Widow in White

Chapter Three: Hereditary

A week passed and Richard sent no letter to Verity. Instead, in the mornings he would write a few lines, and in the evenings he would scribble them out. At last one afternoon, while Laura was trying to prompt him to finish it, he swore, crumpled the paper into a ball, and threw it into a corner of the room.

"I'm sorry," he said. "But I just can't do it. It's not right to ask her to solve our squabbles like we're children and she's our nanny!"

"Then are you going to write to Neil?" Laura asked.

"No." Richard flung his pen down with a sigh of exasperation. "I'm going to go to my club. Lady Roynor has an Opinion about the import of champagne, and we are all going to drink brandy and weep about it."

And he did, leaving Laura alone in the house and the letter crumpled in a corner of the study.

Laura, a few minutes after he had left, came back into the study and cautiously, guiltily uncrumpled the letter. She sat down in a chair and read it through. Despite Richard's many crossings-out and rewritings, it was a competent, plainspoken letter, asking Verity to clear any clouded air between Richard and Neil by acting as intermediary between them. Laura didn't think it was wrong for Richard to send it.

It would, however, be very wrong if Laura sent it for him.

She sat there and considered it very, very carefully. She still wasn't feeling quite well — it wasn't anything more than that. A tendency for her stomach to make queer little leaps for no reason, and a general fatigue. No point thinking too much of it, she told herself. Too many rich dinners, too many late nights.

But if she was — sick, she told herself, then Richard would need his brother's — friendship.

Her stomach continuing its now familiar gymnastics, she read the letter again, trying to make up her mind. Then, decided, she sat down stealthily at Richard's desk and made a fine copy of it in her own hand, with a post-script to clear her conscience, admitting that she was sending it without his permission. Then she copied the address, franked the letter with Richard's franking stamp, and hurried to the front door to go to the post office and send it.

And as she opened the front door, she ran straight into Neil, his hand poised to reach for the knocker.

Laura stared.

Neil stared back.

He was pale, his eyes shadowed, his mouth tight and weary. Her gaze drifted down his suit, crumpled and dirty. She had never before known Neil to be anything but overdressed. Something was clearly wrong.

"Can I come in?" he asked, and Laura realized she was blocking the doorway. But she no longer needed to go out to send the letter anyway. Confused, she stepped back, hiding the letter in her sleeve, and she and Neil went into the hall. In the street outside, Neil's groom started to unload the trunks from the top of the coach.

"Where's Richard?" Neil asked, before Laura could think of what to say to him.

"He'll be back later this evening."

"I need to talk to him."

"Urgently? I can send a servant to find him — I think he's with Lord Roynor at his club."

"No. No, not urgently." Neil kicked his boots against the wainscoting, scattering flakes of mud over the polished floor. Laura bit back her irritation. "But I need him."

"Can I help?" she asked.

"No." He shook his head and paced the floor, grinding mud into the rug. "Not you."