The Lady Travelers Guide to Happily Ever After Read online

  “I am here because of Uncle Richard, of course,” she said coolly, ignoring the catch in her throat. “I was so saddened to hear of his passing. I wish I had come to see him again.”

  Uncle Richard had never thought it necessary to vacate the premises upon her visits home. He and Violet had spent long hours together during her stays, playing cards or chess, attending plays or lectures, and discussing whatever happened to pass through their minds. He’d been ill for some time but on her last visit a year ago, she’d thought he had improved. He was the only person who had ever accepted her for who she was rather than who she used to be or who she should be. Sorrow stabbed her at the thought of never seeing him again.

  “You didn’t come when he died two months ago.”

  “It seemed pointless.”

  “I assume you received notice from his solicitor about tomorrow’s meeting?”

  She nodded. The letter had insisted she return to London as soon as possible, as per Uncle Richard’s instructions. It was followed by a telegram confirming her attendance at tomorrow’s meeting. “Do you know what it’s regarding?”

  “Uncle Richard’s final wishes.” He shrugged. “Beyond that, I have no idea.”

  “Then we shall both be surprised,” she said under her breath.

  While it did strike her as an ordinary conversation, tension fairly bounced off the walls of the carriage. Idle chatter seemed absurd. There was so much of importance to say, issues that needed to be resolved. And yet here and now, she couldn’t bring herself to say anything. What did one say to a husband one hadn’t spoken to in nearly six years? Silence was far wiser at the moment. But it was past time. One of them had to be honest enough to do what needed to be done. It was more than likely to be her. Goodness, hadn’t she been working up her courage for years? Still, it might be better to hear what the solicitor had to say. Another day or two would make no real difference.

  James helped her from the carriage and escorted her into the grand house near Grosvenor Square. Andrews greeted them, handed her wrap to a footman and promptly vanished, no doubt within calling distance should he be needed. The butler was the very soul of discretion. Regardless, Violet suspected he and any number of other servants were observing them from some unseen location.

  “I usually have a glass of brandy in the library before bed,” James said in an offhand manner. “Would you care to join me?”

  “I’m afraid I’ve had a very long day. I would prefer to retire for the night.” She smiled politely and turned toward the stairs. Coward, a voice whispered in the back of her head. A civilized brandy in the comfort of Uncle Richard’s library would be the perfect opportunity for calm, rational discussion. Regardless, she simply wasn’t ready. She’d assumed she wouldn’t see him until they met in the solicitor’s office. She never imagined she’d see him, dance with him, tonight.

  “I had hoped we could talk.”

  She turned back to him. “Now?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why?”

  “It just seems like an opportune time. That’s all.” He paused. “We’ve never really talked.”

  “No, we haven’t.” And whose fault is that? She bit back the words and heaved a weary sigh. “It’s been almost six years, James. Surely whatever you have to say can wait another day.”

  He gazed at her for a long moment then nodded. “Of course.” He paused. “That was very nice of you. Encouraging Westmont to dance with those girls.”

  “I am very nice.” Her gaze met his. “And I know how they feel.”

  “Yes, I suppose you do.” He looked as if he wanted to say something else, then thought better of it. “Good night, Violet.”

  “Good night, James.” She nodded and started up the grand staircase, refusing to look back at him. She knew he watched her, felt his gaze on her as if his eyes were burning into her back.

  Her room was at the farthest end of the hall from his. Aside from a single night, she and James had never before slept under the same roof. That thought alone was enough to keep her from getting so much as a wink of sleep. Add to that, Uncle Richard’s mysterious final wishes and her own desire to at last resolve things between them and move on with their lives and anything approximating true rest was impossible.

  Beyond all else, she couldn’t get James’s comment out of her head. Was he truly ready to face his past mistakes? Did those mistakes include her?

  And how on earth did he intend to atone for that?

