flat on the sofa, was a bright red cushion.
“I can’t feel her pulse!” Her voice shook with panic. “Sol, I can’t—”
Solomon bent over her mother and gently took the hand, his fingers sliding over Juliet’s wrist.
“She’s fine, Constance. She’s asleep.”
Constance gasped, falling back onto her heels. She grasped her hair in both hands, tugging in an excess of relief and fury and old memory.
“Damn you, Juliet, wake up,” she said harshly. “Drunken old tart,wake up!”
Juliet snorted, one hand groping blindly as though for Constance’s voice. Or for the bottle. Constance seized the bottle and stoppered it before springing to her feet and removing both glass and bottle from the room. She was still shaking.
When she returned, moments later, her mother was hauling herself into a sitting position and smiling at Solomon. “Hello, my son! How did you get in? She been picking my locks again?”
“No, you left the damned door open,” Constance said. “What were you thinking of?”
The smile faded from Juliet’s lips, and from her slightly bleary eyes. The veils came down, as they often did. It had taken Constance a long time to realize that—that her mother was not the open, amiable book she showed the world.
“Must have needed a lie-down,” she said vaguely.
Abruptly, the anger drained out of Constance. “What happened?”
Juliet rubbed her forehead, as though it hurt. “Oh, nothing. I had a visitor and a drink. Reminded me of old times.”
There had only been one glass.
Memory came to Constance’s aid. “I’ll make tea.”
