Neither Georgina nor Mr. Lutwidge answered.
Instead, her eyes were drawn across the room, next to Mamma’s fan and magazine on the stand, where an old vase sported new flowers.
They were yellow.
But they were not dry or faded at all.
Dinnertime became more dreaded with each day. Even the children, who at the cabin would chatter and hum and fidget in their rickety wooden chairs, sat still and ate their meals in silence.
As if they too sensed this was the end of something.
“Mother, you must try to eat.” Simon glanced at her untouched plate of haricot lamb and pot herbs. “You shall make yourself ill.”
“I am already ill.” Mother dabbed her eyes with a napkin. “Sir Walter was here again today, discussing the will and the matter in which everything shall proceed. Heaven knows, I never thought it would come to this.”
“Papa?”
Simon glanced at Mercy in the chair next to him, pease soup on her cheeks. “Me done now?”
He shook his head. “Finish your bowl.”
“Me not like it.”
“Do as you’re told.”
“I suppose you should tell my grandchild to appreciate the abundance of courses now, as she may be fed on mere bread and potatoes before the week is through—”
“Mother.” Scolding tightened his voice. He clenched his fork, considered grabbing his children, running from this dashed house, and never looking back.
Fluttering a napkin over her nose, Mother wilted with a sob.
“Papa.” Mercy sat straighter. “Why her cry?”
“John, take your sister back to the nursery. You may have a picnic on the floor, as we did back home in the meadow.”
Both children beamed and, balancing their plates and bowls, raced from the somber oppression of the room.
He wished he could run as easily.
Before he could decide what to do with Mother, the butler cleared his throat from the doorway. “Master Fancourt, sir, I hope I am not disturbing.” He cast a bewildered look at the weeping lady of the house. “Er, excuse me, perhaps I should—”
“Never mind. What is it, Mr. Wilkins?”
“A visitor, sir. Miss Whitmore. She says she was expected.”
“Oh, she cannot see me this way.” Mother scooted from her chair, grasping the table as she stood. “Wilkins, send my lady’s maid after me. I wish to retire at once.”
“And Miss Whitmore—”
“Send her home with the gravest apologies. There is nothing that can be done to save Simon. I know that now. He has not changed in all these years. I daresay, he shall never change. Sowerby House is doomed to fall into the hands of strangers.”
The butler spared a sympathetic glance at Simon. Face heated, he bowed, then hurried off to do his bidding.
Simon departed after him. In the corridor, he called out, “Mr. Wilkins.”
“Sir?”
“Make certain a plate is sent up for Mother. She did not eat.”
