Free Heirs of the Body by Carola Dunn Page A

home to unexpected visitors.” He took the light coat she had worn for driving and handed it on to Ernest.
    “I’ll pop in to say hello, but I must wash off the road dust before tea.”
    “Certainly, madam. Your usual room has been prepared.”
    “Thank you. You needn’t announce me.”
    She crossed the hall, still hung with centuries’ worth of family portraits—of course, they were Edgar’s family as well as her own. Several of the oldest had obviously been professionally cleaned, revealing the long obscured features of Tudor and Stuart Dalrymples. The passage she turned into was also adorned with pictures she remembered: her grandmother’s collection of Quattrocento martyrdoms, from which she averted her eyes. In Daisy’s childhood, St. Sebastian had given her nightmares.
    The new chatelaine respected the claims of history and had changed very little in the house. Unlike the grounds, Daisy thought with a smile, where Edgar fought an obstinate battle against his gardener and his bailiff to provide wild areas for the sustenance of his beloved lepidoptera.
    What their successors would choose to do with the place remained to be seen.
    The door of Geraldine’s sitting room, which had been Daisy’s mother’s, was ajar. Daisy tapped and went in.
    “Daisy!” The letter Geraldine was reading dropped to the floor—uncharacteristic untidyness—as she stood up and came to meet Daisy, both hands held out in a warm greeting. She kissed Daisy on each cheek, also uncharacteristic.
    In her late forties, Lady Dalrymple was a rather bony woman who moved without grace, though almost a decade of being a viscountess had imparted a somewhat self-conscious graciousness to her usual manner. She was always smartly and appropriately dressed, yet never looked quite at ease in her clothes. Her long-sleeved, shin-length linen frock was an unfortunate shade of mauve that did nothing for a pale complexion, unaided by cosmetics, beneath carefully waved iron grey hair. She wore a modest pearl necklace and a gold cloisonné brooch in the form of a butterfly, accurate to the last detail, Daisy was sure.
    “Hello, Geraldine.”
    “I’m so glad you’re here.”
    “I hope I’ll be able to help you, Geraldine, though I’m not sure how. But I’ve only just arrived. I must go up and wash my face.”
    “Of course, dear. I’ll ring for tea.”
    Daisy went up to the bedroom she had slept in all through the years between the night nursery and leaving Fairacres after her father’s death. It, too, had changed little, though Geraldine had asked her permission a couple of years ago to have it spruced up. The curtains were still blue chintz with a pattern of wildflowers, though not quite the same; there was a new blue bedspread, and the two easy chairs by the fireplace had been reupholstered in the same shade of blue. The dark oak floorboards shone. The bedside and hearth rugs were the old ones but they had obviously been thoroughly cleaned.
    Daisy was touched by Geraldine’s obvious care in making sure she still felt at home, especially as she usually stayed with her mother at the Dower House when she came down, unless Violet and her family visited at the same time.
    In the miraculous way of well-run households, her bags had already been brought up and a maid was unpacking them. She promised to get the black marks out of Daisy’s driving gloves as well as the dust from her hat.
    A few minutes later, cleaner and tidier, Daisy went downstairs. Tea had arrived in Geraldine’s sitting room, and so had Edgar. His pince-nez and baggy tweeds made him look the epitome of the absentminded professor.
    “Look!” he greeted her, presenting a jar with a few leaves in it for her inspection.
    “Hello, Edgar. What have you caught now?” She took the jar and peered through the glass. Among the hawthorn leaves was a brownish caterpillar with bumps on its back. “A country bumpkin butterfly?” she suggested, quite wittily in her own opinion.
    “No, no,