She hugged herself. A courtship with the imaginary baron was a fantasy. Marrying well was the only solution, just as her mother had preached for years. Even if it meant a lifetime of grieving the opportunity she would rather have had.

If Philippa forged a public connection with the Wynchesters, she would lose many of the people she loved—and let down thousands more.

She took a deep breath. “I’m very sorry to hear about Jessica. If you don’t mind, Chloe, I’d like to pen her a letter while I’m here.”

“It’s no problem.” Chloe and Tommy exchanged troubled glances, likely coming to the same conclusion Philippa had just reached.

She rolled back her shoulders. “Let’s begin our meeting.”

Damaris stepped forward. “Have you learned anything else from the manuscripts? Did you uncover information about Agnes and Katherine?”

“Unfortunately,” Philippa said, “the binding of our new book does not appear to be hiding secret letters. We are forced to look for clues elsewhere.”

“But fortunately,” Chloe continued. “My brother’s informants discovered references to poor relations in parish records. Two spinster cousins living in a cottage on the property. They were apparently lifelong tenants. Sir Reginald Northrup left no record of their involvement with the illuminated manuscripts, but he controlled the younger woman’s inheritance. It was how she paid her rent.”

“Cousins,” Sybil repeated. “They were both Northrups?”

“Agnes Northrup and Katherine Claybourne,” Philippa answered.

Damaris frowned. “Different surnames. Were the ladies related on their maternal side, like Captain Northrup and I are?”

“Mayhap,” Tommy said as Great-Aunt Wynchester. “Mayhap not.”

“Intriguingly,” Philippa continued, “we have uncovered no eyewitness account of Sir Reginald actively working on any manuscripts. He spent his days making merry.”

Sybil frowned. “But if there is no account of Agnes and Katherine’s involvement, either—”

“Clean your ears,” barked Great-Aunt Wynchester. “Sir Reginald left no such record.”

Florentia’s gaze sharpened. “You mean…”

Philippa nodded. “The spinster…cousins…were well known in the village for their good works and artistic talent. Graham discovered old letters and a diary that mentions the frequent sight of both ladies surrounded by ink and parchment at a table in the cottage. Sir Reginald was the trustee for Agnes’s inheritance—and her landlord.”

“Convenient,” Florentia muttered. “For Sir Reginald.”

Philippa nodded grimly. “When he realized the commercial value of their unique talents, the ladies were thereafter kept so busy, they were rarely seen in the village again.”

Sybil’s eyes widened. “Did you bring the diary and letters?”

“Second best.” Philippa handed out the copies Marjorie had made.

“Maybe they’re not cousins,” Sybil whispered to Florentia in excitement. “Maybe they were in love.”

“Or good friends,” Florentia responded. “Either way, their neighbors won’t have written it down for you to ogle over.”

“Some of us can read between lines,” Sybil informed her. “Philippa, what do you think? Were Agnes and Katherine—”