A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(27)

“You’re trying to get rid of me,” Robin said, pulling up short. “I was only—I honestly—is she very unwell, then?”

Edwin could have rid himself of Robin in another two sentences by implying that Robin was rudely imposing himself on a private family affair. Which he was. But Edwin remembered Robin’s rounded shoulders outside their bedrooms and looked at the tension around the man’s eyes. Robin was quite capable of being rude to Edwin, if nobody else. If he wanted to go with the others, he’d have gone.

“I don’t know precisely how she is at the moment,” Edwin said, relenting. “But she likes meeting new people. Come on.”

Morton the tortoiseshell was standing in the middle of the smaller staircase, staring at a point halfway up the wood panels of the wall, as they walked to Edwin’s mother’s suite. He let out an interrogative yowl, paused, flicked his ears, then yowled again.

“I think your cat’s smelled a mouse,” said Robin.

“No, he’s only talking to the ghost.”

“Ghost?”

When Edwin turned, the expression on Robin’s face matched the resignation that had suffused his voice. It was the look of a man so drenched by the rain that he’d tossed his umbrella into the gutter and was opening his collar to the storm.

Edwin steered his thoughts away from the prospect of Robin’s bare neck adorned with columns of rainwater. It was—a slip. Understandable. He was tired. He was worried. He hated the countryside and the way both Penhallick and his brother made him feel. Hell, he’d been standing in the damn storm himself since he walked into Reggie’s office that Monday morning.

But he was going to cling to his umbrella for all he was worth.

“Ghost,” Edwin affirmed. “Don’t worry. They’re not dangerous.”

“Back in town, you said they didn’t exist. That they were nonsense.”

“Visible ghosts are nonsense,” Edwin said. “You can’t see them. And they can’t talk to you unless there’s a medium around, and there’s maybe three true mediums in the whole of England.”

Robin glanced at the wall. “Then how do you know they’re there at all?”

“The cats, mostly. There are detection spells you can do, but cats are simpler.”

When they were admitted to Mrs. Courcey’s rooms, with a smiling admonition from her maid Annie not to keep her awake too long, Edwin’s mother was sitting in her chair rather than in bed. That was heartening. Even more so was the pristine curl of her hair, and the gleam of rubies at her ears. With the shawl flung around her shoulders she might have been a matron tired by the exertions of an evening ball instead of someone who’d likely not moved from that chair all day.

Edwin crossed the room to kiss her cheek and smelled the lilies of her scent.

“Hello, darling,” she said, returning the kiss warmly. “You should have let us know you were coming.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“And so you have.” She peered at Robin, who was hovering just inside the room. Annie had many jobs, and one of them was to funnel the house gossip directly to this room. “Sir Robert Blyth? Welcome to Penhallick.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said Robin. “I’m sorry to hear you haven’t been well.”

Mrs. Courcey indicated the arm of her chair. After a pause, Robin came and perched on it, awkwardly. He made her look even thinner in comparison, even more swallowed by the velvet. He glanced at Edwin, on her other side, and Edwin had the unpleasant feeling of being part of a set of bookends. His reunions with his mother were usually private.

But he hadn’t been lying. She did like new people. And she certainly liked Robin’s immediate plunge into asking after the willow-bough wallpaper, and the particular inlaid wooden surface of the long dresser in the entrance hall, and the tiles around the basin in his room.

“You have an eye for design, Sir Robert,” she said, delighted.

“My parents had an interest in art. I became more interested than I meant to,” said Robin. It sounded like a practiced answer. “I haven’t ever seen a house so completely dedicated to the new styles. It’s extraordinary.”

Florence Courcey’s eyes were tired but bright. “I tore out its guts, when we first bought the place. Attics to cellars. And then marched in with half the creations of Misters De Morgan and Morris in my pocket.”

“Daring,” said Robin with a smile.

“You probably know that my husband made his fortune in the American railways. We spent quite a few years over there, when my health allowed that kind of travel.”

“I didn’t know that,” said Robin, with a go-on kind of air. “Edwin didn’t tell me he’d lived in America.”

“It was before I was born,” said Edwin.

“It was a wonderful time. We even had the pleasure of befriending the great Mr. Tiffany,” his mother murmured, her gaze going distant. “Even since returning to England for good, we’ve commissioned a great many works for the house from his studio.”

Robin lit up. “I thought so. The little jars at the dinner table?”

“Yes! One of my particular treasures, though of course we could hardly explain what an ornamental guidekeeper is, when we placed the order. I miss the sight of them—oh, I do wish I had the energy to join the family at dinner more often—do feel keenly that I should be present—”