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CECIL AND EVELYN WOOLRIDGE were to take their own car to Barton Manor, with Rosemary sticking to her plan of dressing at Vera’s and driving over from there. “We cannot arrive too early, dear,” her mother had said as though it had been she who had coined the phrase ‘fashionably late.’ Rosemary assumed Frederick would also arrive separately, as she had yet to see neither hide nor hair of him.
As Rosemary headed towards the door, her father descended the stairs looking as though he’d fallen asleep at his office table. She was almost positive the white indentation on his rosy cheek was in the shape of a paper clip.
Evelyn rounded the corner and caught sight of him. “There you are. You simply must get dressed, darling,” she said, as though she had forgotten her previous statement regarding their planned arrival time.
“Yes, yes, Evelyn.” Cecil hushed his wife with a wave of his hand. “All in due time. First, I’d like to say hello to my daughter, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, of course. I only meant that—” Evelyn began.
Her husband interrupted gently. “I know what you meant, dear.”
The look he cast at his wife expressed the high regard in which he held her. Rosemary had always appreciated that, despite how anyone else viewed her mother, she continued to hold Cecil’s affections even after decades of marriage.
Her father was a gentleman, a scholar at heart, and a businessman by necessity. Having inherited a depleted fortune, he had done quite well for himself, restoring the family name through good old hard work and determination.
Rosemary gave her father a kiss on each cheek, accepted the adoring look in his eyes when he gazed at her, and quickly exited once he had tottered off to ready himself for the party.
Upon arriving at Vera’s, a butler she didn’t recognize greeted Rosemary—Lorraine Blackburn went through staff at an alarming rate—and directed her up the lavish marble staircase that was as familiar to her as her own entrance hall. Rosemary and Vera had met at school, fallen in love with one another, and inspired a friendship between their mothers that was almost as strong as their own.
At the time, Mrs. Blackburn had been a shell of her fabulous self. Now, having lost a husband, Rosemary understood far more about the woman’s state of mind than she had as a child.
They had all lost, but both Blackburn women had taken the pain and turned it into an otherworldly strength of character that most people didn’t recognize as a coat of armor. Often accused of callousness, Vera followed her mother’s example and let the opinions of most roll off her back like inconsequential raindrops.
Now, Vera stood before a large gilt-framed mirror and twirled around as she saw Rosemary approaching. Her expression changed from a welcoming smile to a look of absolute horror when she took in Rosemary’s outfit.
“Undress immediately. You are not wearing funeral garb to an anniversary party. In fact, when we get back to London, I'm coming over to clean out your wardrobe. Now, you go into my dressing room and put this on." She handed Rosemary a hanger with far too little material clinging to it, and pointed toward the door, “No arguments.”
“As if arguing would make any difference, except to our arrival time,” Rosemary joked with a laugh as she took the proffered garment. “Fine, fine, I’ll be out in a minute,” she promised after noting the raised eyebrow Vera shot her way.
Once she was alone, she took a minute to look at the fringed frock her friend had chosen. Still black, but with a far more daring neckline than the one she’d brought with her, it hugged her slim hips in all the right places while showing a moderate amount of sheer black-stockinged leg.
A triple strand of pearls and rhinestones covered enough of her décolletage for her to remain appropriate, and a pair of black, diamante-accented pumps with a Cuban heel completed the ensemble.
Vera pushed into the dressing room and surveyed her friend. “Here, I have earrings and a bracelet to match.” She sat Rosemary down at a cluttered dressing table, rolled her hair into perfect finger waves, and added more kohl to her eyes to create a smoky effect. “Now, you look absolutely perfect!”
“Next to you, I will always look like a canceled stamp. Though tonight, perhaps, I won’t be pegged for a spinster.” Andrew would want Rosemary to be happy, and feeling attractive—in her own way, at least—let her shrug off some of the mantle of sadness constantly draped over her shoulders.
Smoothing her hands down the front of her dress, Rosemary cautioned her friend. “Remember, Vera, this isn’t just a social call. We’re trying to find out whatever we can about Mr. Barton’s death threat. This is serious business.”
“Yes, I know, my love. I am at your service.” Vera dipped into a dainty curtsy, and Rosemary couldn’t help but let loose another smile.
Barton Manor sat atop an expanse of rolling hills, and the driveway snaked through an elaborate garden that had just burst into bloom. Daffodils, peonies, and tulips lined the path and grew here and there in strategically placed clumps. The steeple of a small chapel visible in the distance contributed to the charming atmosphere.
Giving the impression they were guarding the manor, a pair of sculptured topiaries in the shape of lions flanked the gate. Rosemary suddenly remembered having seen those lions before and decided she would have a personal conversation with Grace at the first opportunity.
Had Grace recognized her as an old acquaintance when she’d arrived at Lillywhite Investigations, and if so, why hadn’t she said something at the time?
Moreover, why couldn’t Rosemary remember Grace? The hole in her memory was becoming worrisome.
“A bit pretentious, don't you agree?” Vera said under her breath as if her home wasn't just as elegant. Yet, there was something about Barton Manor that did appear pretentious, just as Vera had pointed out.
Pursing her lips, Rosemary attempted to quantify the difference. Both properties boasted meticulously groomed lawns fading back to several copses of trees, sharply edged gardens in spring bloom, with many-roomed mansions as the centerpiece. The difference might lie, she mused, in the pink-shading-to-red blooms in the gardens. Lorraine preferred a riot of cheerful color to a rigid palette.
Then again, it might have been the presence of a small grouping of headstones surrounded by an iron fence that ruined the symmetry of the view and lent a slightly sinister air. Rosemary couldn’t imagine why anyone would want to situate a house adjacent to a graveyard, no matter how quaint the chapel grounds might appear from a distance.
“It lacks a welcoming feel; that much is certain. Though the view of the hillside is enviable,” Rosemary murmured.
Vera’s driver maneuvered the car to a stop and held the rear door open for his mistress and her friend. A stoic butler clad in a crisp black tailcoat with a starched white shirt opened the door before anyone could knock, and took their names.
“Please follow me to the ballroom, ladies.” He walked briskly through an elegant entrance hall and towards the sounds of music emanating from a room at the end of a long hallway.
Rosemary glanced at the family portraits that lined the wall along the entrance hall, recognizing a younger Grace surrounded by two people who Rosemary guessed to be Mr. and Mrs. Barton, and an attractive boy on the cusp of manhood.
On the other side of the entrance, a door opened, and a man ducked out of it. Everything about him could be described as medium, from his stature and build to the color of his brown hair and matching suit. His eyes darted around the room before landing on Rosemary and Vera. He pasted a smile on his face and made his way toward them.
“Mr. Cuthburt, you are aware that the rest of the manor is closed off for the party, are you not?” The butler said, his tone icy.
Mr. Cuthburt let out a husky laugh and nearly managed to suppress an eye roll. “Yes, Geoffrey, my good man. I think the fact that I am a regular visitor to Barton Manor ought to grant me some leniency, don’t you agree?”
It was a challenge, and one to which Geoffrey had no intention of rising. “Of course, Mr. Cuthburt. Ladies, the ballroom is through there,” he said in a clipped tone before taking his leave.
Rosemary and Vera ignored the awkward situation and followed Mr. Cuthburt’s unimpressive figure through the entrance.
