Page 25 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

“Aye, well—here’s hoping he is.” Cook pushed her half-full plate away. “And that the blackguard, whoever he is, is more worried about hiding his face than bothering with us three here. It’s not as if we know anything.”

“Exactly.” Determined to steer talk away from the murder, and the murderer, Violet rose and lifted her plate. “I’ll help clear.”

It would keep her busy, keep her from dwelling on the fact that she wasn’t spending that evening in the sitting room reading to Lady Halstead. That she and Tilly wouldn’t have to help her ladyship up the stairs, and help her get ready for bed.

The big bedroom upstairs lay empty; the police had come and taken the body away for further examination.

Violet didn’t want to think about that. Once the dishes were done, she turned to Tilly. “Perhaps we can work on the mending.”

Both she and Tilly were excellent needlewomen; Cook sat for a while, silently staring at their flying fingers, then she humphed and went off to her bedroom beyond the kitchen.

Violet heard the door shut. A minute later, she heard a heavy thud, as if Cook had moved some piece of furniture up against the door.

Violet exchanged a glance with Tilly, who shrugged. “Can’t say as I blame her,” Tilly said. “Quite a shock today’s been.”

Lips twisting, Violet returned her gaze to the seam she was repairing.

Eventually, the mending all done and the lamps in the kitchen doused, each holding a flickering candle, Violet climbed the stairs with Tilly. They parted on the first-floor landing, Tilly going along the corridor to the door to the staircase to the attic and her tiny dormer room. Violet drew breath, then walked down the corridor in the opposite direction, past the door to Lady Halstead’s room, and further, to the door to her own small bedroom.

Opening it, she went in. Shutting the door, she studied the panels for several moments. Eventually, she turned away; there was no reason to allow fear to rule her.

Montague had assured her that, together with Stokes and Adair, he would work to see Lady Halstead avenged—to catch and bring her murderer to justice. Placing trust and faith in the words of a man she barely knew would have seemed foolhardy a week ago; it didn’t now. She believed him, had faith in his certainty.

Or was it that his faith fed her own?

Crossing to the chest of drawers, she set down the candlestick. Her thoughts continued to churn, freed, it seemed, by her finally being alone.

The fact that the villain was almost certainly one of Lady Halstead’s children, or their spouses, or possibly one of her grandchildren, was only now fully crystalizing in Violet’s mind. That conclusion hadn’t been stated, not definitively, but the implication, the expectation, had colored the investigation thus far.

What to her was more damning was that it required near-impossible mental contortions to imagine that her ladyship’s murderer could be anyone else; other than her family, Lady Halstead had lived reclusively, increasingly so over the last two years.

Making a mental note to remember to mention that to Montague—or Adair or Stokes—Violet reached up and started unpinning her hair.

After brushing out the thick tresses, she undressed and donned her nightgown, a slight frown on her face, her mind revisiting all she’d ever witnessed of Lady Halstead interacting with her brood. Was there a hint there, somewhere, of which one was to blame?

As she slipped between the sheets, looking inward, she was somewhat surprised to discover a strength, a determination, she hadn’t known she possessed. Despite the shock, despite the fact she wasn’t related to Lady Halstead in any way, she found a core of focused intention—she would see her ladyship’s killer caught.

The realization, the acknowledgment and acceptance of her instinctive commitment, that it was made, that it was there, that it would not waver, didn’t precisely soothe or calm her but rather gave her enough certainty, enough of a foundation on which to stand firm—and close her eyes.

To her surprise, sleep swiftly drew near. She must have been more exhausted than she’d realized.

As slumberous mists rolled into and through her mind, a face formed within them, strong and clear.

Behind him ranged two others, but they were less distinct.

Montague stood sharply etched in her mind’s eye, the assurances he’d uttered in his deep, solid voice echoing in her mind, both comfort and anchor.

Lady Halstead’s murderer would be caught. She would fight for that, and Montague would be by her side.

Stokes found Griselda standing beside Megan’s crib and looking down at their baby daughter, the smile on his wife’s face one he hadn’t seen before Megan’s birth.

A madonna-smile, one only a mother looking at her child could achieve.

The sight made his own lips curve, made his harsh features, the hard face he showed to most of the world, soften.

Sensing his approach, Griselda turned and smiled at him.

A slightly different smile, but one he treasured. It, too, was unique—that smile she reserved just for him.