Free Winterwood by Dorothy Eden

few words.”
    “Then if you want Fernanda for anything you’ll have to use sign language. But you shouldn’t need her. And don’t disturb my aunt. She’s resting.”
    It was obvious that Charlotte, having had to employ Lavinia against her will, was now going to make the utmost use of her. Flora had threatened to make a scene when she had heard that Lavinia was not to be at her sole disposal that day, but calmed down when told that her father would be taking her and Edward out.
    With the scent of the Contessa’s past gaiety cloying her nostrils, Lavinia thought wistfully of the children, perhaps taking a gondola ride with their father, or eating ices in the Piazza San Marco while the great bells rang from the Campanile, and the pigeons wheeled with rattling wings. She worked hard, slowly reducing the pile of objects to be folded and packed. A long necklace of black and gold Venetian beads, a pair of lavender kid gloves, an elaborate program tied with silk cord from Teatro La Fenice— Il Trovatore —a set of the works of William Shakespeare in red leather with faded gilt lettering, a Venetian leather box containing the Count’s decorations. Thirty years of a woman’s life.
    Once a door closed somewhere. Once Fernanda called something upstairs, but the answer, if there was one, was inaudible.
    Lavinia, suddenly suffocated, opened a shutter, and the hot sun struck her in the face. Water sucked beneath her, leaving slimy green marks on the ancient wall. The black prows of passing gondolas dipped and rose; a gondolier was shouting vociferously, his voice dying over the water.
    She imagined long-ago guests arriving here for parties, the ladies delicately lifting their skirts to climb the slippery steps, the great lamps over the doorway glowing, and the sounds of violins coming from this mirrored and polished room.
    Now the mirrors were empty, or almost, since they had nothing to reflect but shrouded furniture and trunks that could have been coffins. Was all the house as gloomy as this room? Lavinia suddenly had the impulse to explore.
    She went softly up the marble staircase and, tip-toeing past Lady Tameson’s door, which was closed, began opening doors along the corridor. The rooms were all bedrooms, all furnished with massive four-posters and heavy wardrobes, all empty, all musty, with a mingled scent of canal water and age. She was examining a prie-dieu, obviously meant for more devout guests, when she heard quick, firm steps on the stairs.
    Fernanda called, “Signor!” and something more in Italian. The door leading into Lady Tameson’s bedroom opened and shut.
    The doctor?
    Lavinia lingered a moment, then was ashamed of her curiosity and went softly downstairs.
    Halfway down she heard Lady Tameson give a stifled exclamation, as of disgust. Or fear? After that there was no more sound.
    She was closing the last trunk when the footsteps came back down the stairs. If they belonged to the doctor, he would go straight on out the door through which he had apparently admitted himself. If they were Daniel’s, he would come in to inspect her progress.
    She bent over her work as the door opened.
    “Can I help you with that, Miss Hurstmonceaux?”
    She stiffened over the trunk fastenings. She would have thought it impossible, in the airless heat, to feel cold, but chills went over her just as they had done in the London courtroom.
    It took all her willpower to straighten herself and look around calmly.
    “Thank you, Mr. Peate. But I have almost finished. And you have made a mistake with my name.”
    “I do beg your pardon. Of course. You’re Miss Hurst. Flora’s new companion.” Jonathon Peate was looking at her with his bold impertinence. “In this somewhat dim light you looked exactly like another young lady I saw not long ago. Miss Hurstmonceaux. Lavinia Hurstmonceaux,” he added with deliberation.
    “It’s very easy to make a mistake. I hope you found your aunt well.”
    “As well as can be expected. And how