Notorious Pleasures (Maiden Lane #2)(72)

“Perhaps no one’s here, my lady,” George, the footman, offered.

Hero frowned. “Someone is always about—it’s a home for children, after all.”

She sighed and glanced up the street nervously. She still half expected Griffin to discover that she’d journeyed into St. Giles without his escort. He’d seemed to have an uncanny ability to know when she was planning to go into St. Giles. Yet today there’d been no sign of him.

The door opened and Hero turned in relief, but her smile soon faltered when she saw the grave little figure in the doorway. “Why, Mary Evening, whatever is the matter?”

The child ducked her head, opening the door wider to let her in. Hero instructed George to wait by the door. She crossed the threshold and was immediately struck by how silent the house was. Instead of letting her into the sitting room, Mary Evening led her back to the kitchen. The child darted out of the room, leaving her alone.

Hero looked around. A kettle was simmering on the fireplace, and clean dishes were stacked to dry on a sideboard, the obvious debris from luncheon. She wandered to a cabinet and opened a door curiously, finding tea, flour, sugar, and salt.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Silence Hollingbrook entered. For a moment Hero couldn’t figure out the difference in the woman’s appearance. Then she realized that instead of her usual brown or gray costume, Mrs. Hollingbrook was clad entirely in flat black.

There could be only one reason.

“I’m so sorry to keep you waiting,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said distractedly. “I don’t know why Mary Evening put you in the kitchen.”

“You’re in mourning,” Hero said.

“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook smoothed a hand down her black skirts. “Mr. Hollingbrook… my husband, I mean.”

She inhaled on a broken gasp.

“Sit down.” Hero hurried over, pulling out one of the kitchen benches.

“No, I’m sorry, I just… I…”

“Sit,” Hero repeated, pushing gently on Mrs. Hollingbrook’s shoulder. “Please.”

Mrs. Hollingbrook sank onto the bench, her expression dazed.

“When did you find out?” Hero went back to the cabinet and took down the tin of tea leaves. A brown pottery teapot was drying with the other dishes. She righted it and began spooning in tea leaves.

“Yesterday. I… Yes, it was only yesterday,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured wonderingly. “It seems so long ago.”

Hero went to the hearth and, catching up a cloth, picked up the kettle and poured boiling water into the teapot. Fragrant steam rolled up from the teapot before she replaced the lid. She’d come to inform Mrs. Hollingbrook about the new architect and the further delays in building the new home, but that information would obviously have to wait. This was more important.

She brought the full teapot to the table. “He was lost at sea?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook fingered her skirt. “His ship went down. One and fifty men aboard, and all lost at sea.”

“I’m so sorry.” Hero fetched two cups from the sideboard.

“It is sad, isn’t it?” the other woman said. “At sea. I keep remembering those lines from The Tempest: ‘Full fathom five your father lies/ Of his bones are coral made/ Those were pearls that were his eyes…’ ” Her voice trailed away as she stared fixedly at the table.

Hero poured some tea and put a heaping spoonful of sugar into the cup before placing it in front of Mrs. Hollingbrook.

“How long does it take, do you think?” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured.

“What?” Hero asked.

The other woman glanced up, her eyes looking bruised. “For a corpse to turn into something else in the sea? I’ve always found it somewhat comforting that we all turn to dirt in the end—when we’re buried in the ground at least. Dirt can be a very good thing, after all. It nourishes the flowers, makes the grass grow that sheep and cattle feed upon. A cemetery can be a very peaceful place, I think. But the sea… It’s so very cold and lonely. So lonely.”

Hero swallowed, looking at her tea. “Did Captain Hollingbrook like sailing?”

“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Hollingbrook seemed surprised. “He talked about it even when he was home on land. He’d always wanted to be a sailor ever since he was a little boy.”

“Then perhaps he never saw the sea quite like you and I would,” Hero said tentatively. “I mean, I don’t presume to know what his mind was like, but wouldn’t it make sense that he might have a different opinion of the sea? That he might even like it?”

Mrs. Hollingbrook blinked. “Maybe. Maybe so.”

She reached forward and took the hot tea in both hands, raising it to take a tentative sip.

Hero drank from her own cup. Although the tea wasn’t as fine as the type she was used to, it was strong and hot and at the moment seemed just the thing.

“I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hollingbrook said vaguely. “I should… What did you come for today?”

Hero thought of the news she’d wanted to share about the new architect for the home. “Nothing important.”

“Oh.” Mrs. Hollingbrook knit her brows, seemingly deep in thought. “It’s just…”

“What?” Hero asked gently.

“I shouldn’t tell you these things,” Mrs. Hollingbrook murmured distractedly. “It’s not your concern.”