The last time they had seen Lady Exner, her iron-gray hair had been pulled back into a fierce bun, and a pleated wool skirt, high-neck long-sleeved blouse with a silver brooch at the neck, inset with her mother-in-law’s picture, and Scottish wool sweater had been her de-rigueur manner of dressing. Now she had on an iridescent gold silk suit with a matching cowl-neck blouse that swooped low on her chest.

From directly behind her Regan heard Claire observe, “I swear she must go to your hairdresser, Regan.” Regan resisted the urge to trip her even while she acknowledged to herself that Lady Exner’s militant bun had been transformed into a crinkle-cut perm colored the same as the gold suit.

Lady Exner was not reluctant to talk about the metamorphosis as she escorted them to the drawing room overlooking the garden. “I had a heart attack four years ago,” she said almost gleefully. “The doctor warned me, “The heart is getting tired and you need to be careful.” You know what I told him? I told him I’ve been careful all my life except for my two-week odyssey with Sir Gilbert. I went straight home and made a list of all the things I wished I’d done in this lifetime but had been afraid to try. And now I’m doing them all!”

She fluttered her gnarled blue-veined hands and wrists. “See these rings and bracelets? I always loved my friend Maeve’s jewelry. I never had any jewelry except for the pin with Sir Gilbert’s mother’s picture on it and her wedding ring. When Maeve passed on to a higher plane last year, I decided, why not? The estate had to sell her jewelry to raise money for the taxes, and now it’s mine, all mine. Lovely, isn’t it? I bought new clothes, changed my hairdo and, best of all, I’m taking trips. Philip insisted I have a companion. Here she is.”

They were at the entrance to the drawing room. This, Lady Exner had clearly not changed. Victorian sofas in fading damask, an Oriental carpet whose colors were virtually indistinguishable, horsehair chairs by the fireplace, portraits of long-forgotten Exners all of whom looked less than thrilled, and a tea table burdened with Lady Exner’s usual cocktail offerings: anchovies on damp-looking toast points, a bowl of limp potato chips and a mound of fish pâté that suspiciously resembled bird droppings.

A rotund woman whom Regan guessed to be about sixty, with short-cropped hair, large round glasses and an anxious expression, was studying the serving table. A fiftyish wiry bean pole in a maid’s uniform was at her side.

“Everything looks perfect,” the woman declared, the anxious expression clearing from her face. She turned, smiling. “Ah, Lady Exner, we’re just ready for your guests.”