Freddie was about to say something, then he started. “My God, does Lady Vere know?”
“She does now.”
“And does she still like you?”
The anxiety in Freddie’s voice made Vere’s throat tighten once more. He didn’t deserve Freddie’s concern either.
“I can only hope.”
“I think she will,” said Freddie, his eyes once again shining with that clear earnestness Vere loved so well.
Vere caught his brother in an embrace. “Thank you, Freddie.”
He didn’t deserve Freddie’s forgiveness today, but one day he hoped to. One day he would make himself equal to it.
Mrs. Douglas sent Elissande telegrams. She dispatched one upon arriving at each new destination to assure Elissande of her well-being. An enthusiastic paragraph arrived after Vere took her to the Savoy Theatre to watch a comic opera called The Yeomen of the Guard, which she adored even though she was strong enough to sit through only half of the first act. And one very brief cable simply said, Mrs. Green allowed me a spoonful of ice cream. I had forgotten how divine it is.
Her telegrams also brought news. The first significant piece of news came after she and Vere had met with Douglas’s solicitors. In a will that dated to the beginning of the decade, Douglas had left nothing to his wife and his niece and had instead bequeathed everything to the Church. Elissande had chuckled. Truly, he was nothing if not consistent in his spite.
A companion cable came from Vere, explaining that not inheriting Douglas’s estate might be a blessing in disguise—Douglas had borrowed heavily against the worth of the diamond mine and could prove to have nothing but debts to bequeath. The Church’s lawyers would have a trying time with this particular gift horse.
A cable the next day was much more jubilant: Vere had located the jewels that Charlotte Edgerton had bequeathed to Mrs. Douglas, but which Douglas had immediately confiscated. A thousand pounds’ worth of jewels.
Elissande reread the cable several times. A thousand pounds.
The morning after Exeter, when she woke up, both Douglas’s diary and the chest were gone from her room. Where the chest had been, there was an elegant ebony box, in which the mementos from Charlotte and Andrew Edgerton were neatly stowed. In her dressing gown, Elissande had stood before the box, her fingertip grazing its edges, and hoped that the gift of the box meant what she wanted it to mean. But her husband had left soon thereafter, with only a solemn word to her to look after herself.
She had not been able to do much in the two days since his departure, except to try to come to terms with the fact that he had not changed his mind. The last time she had been furious; this time she only grieved. She did not want to lose the man who had held her hand when she most needed him.
There were ways she could justify remaining longer at Pierce House: She herself first must recover; then the news must be broken very gently to her mother; after that they must take their time and choose where to go.
But she had already begun to turn on those reasons. If she must leave—and she must—this was as good a time as any, with you are a diamond of the first water still echoing faintly in her ears, rather than tarrying until they wore out their welcome.
Now, with a thousand pounds at her disposal, they could ponder their eventual destination from anywhere—an inn, a house for let, the Savoy Hotel itself, if they were so inclined. And there was no gentle way of breaking it to her mother, was there? No matter how long she beat about the bushes, the truth of the matter would not dismay Mrs. Douglas any less.
She directed the maids to pack their belongings—it was less painful to delegate the task—while she tried to cheer herself. A new place, new people, and a brand-new life—those were the things that would have thrilled her during her captive days at Highgate Court. But one look out of the window to the fading but still beautiful garden and her heart would pinch with how much she loved this place, this life, and this man who had taken her mother to see The Yeomen of the Guard at the Savoy Theatre.
Without quite thinking, she left the house and walked to the spot above the River Dart where she had come across her husband on his long hike. She supposed when they were long gone, he would still walk these acres of rolling countryside, still stop occasionally on a slope to gaze down at the river, his hat by his side, leather patches on the sleeves of his tweed coat.
And she ached for his long miles of loneliness.
When she returned to the house, she went to her husband’s study.
Within the first few days of her arrival in Devon, she had seen a book in the study entitled How Women May Earn a Living. Then it had seemed a bizarre tome to come across among the collection of a man who never needed to earn a living; now she’d become accustomed to the broad, deep, and eclectic compilation of knowledge he had at his fingertips.
As she searched the shelves for the book, her eyes landed on the corner of a postcard that had become wedged between two books. She pulled out the postcard and gasped. The sepia-toned image was all pounding ocean and high cliffs. Capri, her mind immediately decided, before she saw the words at the bottom left corner of the postcard: Exmoor Coast.
She called in Mrs. Dilwyn to help her find Exmoor Coast on the detailed map of Britain that hung on the wall of the study. It wasn’t that far, a little more than fifty miles away on the north shore of Devon. She showed Mrs. Dilwyn the postcard. “Do you think I will be able to find this particular spot if I am on the Exmoor Coast?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am,” said Mrs. Dilwyn after one look. “I’ve been there. It’s the Hangman Cliffs. Lovely place, that.”
“Do you know how to get there then?”
“Indeed, ma’am. You take the train from Paignton to Barnstaple, then you take the local branch line and go to Ilfracombe. The cliffs are a few miles more to the east.”
She thanked Mrs. Dilwyn and spent some more time gazing wistfully at the postcard. Such a place as the Hangman Cliffs was difficult to visit: Her mother would not be able to navigate the steep paths that led to the top.
The idea came suddenly: She could go by herself. Her mother was not expected home until day after tomorrow. If she left first thing in the morning, she would be back by tomorrow evening, in plenty of time to greet her mother the next day, all the while having experienced what she had dreamed of for so many years: standing atop a precipice above a temperamental sea.
If she must begin a new era in her life for which she was less than enthusiastic, she might as well end this one on an extraordinarily high note.
“Still thinking of Penny?” Angelica asked.
“Yes—and no,” said Freddie.
Freddie had been waiting outside her house when she returned from Derbyshire. And for the past hour and a half they’d talked of nothing but Penny’s revelations, recalling dozens of instances where some words or actions of Penny’s could be reinterpreted in the light of his service to the Crown.
She had been outraged at first. She and Freddie had always been closer, but Penny had been the godlike elder-brother figure of her childhood. There had been times when she and Freddie had cried together, mourning the young man they both loved, not gone but lost all the same.
But because Freddie already forgave him, she was, given some time, willing to forgive him too.
She rang for a fresh pot of tea. All the talking had made her thirsty. “How can you be thinking about him and not be thinking about him at the same time?”
Freddie looked at her a long moment. “I was glad Penny came clean. And we talked a good hour before he left to take Mrs. Douglas to see her husband’s solicitors. But I was still plenty unsettled after he left and I wanted to speak to you”—he stopped for a second—“and no one else but you. Those were some of the longest twenty-four hours of my life, waiting for you to come back.”