  CHAPTER TWO

  “AND SHE’S BACK,” Ophelia Higginbotham said under her breath and resisted the urge to slide under the covers and pull them up over her head.

  “How are you feeling, Effie?” Persephone Fitzhew-Wellmore sailed into the room like a ray of unrelenting sunshine. She glanced at Lady Guinevere Blodgett, sitting nearby in Effie’s bedroom and currently perusing the obituary section of the Times as she had done every day in recent years. “How is she?”

  Gwen didn’t look up from the page. After all, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t been asked the question every time Poppy entered the room. “Much better I think.”

  “I am.” Effie nodded in her healthiest manner. “Oh, I am indeed. I feel much, much better. Why, I daresay I’ll be out of bed in no time.”

  “I doubt that.” Poppy’s brow furrowed and she eyed the other woman closely. “I think you look extremely pale. Doesn’t she, Gwen?”

  “Oh my, yes,” Gwen murmured.

  “There, you see? Gwen agrees with me,” Poppy said firmly. “They’ll be no more discussion about it. Although you may read today’s post if you feel up to it.” She set a small stack of correspondence on the tray on Effie’s lap.

  “And I do.” Effie voice rang with eagerness. Even invoices would be a respite from the endless boredom of being waited on hand and foot. Still, it couldn’t be helped.

  “We’ll see how you feel tomorrow.” Poppy shook her head in a chastising manner. “This is your third relapse of whatever illness has been plaguing you.” She paused. “Perhaps we should have Dr. Wrenfield—”

  “No,” Gwen and Effie said at the same time.

  “You know how Effie hates to be a bother,” Gwen said quickly. “Besides, the doctor has been here once already and was unable to identify the true nature of her illness.”

  “Yes, but I wasn’t here when he called,” Poppy said. “Perhaps if I were to give him my observations, it might help him in determining what the problem is.”

  “I really can’t afford another visit,” Effie added.

  It was the one thing Poppy couldn’t argue with.

  Finances were more and more distressing for the three widows. Their husbands had all died within the past few years—Gwen’s Sir Charles and Poppy’s Malcomb three years ago, followed the next year by Effie’s dear William. The men, who had all lived lives of adventure and exploration and excitement, had been felled by the most ordinary of circumstances—Sir Charles had succumbed to a recurrent bout of malaria, Malcomb passed on in his chair in front of the fire so peacefully it took Poppy several hours to realize he had indeed left this life and Effie’s dear William, having had a long and illustrious career in Her Majesty’s army without scarcely a scrape, fell from a ladder he shouldn’t have been on in the first place. It was scant comfort to Effie that she’d told him not to climb the blasted ladder.

  While they were excellent husbands—even if they were scarcely ever present, which, depending upon one’s point of view, might have contributed to their long and happy marriages—they’d not given enough thought to providing for their wives’ financial futures in the event of their demise. Gwen suspected, as they had survived any number of perilous adventures, they never imagined their days would be cut short in the relative safety of home. The end result of their lack of foresight was that their widows were slowly and inevitably running out of funds. The three friends had each saved some money through the years, and Effie did have a small m
ilitary pension, but they estimated it would not be long before they would all be penniless. Being penniless as well as in one’s seventies was not a pleasant prospect.

  “Of course.” Poppy sighed. “We really have to do something about that.” She straightened her shoulders. “For now I shall see if your cook has the broth ready.”

  “Oh, goody.” Effie forced a cheery smile. “Broth.”

  “You’re fortunate your cook is so skilled at broth.” Poppy cast Effie an encouraging smile and took her leave.

  “Mm-mm, more broth,” Gwen said softly, the corners of her mouth twitching in an effort to hold back a laugh.

  “I hate broth.” Effie let out a resigned breath. “This won’t be nearly as funny next week when you’re the one in bed.”

  Gwen lowered the paper. “Oh, no. We agreed there should be at least two to three weeks between illnesses so as not to arouse her suspicions.”

