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Louisa followed Mrs. Holly upstairs to the private family rooms, specifically the viscount’s private suite, located in the wing opposite those of the guest rooms she and Alex were using. The viscount’s rooms, done in dark woods and shades of burgundy, were not in the same shabby state as the rest of Farleigh Manor and had been cleaned and aired recently—no doubt in preparation for the new viscount, yet Louisa could see no evidence that William had stayed here.
The adjoining viscountess’s rooms were decorated in pale greens and pinks, the bed neatly made. A lone bud vase with a single pink rose sat on a table by the window, and another framed needlework William’s mother had made hung on an otherwise bare wall. There was a sad emptiness here, and Louisa ached for a boy who had been separated from his mother too soon and then had lost her.
They proceeded down the hall, and Mrs. Holly pointed out William’s room. “Not that there’s much to see there that you haven’t already seen in the other rooms, milady,” she said.
Mrs. Holly was right—the room, while smaller, wasn’t much different from the master suite, with the same dark woods and deep colors giving it an overtly masculine look. The four-poster bed had a dark-blue counterpane and bed curtains, with matching drapes at the window. A landscape hung on the wall above the fireplace, which had been cleaned and laid with tinder for its next use. Louisa examined the landscape, appreciating the bold strokes the artist had used, the contrast between light and shade. It had the same artist’s signature on it as the oak tree, but she’d already observed the similarities in style of both pieces. William had painted this one too.
She moved to the four-poster bed and ran her hand along the slightly faded counterpane and then wandered over to the writing desk. The inkwell was full, the quills sharpened, the blotter neat and ready for use, but there was nothing here that made the room uniquely William’s beyond the painting. Disappointed, she had said as much to Mrs. Holly.
“He’s been gone from us for so long, now, milady,” Mrs. Holly said. “We always kept the room as it was while Lady Farleigh was alive, God rest her soul, but afterward—well, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but we were ordered to box Master William’s personal items up and store them in the attic, along with Lady Farleigh’s. Except—” She stopped abruptly.
“Yes?”
“Nothing. One small item, that’s all. I was going to have one thing for Master William to come home to, should he ever feel inclined, now, wasn’t I? And he did come home, and it does our hearts good to see him, handsome, worthy man that he’s become, and to see what a lovely bride he’s bringing to be mistress here.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holly. It’s very kind of you to say so.”
Louisa heard a noise outside the room, a scuffling sound, and glanced toward the door, trying to figure out what it might be, hoping it wasn’t vermin. Not an appealing thought, but the house was in need of attention—
“Don’t you worry, milady; that’s just Mary. She’s a sweet but slow girl, is our Mary. She works as a scullery maid so her mother can keep a close eye on her. Not that she gets into trouble, mind,” Mrs. Holly hastily added. “But she’s so trusting, she’s bound to be taken advantage of by those who would be so inclined.”
Which, Louisa took to understand, meant something of the sort had happened before.
“She busies herself about the place when she’s not doing chores,” Mrs. Holly continued. “Likes to roam about and hide in rooms and the attic and such. We’re all fond of the girl, and William was always kind to her. Such a good lad.” She smiled at some long-ago memory.
The scuffling stopped eventually, the afternoon turned to evening, and before Louisa knew it, it was time to dress for supper. She and Alex were to discuss everything they had learned during supper and strategize for tomorrow. Louisa had gleaned quite a bit from Mrs. Holly, but the housekeeper had stayed so close to Louisa all afternoon that she hadn’t had the opportunity to speak to Mrs. Brill or the little maid, Sally. And she’d failed to learn anything about the mysterious woman, other than what Mary had blurted out when they’d first arrived. She wanted to talk further with Mary . . . but the girl had vanished, and Louisa hadn’t seen her since.
She would not share William—or any husband, for that matter—with another woman. If he was the kind of gentleman who saw marriage as a duty with pleasure found elsewhere, he was not for her. But what other reason could there be for William to have been with an attractive, unknown woman? And why else would Mary have called Louisa “the real one” and begun to mention someone else, only to be stopped by the others?
Nothing she had learned so far had allayed her fears about this unknown woman. She hoped tomorrow provided the answers she needed and hoped she was sufficiently prepared for the answers, especially if they were ones she didn’t want to hear.
