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YET ANOTHER LARGE BREAKFAST was taking place at Woolridge House, this time with the additions of both Vera, who had, as promised, refused to leave Rosemary’s sight, and Mrs. Blackburn, who had stayed in one of the guest rooms.
Wadsworth had survived his encounter with Mr. Abbot, and despite the bandage he wore, insisted he was fit for duty. One look at his pale face and Mrs. Woolridge had banished him to the kitchen, ordering Anna to fetch him a plate.
When her solicitous attitude toward someone who was, even vicariously, under her employ drew incredulous stares from her family, Evelyn huffed and stuck her nose in the air.
In fact, she held that very posture when Rosemary’s steps could be heard on the stairs. Concerned looks passed between those assembled, but nobody said a word when she walked into the dining room wearing a dress the color of summer grass. Instead, they all stared while she marched over to the buffet table and began to load up a plate.
Frederick jumped up and beat Vera and Stella to Rosemary’s side. “Let me get that for you,” he said gently.
“Frederick Gerald Woolridge, I’m perfectly capable of filling my own plate.” She slapped his hand away with a grin. “And I do not want your filthy fingers anywhere near my bacon.”
“Everyone,” Frederick said wryly, “I believe she’s just fine.” He went back to the table but kept his eye trained on his sister. He had, of course, known what she was made of, but he had not spent the previous night reveling in his freedom but worrying about what the encounter with Arthur Abbot might have done to Rosemary. “We know the whole story, and there’s really no need to talk any more about it.”
“Wait!” Rosemary exclaimed. “We still don’t know who wrote that threatening letter to Mr. Barton.”
“Oh yes, we do.” Evelyn Woolridge preened. “You just missed it, dear. It turns out, it was Mrs. Barton all along. She wanted to scare him into acting like a faithful husband. Apparently, it isn’t just Mr. Barton she watches like a hawk, because she figured out that Grace had found the letter and burnt it before you ever arrived at the manor. Also, both Mr. and Mrs. Barton have decided that perhaps a nice, boring chemist would be the perfect match for Grace after all. They’ve agreed to let her accept her young man’s proposal, providing he makes a good impression at dinner next week.”
“I guess we’ve tied up all the loose ends,” Rosemary said, relief evident in her tone. “Except one. Come on, Nelly dear. I promised you a ride on the horses, and a ride you’re going to get.”
Rosemary tiptoed into the downstairs office of Lillywhite Investigations late the next night, after she’d returned to London and when the staff had gone to bed. The house was quiet as she closed the door softly behind her and walked across the soft carpet to stare at Andrew’s desk chair. She sat down on it and pulled her robe closer around herself.
She glanced at the empty space above the door where the loud ticking clock used to hang and decided she didn’t much care for the silence it left behind after all.
Pushing the harrowing events she’d recently experienced out of her mind, Rosemary tried to bring herself back to the place she’d been before Grace Barton had shown up on her doorstep. Finding it more difficult to imagine the space as an art studio than she had that day, she pulled open the top drawer to search for something to draw with.
I know I left a pad and paper in here somewhere, Rosemary thought to herself. When the drawer got caught halfway open, she reached her hand inside and realized there was something stuck there. Jiggling the drawer and the object, she wrenched it free and found herself staring at a rectangular box that looked like it might have been intended as a gift.
She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of opening something that Andrew had bought her before he died, but she couldn’t stop her hand from lifting the lid and pulling back the tissue wrapping.
When she saw what was in the box, Rosemary let out a laugh that would have summoned Wadsworth in seconds had he been awake and listening. It was a replica of the sign that sat on Andrew’s desk, the one that said “Andrew Lillywhite, Private Investigator,” except it was Rosemary’s name carved into the wood.
There was no card, and Rosemary found that she didn’t care. She needn’t have been explained the significance of the gift, because it was evident by the very nature of it what her husband’s intention had been.
No, she thought, I’m not ready to close down Lillywhite Investigations. Not just yet.
The End