  “I’m not sure I can do this again.” Effie shuffled through the envelopes on the tray. “There’s nothing worse than being forced to stay in bed when there’s nothing whatsoever wrong with you.”

  “And who knows better than I?”

  It had been Gwen’s bout with a persistent cold that had given them the idea of feigning illness in the first place. It had seemed a brilliant idea at the time. Neither of them had imagined how terribly draining acting ill could be. But it was all they could think of and they had agreed something must be done about Poppy’s melancholy state.

  The three had been friends—no, sisters—for more than forty years now, drawn together by the absence of husbands wandering the world in search of adventure. Aside from Gwen’s niece and great-nephew, none of them had any real family nor had any of them been blessed with children. But through thick and thin, for most of their lives, they could count on each other. Now, Poppy needed them even if she would never admit it.

  She was the youngest of the three by two years and had always been the cheeriest of the group. Nothing in Poppy’s estimation was so dire it would not ultimately work out for the best. Gwen was the most practical of the trio and Effie had long accepted she was the one more prone to sarcasm, snide comments and an often too-colorful vocabulary. She had once decided the three of them were very much like ancient Greek goddesses. Poppy was the goddess of peace and love and all things bright and happy. Gwen was the goddess of wisdom and practicality. Effie was the goddess of war. She rather liked that.

  But the bright light that was Poppy had dimmed since Malcomb’s death. Oh, Effie and Gwen had mourned the loss of their husbands every bit as deeply. One would have thought, as they had lived much of their lives without their spouses, their passing would have been easier. But it was one thing to fear the man you loved might never come home and something else entirely to know that he wouldn’t. Perhaps because Effie and Gwen did not see the world through the rose-colored haze that Poppy did, it was somewhat easier to face whatever life now had in store.

  Gwen had thought, and Effie agreed, that it wasn’t just Malcomb’s death that had depressed Poppy’s spirits. Her husband’s passing had been followed that same year by Sir Charles and then William the following year. Gwen had likened it to a plague only without the locusts. She and Effie had agreed, unlike so many widows of their acquaintance, they at least knew how to take care of themselves. Of course, they hadn’t realized the perilous state of their respective finances and they never expected Poppy’s melancholy to linger.

  It was quite by accident that they discovered when she was busy, she almost seemed her old self. They had then cunningly guided her into volunteering to reorganize the library and collections of the Explorers Club. That in itself took nearly a year and far more of their own time than they had planned on. Who ever would have suspected Poppy had the talent of a general for barking orders and delegating tasks. Effie had always considered her a bit scattered. When one of the ladies on the board of the club’s Ladies Committee resigned to move to York to be with her daughter’s family, they had encouraged Poppy to stand for that seat. She was universally liked and no one ran against her but the position did not take up nearly as much of Poppy’s time as Effie and Gwen had hoped. Then Gwen had come down with a nasty cold and Poppy had charged in to help with her care, and her friends realized this would indeed give her a project of sorts to fill her time. At least until they could come up with something better.

  “We’re going to have to think of something else soon, you know. Something to occupy her days and her mind.” Effie sorted her mail into two stacks—the accounts due she could fortunately still pay, and correspondence of an interesting nature. That stack was sadly comprised of only one crisp, cream-colored envelope.

  “I am trying to think of something. I have no desire to take to my bed again.” Gwen returned to her study of the obituaries. “Oh look, that nice Mrs. Hackett died. What a shame.”

  “I thought you detested Mrs. Hackett.” Effie picked up the envelope and examined it. The stationery was of excellent quality, the handwriting unfamiliar and a bit unsteady. She turned it over. Some sort of embossed seal was on the flap. How very interesting indeed.

  “I did, but now she’s dead.” Gwen thought for a moment. “In the scheme of things, one could say I won.”

  “Whoever is left standing wins?” Effie slit the envelope with a letter opener, a replica of a sword her husband had owned.

