Violet almost felt sorry for him—almost, but not quite. She hooked her arm through her sister’s as they turned back toward Woldsly. The manor was hundreds of years old and sat in the landscape as if it had grown there, a natural feature of the surrounding hills. Green ivy scrambled up the four-story redbrick façade. The vines were trimmed back from around tall, mullioned windows. A multitude of chimneys climbed the manor’s gabled roofs like so many hikers on a mountain. It was a welcoming house, perfectly suited to her sister’s personality.

“Cook baked lemon curd tarts just this morning,” Violet said as they climbed the wide front steps. “Euphie has been mooning over them ever since.”

“Oh, no, my lady,” the companion exclaimed behind them. “I don’t believe I have really. Not over lemon tarts, anyway. When it comes to mince pie, I do admit a certain fondness, not altogether genteel, I fear.”

“You are the very epitome of gentility, Euphie. We all strive to follow your example,” George said.

The older woman preened like a gray bantam hen.

Violet felt a twinge of guilt for always being so exasperated with the silly dear. She made a solemn vow to try and be more kind to her in the future.

They entered the manor’s huge double oak doors, where George nodded to Greaves, the butler. Light streamed in from the crescent window above the doors, illuminating the coffee-and-cream walls and the entry’s old parquet floor.

“Have you found something to amuse yourself with at Woldsly?” George asked as they continued down the hall. “I confess, I was surprised when you said you wanted to rusticate here with just Euphie. It’s a bit of a backwater for a fifteen-year-old. Although, of course, you are always welcome.”

“I’ve been sketching,” Violet replied, keeping her voice carefully light. “The views here are a change from Leicestershire. And M’man was becoming quite tiresome at home. She claims to have found a new tumor in her right leg and has brought in a Belgian quack who is dosing her on some awful stuff that smells like cooked cabbage.” Violet exchanged a glance with George. “You know how she is.”

“Yes, I do.” George patted her arm.

Violet looked away, relieved she didn’t have to explain further. Their mother had been predicting her own death since before Violet was born. Mostly the countess kept to her bed, attended by a patient maid. Every once in a while, however, M’man would become hysterical about some new symptom. When that happened, she nearly drove Violet mad.

They entered the rose morning room, and George pulled off her gloves. “Now, then, what was the purpose of that letter—”

“Hist!” Violet jerked her head toward Euphie, who was busy instructing the maid to bring tea.