Page 64 of The Masterful Mr. Montague

Both Montague and Stokes nodded.

“Come.” Montague offered his arm. “Let’s find Penelope and Griselda, then we’ll go upstairs.”

Stokes fell in behind them. “I would head upstairs sooner rather than later. The instant they stop arguing, they’ll be up to sort that jewelry—you can count on it.”

Knowing he was right, Violet quashed the impulse to look after what were, in effect, her ladyship’s last guests—to cover the hostess gap neither Cynthia nor Constance had thought to fill—and instead allowed Montague to gather Penelope and Griselda, and escort the three of them up the stairs and into Lady Halstead’s room.

She and Tilly had tidied the room on the day before Tilly had been murdered . . . Violet ruthlessly forced her mind back to her task and refused to allow herself to think beyond that. Crossing to the dressing table, she drew out the second drawer on the right. “Lady Halstead kept her pearls in here.”

“Best to let me.” Montague bent and drew the drawer fully out. Straightening, he set it on the table, then met her gaze. “If the Halsteads inquire—as they might—I can truthfully say that, as her ladyship’s appointed agent and acting in accordance with her will, I took the pearls and gave them to you.”

Although her lips wouldn’t curve—not in this room—she smiled inside. “Thank you.” Looking into the drawer, she pointed to a small box. “That’s the brooch. And the choker is in that blue velvet bag. The ring . . . is that small box there.”

Montague took the three items out, checked them, then handed them to her.

Leaving him to return the drawer to its place, Violet turned—and saw Penelope and Griselda peering into the wardrobe. Penelope was examining the gowns, while Griselda had bent to study Lady Halstead’s boots and shoes. Violet frowned. “What are you looking for?”

Both glanced her way, then took one last look before stepping back. Shutting the wardrobe door, Penelope explained, “Trying to get some idea of her character—with women, clothes and shoes often say a lot.” She waved at the wardrobe. “From her gowns, she seems to have been a soft, flowy, gentle lady.”

Violet nodded. “She was. But she wasn’t weak. She didn’t like her children, but she couldn’t change them, so she put up with them.”

“That fits with her footwear,” Griselda said. “Good quality and fashionable, but also functional. She liked fashion, but underneath, she appears to have been a sensible, practical sort.”

Violet felt her features soften. “Yes—that was her.”

They’d all gathered by the door. After one last look around, Violet led the way out and down the stairs.

In the front hall, she paused, looking at the open door to the drawing room, hearing the muted cacophony of the voices within; there were still a considerable number of mourners lingering over the refreshments.

Dragging in a breath, she turned to face the others. She glanced at Penelope, then looked at Montague. “I really don’t wish to go in there and be sociable.”

“There’s no reason you should,” Penelope stated. “You’ve done all and more than your association with her ladyship demanded.”

Montague touched her arm—just a fleeting touch, but she felt his support. “There’s no need for you to stay longer.”

Violet glanced down at the three items in her hands. “Let me give Cook her ring and say good-bye, and then I would like to leave.” And never come back. She didn’t say the words, yet they resonated inside her. This was the end of one phase of her life; she could feel that in her bones. It was time to quit this house and move forward, into a future that was as yet nebulous, but she wasn’t without friends, wasn’t—thanks to Lady Halstead’s generosity—without reserves.

The others trailed her to the kitchen. Farewelling Cook proved to be a teary undertaking, but, eventually, both she and Cook dried their eyes, and after exchanging their directions—Penelope helpfully supplied the address of her house, and Cook scribbled her sister’s address in Bermondsley on a piece of paper—they parted.

Barnaby and Stokes were waiting in the front hall. “There you are,” Barnaby said.

Violet felt Barnaby’s keen blue gaze travel over her face; she had no idea what he saw there, but his voice had softened when he said, “Ready to go?”

She nodded.

Stokes, with Griselda on his arm, led the way out. Barnaby and Penelope followed. Montague gave Violet his arm and she took it, grateful, as they stepped out of the door and into a crisp breeze carrying the scent of dying leaves, for his support.

For his strength, and his willingness to lend it to her.

He steadied her down the steps and onto the short path. Barnaby held the gate. As she passed through, Violet was aware that the others were chatting softly about something—their observations, perhaps—but they made no demands of her and didn’t look her way. As the gate swung shut, the other two couples started off down the street to where their carriages waited further along the curb. On Montague’s arm, Violet followed.

Then she paused and glanced back. Back at the house she’d spent the last eight years living in, being reasonably content and settled in, caring for and working with two women she would never see again.

Montague had halted beside her, but he watched her, her face, not the house.

As she was about to turn and meet his eyes, Violet saw movement behind the sitting room window.

Mortimer was staring out—whether at her, the group, or unseeingly at the street she couldn’t say. Even at this distance, his expression appeared pinched and peevish. Then he turned and walked away, deeper into the room.