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Ivy swallowed hard and eyed the timber framed house. It had to be done though.
Generous in size and surrounded by a moat, the house was a nod to a more dangerous time in England when wars between fellow countrymen were common and religious persecution meant a priest hole in many a house. How much history lay behind the white and timber walls, Ivy could not imagine, and the idea it might also house the answer to Mary’s fate, made her stomach churn.
That fact Cillian would be furious if he knew where she was did not help matters much either.
But she could not leave things as they were. If Harry Marshall was responsible for killing Mary, he deserved to be punished. Her husband should not have to live with the guilt and the blame hanging over his head anymore. She only wished she’d thought to question the tenants about this disappearing woman sooner, but it was only now she knew Mary’s full name from Cillian was she able to investigate properly. With any luck, this house—the home of Mary’s family once upon a time—would be the key to solving the mystery of what happened to her.
And they could move on and be husband and wife, truly, properly, without fear. As it was, she had to take along two footmen and a driver just for a short journey lest Mr. Marshall try to jump in her carriage again.
Or worse.
Given the man might have been responsible for killing the woman Cillian had once loved, it was sensible to take precautions.
The woman he’d loved.
Those words would not cease rolling around her mind.
The woman he’d loved.
Since she and Cillian had become truly husband and wife, something had changed. Those little elements of hardness about him cracked and fell away. They shared a bed most nights unless he was working late that day and shared a meal and a proper conversation most mornings. But Ivy couldn’t shift the sensation of this woman hanging over them, of the unanswered questions.
She couldn’t shift the pang of jealousy either. It was foolish to feel anything about a woman from two decades ago apart from sympathy. Yet perhaps she was a fool. The idea of Cillian loving anyone else tore at her insides.
The carriage rocked to a stop just outside the stone bridge that connected the house to the rest of the land just as the young man from the gatehouse scurried ahead of her and ducked into a rear door. She swallowed the tight sensation in her throat and exited with the aid of the footman.
A woman dressed all in black walked through the archway of the house and dropped into a deep curtsey. “Luke said the Viscountess Hartford was visiting and I thought he must be telling fibs but here you are.”
Ivy frowned. She’d given her name to the man at the gatehouse but had doubted it would mean much. “Um, yes. Here I am.”
“I know exactly why you are here, my lady.” The housekeeper, a petite woman with wire-framed spectacles sitting upon her nose, beamed at her.
“You do?”
“Of course! You’re here to see the painting.” The woman glanced up at the house. “As soon as I heard the viscount had married, I told Luke we should expect a visit. I just did not think it would take you so long.”
“I, uh...”
“Well, come along, my lady. The family is in London, so I am entirely at your service.”
Ivy smiled hastily and followed the housekeeper through a door at the center of the courtyard. They moved through dim room after dim room, most paneled in wood and featuring spectacular stone fireplaces that would not look out of place in a much grander house. Finally, they entered a generous hall that housed a long table with tall, velvet clad chairs and painting upon painting on the walls.
The housekeeper paused in front of one and motioned to it. “Here it is,” she announced proudly.
Ivy eyed the huge portrait of four men on horseback. They wore red jackets and hunting dogs were at their heels. Ivy pressed her lips together. “And they are...”
“Oh I suppose you never even met the viscount and his son.” The housekeeper shook her head and chuckled. “The man at the front—that is who your husband inherited his title from—and his father is just behind him.”
“Oh, I see.”
“The two houses had a strong connection for many years and there were several who assumed the viscount would make a match with the lady of the house here before...well...things happened.”
“The family moved to Spain I was told.”
“Indeed.” The woman’s smile faltered.
“After the death of their daughter,” Ivy added.
“Indeed,” The woman wrung her hands together and Ivy wondered how much the housekeeper knew. Did she also believe her husband responsible for the death of Mary?