  “Something like that.” Gwen settled back in her chair. “I don’t know why I insist on reading these death notices. It seems there is at least one acquaintance listed nearly every day. Why, everyone we know is dropping dead.”

  “These things tend to happen when one reaches a certain age.” Effie pulled several pages from the envelope and started to read.

  My dear Ophelia,

  Forgive me for taking the liberty of calling you dear. In my heart, you have always been my dear Ophelia. But I knew the moment I introduced you to my good friend, William, on that summer night all those many years ago that I would never have the opportunity to call you my dear aloud.

  Effie’s breath caught. Richard.

  “Still, one does hate to be uninformed,” Gwen continued. “Imagine if I were to have a party. It would be dreadfully awkward if I were to invite someone who is already dead.” She paused. “Of course, they wouldn’t come so it might not be so awkward at that.”

  I hope you received my letter of condolence upon William’s passing. He was a good, true friend and I have missed him. It is one of the many regrets of my life that we drifted apart.

  What a pity it is to recognize your regrets when it’s too late to do anything about them. My greatest by far was not fighting for your affections. But the way you and William looked at one another on that very first meeting was as if there was no one else in the world. I knew any hope I had was futile. So I chose to step back. And while I still believe it was the right thing to do, I have discovered if one is haunted by any single word in life it is perhaps.

  Shock rippled through her. Surely she wasn’t reading this correctly.

  “Although a séance would be interesting,” Gwen mused. “I wonder if one sends invitations to the dead.”

  I have been ill for some time and I know my remaining days are few. I fear if you are reading this, I have breathed my last. This letter is in the form of my final request, which I am leaving in your capable hands.

  “That would be a great deal of fun,” Gwen said thoughtfully. “Although I daresay we couldn’t afford a real spiritualist. But I think Mrs. Addison has a cousin who dabbles in contacting the spirits from beyond. She’s quite good at it from what I hear and I doubt she would charge a fee.”

  I can do nothing about the past but, even from the grave, I may be able to influence the future. In my life I have witnessed three great loves. The first was between you and William. The second was my love for you. It seems I can confess in death what I never managed to say in life. Please do not allow
my revelation to distress you. I refused to interfere with your happiness and knowing you were happy was enough.

  “Still,” Gwen continued, “the last thing Poppy needs is to see Malcomb again. I can’t imagine that would be the least bit helpful.”

  I am convinced I have seen one more great love even if those involved refuse to acknowledge it.

  “Gwen,” Effie said sharply. “In all those obituaries you read, have you seen a notice about the death of the Earl of Ellsworth?”

  “Ellsworth? I’m not sure. It does sound vaguely familiar.” Gwen thought for a moment. “Yes, I think I did see that name. A few weeks ago perhaps? Or longer I suppose. Certainly within the last few months. Did you know him?”

  Effie nodded. “I had once thought he might be the man I would marry but then I met William.”

  Gwen’s eyes widened. “Oh?”

  Effie scanned the rest of the letter. Good Lord. Surely the man wasn’t serious? She held it out to Gwen. “Read this.”

  Gwen started to read then looked at Effie. “Are you sure you want me to read this? It seems rather personal.”

  “I’d tell you everything it says anyway.”

  “There is that.” Gwen returned her attention to the letter.

  She was certainly taking her time. Still, Effie had been so shocked she had done little more than skim the rest of the letter. She drummed her fingers on the tray impatiently.

  At last Gwen looked up. “This man spent his entire life in love with you.”

  Effie winced. “I had no idea.”

  “He never gave you a hint as to his feelings?”

  “Of course not. Besides, William was like a brother to him, at least when they were young. They went their separate ways as the years went on. The army sent William all over the world and when he left the military, he followed on the heels of your husband. You know as well as I he was hardly ever here. I rarely saw Richard after William and I married.”

  Although Effie supposed it was possible that it was difficult for Richard to see William given his feelings for her. “On those occasions when I ran into him he was cordial and pleasant, as any old friend would be, but nothing more than that.”