Dark Road to Darjeeling by Deanna Raybourn Page B

glancing around the garden and widening my eyes innocently. I was not the least surprised, of course. Lucy was doubtless still smarting from the awkwardness of our last parting and Emma would fear the worst—exposure as a murderess.
    But the good Reverend was shaking his head, his expression mournful. “Oh, no. They do not venture out upon any occasion. The world must come to Pine Cottage, I am afraid, for the ladies are almost perfect recluses.”
    This was interesting intelligence, for Emma was driven by her longing for independence, a need to be her own mistress and to travel and order her own affairs. If she had indeed withdrawn with Lucy into Pine Cottage, then the mystery surrounding them thickened.
    “I shall have to pay a call upon them soon,” I offered. “And perhaps the White Rajah as well?”
    Reverend Pennyfeather chuckled. “You must go when you have plenty of time to spare, for he is a garrulous old gentleman and will keep you enchanted for hours with his stories. I do not know if half of them are false, but he is a raconteur without parallel, I promise you.” He leaned forward, pitching his voice to a tone that promised confidences. “I will say to you that Miss Cavendish does not wholly approve of the old fellow. She thinks him indelicate in his morality. She is a good soul,” he hastened to add, “but she can be a little unyielding at times. She is comfortable with her own lapses of conventionality, but sometimes finds them troubling in others.”
    I glanced to the tea table where she was bent at the waist to pour the tea, her back rigid within her corset. Unyielding indeed.
    “I do understand,” I told him. “I shall be discreet about my visit.”
    He gave me an approving nod. “That would be best. No need to trouble Miss Cavendish about things that do not concern her.”
    Just then his attention was diverted to the sight of Plum still conversing with the dusky beauty at his side.
    “Is that your Miss Thorne?” I asked.
    He started, then recovered himself with a rueful smile. “Oh, yes. Miss Thorne is in our employ to finish Primrose.” He shook his head. “A waste, I think. Primrose is all right, or at least she will be in time. It seems a cruel choice,” he added softly, and I was startled, although I could not disagree. To force Primrose, awkwardly positioned as she was between girlhood and maturity, to be in the constant company of the exquisite Miss Thorne could only prove damaging for the girl’s confidence.
    “Perhaps Miss Thorne will smooth the way for her. Becoming a grown woman of accomplishment is a difficult task.”
    “And Cassandra is rather too occupied to put her hand to it. She is an artist you know,” he said, casting a proud glance at his wife. She had just emerged from the house, Percival once more securely tucked into her braids. She strode dramatically through the garden, breaking off a large, luscious blossom to tuck into her décolletage.
    “I cannot think Miss Cavendish will like that,” the Reverend murmured, a twinkle in his eye.
    I smiled at him. “I think it is time for some refreshment, Reverend.”
     
    The next half hour or so passed pleasantly enough. As expected, Miss Cavendish made a sharp remark about the blossom nesting in Cassandra’s neckline, but the lady simply waved an airy hand, scattering crumbs from a plum tart as she did so. I imagined not much troubled Cassandra, for she wore the imperturbable expression of an artist to whom material needs are never a concern. I had seen it before upon Plum, but to my surprise, he made no attempt to speak to his kindred spirit. His attentions were fully occupied by the lovely Miss Thorne. The more I watched them, the more interested I became, for she seemed entirely unmoved by his conversation, an unusual thing for Plum. He was, by virtue both of excellent birth and considerable personal attractions, quite accustomed to reciprocal attentions from any lady toward whom he cast his eye—with the obvious