Page 17

He stepped aside, and Cassie moved to open the door. Then the workers filed past, each with a little nod. She followed and peered into the drawing room. As she looked around, conscious of the gloom, Sir Adrian entered with his papers. “You think the place needs painting?” she asked.

“Cleaning first, but a little fresh paint never hurts. I have some samples for you to look at if you can spare the time. Your opinion counts.”

“I hope so.” To have her opinion solicited was something of a novel experience. She and Honoria and Grandmama lived such separate lives in the hall that there had been little occasion for her opinion to matter. It was only as they faced the prospect of leasing the hall that Grandmama had consulted her. Once again the details had been left to Cassie. Honoria and Grandmama had returned to their separate spheres, Honoria to her books, Grandmama to her horses.

Sir Adrian opened his sheaf of papers on top of a cloth-draped table. She was surprised to see the floor plan of the dower house.

“You have been busy. Where did you get this?”

“I have my sources.” He laid some square chips of color on each of the rooms. “What do you think? Will any of these colors suit?”

He had chosen warm reds and golds for the lower rooms of the house and cooler shades for the bedrooms. For the bedroom she had imagined would be hers, he had chosen a pale thrush-egg blue. She picked up the little square. He did not know her taste. It was just an accident that the blue chip lay where it did, like a dealing of the cards for a game of Commerce.

“The colors are lovely,” she said.

“Have I your permission to paint then?” he asked.

“You may paint,” she said airily, putting down the blue chip.

“You liked that,” he said with a grin.

It surprised her, but she did enjoy it. “Yes, this giving permission thing might grow on me.”

“May I ask one more thing then?”

She waited.

“May I have Dawes inspect the hall for any signs of … decay?”

A crash from the kitchen interrupted him, and Sir Adrian strode toward the sound. Cassie followed. Two men emerged into the hall coughing and covered with soot.

“Dead bird in the chimney, sir,” one of them managed to say, his eyes and teeth white in his blackened face.

“Clinker everywhere, sir,” said the other man.

“Clinker?” she asked Sir Adrian.

He turned to her with one of his dark frowns. “Creosote from incomplete burning. If you’ll pardon me, I’d best take a look.”

She nodded. He simply stated a fact, but she knew what that creosote meant—neglect, years of putting off needed work, and getting by. “You’d best prepare Mr. Dawes for the worst.”

She handed him her keys.

*

Two days before they were to remove from the hall to the dower house, Miss Pindock, her grandmother’s able assistant, alerted Cassie that Miss Honoria had not completed her packing. Much as Cassie disliked Pindock’s manner of telling tales, a visit to Honoria’s room confirmed that Honoria was mired in book packing and had yet to tackle her clothes. Cassie offered to help.

She peered into the tall mahogany wardrobe where her aunt’s clothes hung. Honoria sat on the bench at the foot of her bed her nose in a book, a packing case open on the floor beside her. Cassie had forgotten that her aunt had so many gowns. She pulled two from the wardrobe and held them up for Honoria’s inspection. One was a leaf-green muslin with holes at the elbows and a frayed hem. The other was a gray silk gown in excellent condition, from the half-mourning period for Cassie’s father.

Honoria looked up. “Oh, the green is a writing frock. Keep that. I must have my writing clothes.”

“Aunt, it’s falling apart.”

Honoria shrugged and turned back to her book. “Nobody sees me.”

“I see you.”

“What dear?” Honoria mumbled.