Falconridge by Jennifer Wilde

Author:Jennifer Wilde
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781497698260
Publisher: Open Road Media Romance

IX

DOWER HOUSE SAT in a clearing, about a mile from Falconridge. It was made of the same gray stone, but there were charming dormer windows and dark blue shutters that gave it an individual character. An oak tree grew in front, its sprawling limbs touching the weathered blue slate roof. There was a shabby herb garden at one side of the house and an old wheelbarrow and a stack of cordwood at the other. Dower House was small and run down and there was a certain air of sadness about the place, set off here all by itself in the middle of the woods.

When I first knocked at the door there was no answer. I thought that curious because Lavinia had known I was to come for my fitting. I knocked again, then peered through the window. The frayed muslin curtains kept me from seeing much. When I knocked for a third time I could hear the sound echoing inside, and I felt very foolish standing on the doorstep, knowing there was someone inside. I could sense a presence in the front room. I could feel someone hesitating, listening to my knock.

“Mrs. Graystone,” I called. “Lavinia.…”

There was a slight shuffle. I heard footsteps. Then Lavinia opened the door, holding it back for me. The front room was dim, all the curtains pulled to keep out the sunlight. In the dimness I saw a table with two bowls and a half a loaf of bread on it. On the old iron stove there was a pot of stew. I could smell the odor of cabbage and boiled beef. Lavinia went to the windows and pulled back the curtains. Sunlight flooded into the room, making me blink a little after the dim half light.

The room was a combination sitting room and kitchen, and it was very untidy. Dishes were piled on the drain board. The fireplace was littered with cold ash. Stacks of fashion magazines were piled on an old chair with a broken wicker bottom. The room was ordinarily very neat, but today the old straw broom leaned against the wall and dust and bits of scrap were scattered over the floor.

“You must forgive me…” Lavinia said. Her voice sounded strange. It was very weak, as though she had to make a strong effort to speak. “This mess,” she said, “I haven’t had time to clean up—He didn’t go out this morning as he usually does. He just left a short while ago.…”

Lavinia was always neatly groomed, fresh and crisp and ready to begin with her duties. She was always gracious and polite and a little reserved. This afternoon she wore a flowered cotton wrapper that had clearly seen its best days. Her hair, always so beautifully brushed and shining, fell in untidy waves about her too pale face. There were heavy mauve shadows about her sad brown eyes, and I noticed a swelling on her jaw, as though she had suffered a physical blow. It was obvious that she had been crying, too.

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