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“Of—of course, my lord. You must come this way.”
The man led them into the palace’s great foyer, gleaming with white marble and shining glass. The chandelier above them tinkled from the wind outside as two footmen shut the door. It wasn’t until he led them into the parlor that she noticed signs of mourning, dark flowers and a black cloth draped over each of the mirrors.
“Who has died?” Rosalind asked, feeling panic rise in her stomach. “What has happened? Not one of the children?”
“They were well enough when I left,” said August. “Perhaps someone from Carlo’s family?”
“What if my parents—or Townsend or Jane—”
“Don’t get into a panic,” Marlow said soothingly, drawing her into his arms.
“But the house is in mourning.”
They turned at a cry from the door. Rosalind’s mother stood with her hand against her heart, pale as a sheet of paper, while her father stared intensely.
“Rosalind? Marlow?” His voice was tight with shock.
She felt a thousand feelings at once, the main one being that she must go to her parents immediately and embrace them, for she’d missed them so much.
“Mama! Papa!” She extricated herself from Marlow’s embrace and started toward her parents, praying they wouldn’t upbraid her or push her away.
But no, her mother was practically running across the long parlor, arms outstretched. When she reached her, she clasped her against her chest. Rosalind realized she’d looked so very pale because she was dressed in black mourning clothes. Her mama’s eyes were swollen from tears.
“Mama, who has died?” she asked, pulling away from her.
“Who has died?” her mother cried. “You, my darling. You and Marlow. We received word from London two days ago that the Providence was lost at sea.”
“It did sink, yes. But we survived. We wrote you a letter explaining everything.”
“We didn’t receive it.” Her father was at her elbow now, embracing her. “What a time for a letter to go lost.”
She turned to Marlow, who stood apart from the group. “We sent it weeks ago from…what was that place?”
“Lecce.”
Her parents turned to him. There were no quick recriminations, perhaps because they’d recently imagined them deceased. A noticeably pregnant Felicity appeared with Carlo and two of her older children, rushing into the parlor and exclaiming to find them there. They were in black, all of them.
“They’re here?” said Felicity, breathless. “They did not perish?”
“They are here,” said her father. “With Lord Augustine, somehow.”
“We encountered one another in Rome,” said August. “And they’ve a very long story to tell.”
“Bring tea and coffee,” Felicity said to the butler. “And refreshments for our travelers. Take down the mourning crepe at once. Sit down, everyone, and make yourselves comfortable while I take the children back to the nursery.”
The children complained to not be allowed to stay, but the conversation they were about to have would not be ideal for children.
As comfortable as Felicity tried to make them, it would not be easy at all.
