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‘Nancy is very much part of our family, Mr Pennington,’ Patricia added hastily.
He smiled vaguely and turned to his wife. ‘Does Miss Nancy remind you of anyone, Violet?’
Mrs Pennington, a small, mother-hen of a woman, gave Nancy a searching look. ‘Now you come to mention it she does resemble Oliver a little. It’s the eyes, I think.’
‘Uncle Oliver?’ Sylvia was suddenly alert. ‘I remember him vaguely, although I was very young when he died.’
‘We don’t speak of Oliver Greystone in our family,’ Violet said severely. ‘Every family has a black sheep and Oliver was a disgrace to the name of Greystone.’
‘That’s a bit harsh, Violet.’ Mr Pennington took a spotted blue silk hanky from his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘It was just a passing likeness. I can see now that I was mistaken.’
‘Yes, my dear. Best let sleeping dogs lie, as they say.’ Violet rolled her eyes expressively. ‘We plan to take the journey in very easy stages. I don’t think Sylvia should do too much travelling in any one day.’
‘No, of course not,’ Patricia said evenly. She turned to Sylvia, who was seated on a hall chair provided for her by the butler, Foster. ‘How are you feeling today?’
‘Not too bad. I tire easily but I’m hoping the clear air in Switzerland will cure my ills.’
‘You must write to me often,’ Patricia said, smiling. ‘I’ve been to Paris but that’s as far as we got. I would love to see some pictures of where you will be staying.’
‘I’ll write to you and send you drawings, although art isn’t my best subject. I want you to keep in touch with me, too. I’ll be longing to know what’s happening in the village.’
Mrs Pennington placed her hand on Sylvia’s arm. ‘Of course Patricia will keep you informed. I’m sure Christina will, too.’
‘Where is Christina?’ Mr Pennington demanded crossly. ‘We’ll be leaving in a few minutes.’
‘I think she’s going to meet us at the railway station,’ Sylvia said hastily. ‘She has such a lot to do with her children and Ossie’s parishioners.’
‘Nonsense.’ Mrs Pennington shook her ruffled feathers. ‘Your sister hasn’t taken care of you as she should. She has a nanny and a nursemaid to look after the babes. As for working in the parish, I think Christina spends more time with her modiste than she does visiting the sick and elderly.’
‘That’s not fair, Aunt,’ Sylvia protested.
‘I only speak the truth. Your sister married Oscar because he would one day inherit Cottingham Manor. She has no interest in being a parson’s wife.’ Mrs Pennington shook her head, frowning darkly. ‘My sister would be saddened by the way her elder daughter has turned out.’
‘Never mind Christina,’ Patricia said hastily. ‘You are more important now, Sylvie. Are you going to close the house while you’re away?’
‘I don’t see what else I can do. Foster will stay on, of course, and Mrs Simpson will continue as housekeeper, with Mrs Banks cooking for the remaining staff.’ Sylvia sighed, shaking her head. ‘I wish you would come and live here to supervise them, Patsy.’
‘If you’d asked me that when your papa died I would have been only too pleased, but I have my own life now, Sylvie.’
Sylvia’s large pansy-brown eyes filled with tears. ‘If only I had my health.’
Nancy was close to crying herself and she laid her hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure Patricia will keep an eye on the servants for you.’
Patricia frowned. ‘Why doesn’t Christina come and look after everything? After all, she does own half of the estate.’
‘The squire is very sick. I heard that he had an apoplectic fit.’ Sylvia lowered her voice. ‘Dr Bulmer said another attack could be fatal. I think Christina is staking her claim to the Cottingham estate.’
‘Glorina might have Romany blood in her veins, but she is still the lady of the manor.’ Patricia moved closer. ‘What do you know, Sylvie?’
‘Glorina will lose her position in the household when Oscar inherits everything from his father,’ Sylvia said breathlessly. ‘Can you imagine Glorina and my sister living happily together? It’s worked, in a fashion, because Squire Cottingham keeps them both under control, but when he goes it will be all-out warfare.’
Nancy turned to Patricia. ‘Can you do anything?’
‘No, I’m afraid not. Christina never forgave me for marrying her father, but even before that she always went her own way.’ Patricia leaned over to brush Sylvia’s thin cheek with a whisper of a kiss. ‘Let them sort it out between them, Sylvie. Go to Switzerland and get well.’
‘That’s right, my dear.’ Mrs Pennington bustled towards them holding out a shawl, which she wrapped around Sylvia’s shoulders. ‘You mustn’t get cold.’
‘But it’s a hot day, Aunt.’
