Page 70 of The Work of Art

Arthur didn’t personally question the rest of the servants. He was well aware that he made them nervous, and he had no interest in dealing with weeping housemaids or stammering footmen. Instead he set Crofton to the task. But when, sometime later, Crofton returned to the library, he reported not only that none of the servants had admitted to knowing anything about the letter, but also that he tended to believe them.

“I’ve been in service my whole life, Captain Heywood,” he said, “and I know when a servant is lying and when they’re telling the truth. You can be sure that nobody here knows a thing about any letter.”

“I trust you were discreet.”

“Indeed, sir. Everyone knows Mrs. Heywood isn’t to be troubled.”

“Let’s hope for everyone’s sake that she won’t be.” Arthur folded his arms. “Mrs. Heywood takes a tolerant view of gossip amongst the servants, but I’m not inclined to be so forgiving. If I discover anyone on the staff discussing this matter, I’ll dismiss them without a reference.”

“Yes, Captain Heywood.” Crofton gave a somber nod. “I’ll see they understand.”

Arthur watched him leave the library. Crofton seemed to genuinely believe that the servants knew nothing about the letter. Who had brought it, then? Not Moreland himself. Not Townsend. They weren’t the type of men who would dirty their own hands. They’d have enlisted someone to do their bidding.

The two men from Devonshire had been the obvious culprits. They were strangers, and could very well have been made willing emissaries for the right sum. But if not them, then who? A former servant? A faceless trespasser?

It occurred to Arthur that one of the bored, dissipated houseguests of Lord and Lady Markham might be behind it. His marriage to Philly was surely the talk of the town at the moment, and the Markhams’ raucous house parties at Melton Abbey attracted all sorts of London gadflies. Arthur wouldn’t put it past one of them to have written the letter and arranged for its delivery. It was just the sort of malicious prank that certain members of the ton might find amusing.

But even this theory had to be ruled out for, as he soon discovered, Lord and Lady Markham were currently in Bath, and wouldn’t return to the neighborhood for another week at least.

After much deliberation, Arthur came to the inevitable conclusion that anyone might have written the letter, and for a few coins, anyone might have been persuaded to walk it into his house. He couldn’t very well question all of Heycombe, no matter how much he might wish to. The most he could do now was focus on keeping Philly safe.

That night, dinner with Philly was more than a little strained. She was pensive and quiet, focusing a great deal on her food, yet hardly eating a morsel. Under normal circumstances, Arthur would have made some attempt to engage her; however, on this occasion, he was contending with a melancholy mood of his own.

Philly had been distant toward him ever since they’d gone for a walk together in the apple orchard. Initially he’d thought her upset over the limitations placed on her outings, but it hadn’t taken long for him to come to the conclusion that she was far more preoccupied with the passionate embrace they’d shared earlier than she was with the fact that she must have an escort on all of her walks.

Now, sitting across from her at the dining table, Arthur was convinced she regretted the answer she’d given when he asked if he might come to her room more often. He was certain that, upon reflection, his request had done nothing but remind her of how he’d hurt her the last time they were together. That she was, in fact, afraid he might hurt her again.

After dinner, they repaired to the drawing room. Some of Philly’s sheet music had come from Satterthwaite Court along with the rest of her things. Arthur expected she’d spend quite a bit of time at the pianoforte. Instead, after playing only three short songs, she rose from the instrument and informed him she was going to retire.

He stood, feeling rather dispirited. “Yes, of course. It’s been an eventful day.”

Philly didn’t come to him for the usual kiss on the cheek or the forehead he’d grown accustomed to bestowing upon her each night. In fact, it became quickly apparent that she didn’t intend to bid him goodnight at all. She walked straight past him toward the door of the drawing room. Only then did she stop and turn back, saying softly, “I shall be ready for bed in half an hour.”

Arthur stared at her, at first uncomprehending, and then completely incapable of speech. He barely managed to give her one solemn nod before she left the room.

Within minutes he was in his own bedroom. He shrugged out of his coat and waistcoat, tossing them onto the bed. His cravat followed. He undressed no further. After pouring himself a glass of brandy, he settled himself in a chair by the fire. It felt as if more than half an hour had passed since he’d come upstairs to his bedroom, but when Arthur looked at the clock on the mantle, the hands were in the same place they’d been the last time he’d checked.

He possessed himself in patience for the next ten minutes, sipping his brandy and reflecting on how badly he’d missed the mark interpreting Philly’s mood. She’d been behaving no differently than any other very timid new bride might, and instead of putting her at her ease, he’d attributed to her his own fears and doubts about their marriage.

He was the one who couldn’t forget what had happened the last time they shared a bed. He was the one who was terrified of hurting her again. If his thoughts hadn’t already been so fragmented by concerns over the letter, he’d have recognized this and acted accordingly.

After a long while spent in contemplation of his own idiocy, he heard the unmistakable murmur of Philly’s voice dismissing her maid. It wasn’t precisely half an hour yet, but he waited no longer.

She answered his knock on the connecting door almost immediately, and he entered her room to find her sitting up in bed. She had on a beribboned lawn nightgown and her hair was spilling loose all around her. His father’s copy of The Odyssey lay on the bed at her side.

“Were you intending to read?” His cane was soundless on the thick carpet as he walked toward her.

“I wasn’t certain you would come.”

He sat down on the edge of her bed. “I wasn’t certain you wanted me to.”

“Why ever would you think that?”

“Because I’m a blind fool.”

Philly smiled at that, and at her smile, Arthur leaned toward her and gathered her into his arms. She came to him willingly, almost impatiently, embracing him fiercely around his neck and burying her face in the collar of his linen shirt. “I’m sorry I’m so dreadfully shy about everything,” she whispered against him.

“Are you? I hadn’t noticed.” He kissed her cheek at the same time he ran his fingers through her hair. The sheer weight of it in his hand was evidence as to why she was always losing her hairpins. “Were you shy of me this evening?”