Page 11 of Death at the Dower House
“Is there a reason you can’t be yourself as well as look beautiful?”
She looked at me with all the self-confidence of a wilted wallflower. I sighed. “Come on. Show me what you brought to wear.”
“You don’t have to…” Constance demurred, but by then I was dragging her towards the staircase and she was coming willingly.
Upstairs, we went in the opposite direction of Francis, who had headed for his usual room in the east wing. Someone must have told him where to go, or perhaps he had simply assumed he’d be in the same room as last time.
Constance and I went left, past the door to the duchess’s chamber—which would have been Aunt Charlotte’s now, if she had only lived long enough to take possession of it—and the room Aunt Roz and Uncle Herbert use when they’re visiting, and then around the corner and down the hall in the west wing toward my room and Constance’s.
Mine’s in the far corner, as far from the east wing and Christopher’s room as it’s possible to get, and Tidwell had said Constance’s room was next to mine. Last week, Inspector Pendennis of Scotland Yard had slept there for a couple of nights.
There was no need to mention that, of course, so I didn’t.
The door to the room stood open, and we pushed inside. Constance looked around while I busied myself with lighting the electric lamps. Sutherland Hall had been converted from gas to the electric grid in the years since the war, and it was lovely to flip a switch and have bright light burst out immediately.
“Gown?” I asked Constance when she made no move toward the wardrobe. “Tidwell said your things had been unpacked.”
“I’m only staying for two nights, and tomorrow we’re all expected to wear black, so I only brought one option for dinner tonight.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “I’m not much better off. Although after we got stuck here much longer than expected last weekend, I packed a few extra things this time, just in case.”
She gave me a look over her shoulder as she opened the wardrobe and reached in. “Surely you’re not expecting another murder?”
“Of course not. That would be silly.”
I eyed the gown that appeared from the wardrobe. It was a dull tobacco brown crepe with bronze beads and mahogany embroidery and little cap sleeves made from chiffon. It was a really poor color choice for Constance, who already had the look of a plump sparrow with her shiny brown hair and dark eyes.
“That’s…” I stopped myself before I could say ‘unfortunate,’ because really and truly, the frock wasn’t bad. It was well made, the embroidery exquisite; it was just not right for Constance, who was already fading into the paneling and needed no further help in making herself invisible.
“I know.” She eyed it with displeasure. “Johanna said I looked beautiful, and of course Mother insisted I had to have it.”
“The cow,” I said.
Constance looked at me with a giggle. “Did you just call my mother a cow, Pippa?”
“Not your mother. Johanna.” Although Lady Peckham might well be a cow, too, if she allowed her ward to diminish her daughter in this way. “Wait here a second. I have something that might work better.”
I had brought two evening gowns with me this time, just in case we got stuck here another day and I needed an extra. Last week I hadn’t had a spare, and I was determined not to be put in that position again. So my weekender bag—or more accurately, the wardrobe in the next room—also held clothes I didn’t plan to wear, that I had only brought in the event we were taken by surprise again.
As indeed we had been, with the impromptu invitation to the house party at the Dower House that Constance had issued. I wouldn’t have time to go back to London to pack, so it was a good thing I had brought extras.
Among them was the butter-yellow evening dress with silver spangles I had worn to dinner last week. I had brought it again, as a spare, along with an apple green silk dress with diamante embroidery I had been planning to wear tonight. It was brand new, and I wasn’t about to loan it to anyone before I’d had a chance to wear it myself, but the yellow was fair game. Everyone in the family had already seen that. It would be a bit long on Constance, who was several inches shorter than me, but the uneven hem would help, and the yellow would at least be brighter with her complexion than the tobacco brown.
I fished it out of my wardrobe and stepped back into the hallway with it. Just in time to come face to face with Johanna, who was going into her own room on the opposite side of the hall.
She was humming.
Her cheeks were flushed, her golden curls were rumpled, as if someone had had his hands in them, and her lipstick was mostly just a memory. She looked like a girl who had been thoroughly used, and despite not liking her much at all, I felt as if I ought—woman to woman—give her fair warning. “He’s not a good bet for marriage.”
She turned slowly, eyes moving over me from top to bottom and back. I think she would have liked very much to sneer, but it so happens that I don’t look bad enough to sneer at, and I also don’t look like someone who would take being sneered at very well. So instead she merely asked, “Excuse me?” in a very snotty voice.
“Lord St George,” I explained, as if she didn’t already know quite well who we were talking about. “He’s not someone you should pin your hopes on for a marriage proposal.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Do you imagine you can stop me?”
Her voice had a lilting sort of accent, very melodic, and I could quite imagine that if she murmured sweet nothings into someone’s ear in that voice, he’d be putty in her hands.
I laughed. “Oh, Lord, no. He doesn’t care what I think. Nor do I care who he marries. In fact, if he were mine to give away, and it would get him out of my hair, I would have him giftwrapped and handed over to you right now. But I happen to know that he won’t be a good husband to anyone at the moment. You’re familiar with his reputation, I’m sure.”
