Mrs. Watson was sure the image would haunt her the entire time she remained in the lodge, but the moment she walked into the parlor, she forgot about the painting.
On any other occasion, she would have marveled at the existence of such a drawing room at the very edge of a Cornish cliff. Between the huge, gilded mirrors, the Watteau-esque murals of brightly dressed revelers against a sylvan background, and the slender-legged furniture upholstered in a creamy silk with just a whisper of green, this parlor would not have felt out of place in the stateliest hôtels particuliers in Paris.
But tonight, Mrs. Watson’s gaze fell on the woman half inclined on a settee. Her face was very pale, almost translucent, that of an already-fair person who hadn’t seen the sun in long months, the auburn hair that Mrs. Felton had mentioned gathered back in a sleek chignon. She wore an evening gown in dark green velvet, with a square décolletage showing off smooth skin and a pair of very pretty collarbones. The sleeves ended at the elbow. On one bare forearm she sported an emerald-studded bangle, on the other, a snake bracelet in shiny gold.
As the crowd entered, she turned her face. Her eyes were long and deep set, the irises a hazel made much darker by her midnight-forest gown. Not the most beautiful woman Mrs. Watson had ever seen, but these were stunning eyes and the effect of their direct sweep . . .
Mrs. Watson had to wrestle with an urge to lower her head and curtsy.
If anything, Mrs. Felton had understated the grandness of Miss Baxter.
“Please sit down,” she said.
Her voice was a little hoarse, yet that served only to add to the power of her presence.
“Thank you, Miss Baxter,” said the Steeles and Miss Ellery in unison.
The room was not lit like Versailles on the night of a ball, but it was not dim by any means. If anyone was trying to pass off a counterfeit Miss Baxter, they were confident enough to do so not only before people who had known her for years, but under full illumination.
The bustle of seven people sitting down and Miss Stoppard making tea to the side further emphasized Miss Baxter’s stillness. She moved not at all, except for her transfixing gaze, which traveled from caller to caller, and came to rest on Miss Charlotte, who was at her usual wholehearted inspection of the refreshments on offer.
Miss Stoppard poured tea and handed around plates of pastry. Despite her bloomers, which did her figure no favors—a woman might as well wear narrow trousers if she was going to wear trousers—Miss Stoppard was in fact a woman of refined beauty. Had Miss Baxter not been in the room, Miss Stoppard would have made for a commanding hostess. But with Miss Baxter present, no one could mistake Miss Stoppard for anything other than a dedicated handmaiden.
“I would have risen to greet you all,” said Miss Baxter, “but I’m afraid I twisted my ankle badly last night, leaving my bed in a hurry amid cries of fire and ruin.”
Mrs. Watson noticed for the first time that Miss Baxter was covered with a thickish black blanket, leaving only the most dramatic portion of her evening gown visible. As for the ankle, it was not a bad excuse for someone who had failed to run outside when flames licked the walls.
“But that’s terrible,” said Miss Ellery. “I hope you weren’t too afraid.”
“No indeed, I was not afraid. I heard everyone’s voices and knew that if I called for aid, you would all storm the house.”
Until this moment, Mrs. Watson had swung between amazement and mistrust. If Miss Baxter had been perfectly fine all this time, why had she let things escalate until her father sent in Sherlock Holmes? Was it really as Miss Ellery had said, that, having been kidnapped once, she feared for her safety and refused to meet with outsiders? For what reason then had she changed her mind and was now happy to receive all and sundry?
Therefore, although the woman on the settee looked just like Miss Baxter had in the photographs, Mrs. Watson had been inclined to believe that she was an actress smuggled in from London, and the resemblance a matter of advanced stagecraft. But the unmistakable—and casual—sarcasm in her voice at last convinced Mrs. Watson that she might be looking at the genuine article. That and the overwhelmed expression on Miss Ellery’s face: She was delighted and flustered that Miss Baxter had deigned to speak to her, even if it had been in reprimand.
Which echoed Mrs. Felton’s urgent concern for Miss Baxter, despite the fact that Miss Baxter had rarely been satisfied with her work.
“It’s been so long since we last saw you. We thought you’d become ill,” said Mrs. Steele.
“I was not ill,” said Miss Baxter, resting the side of her head languidly against the back of the settee. “I simply wished for solitude, which we members of the Garden all came for—the ability to be alone, without needing to remove ourselves completely from human company.”
Another reprimand, delivered without hesitation. Yet to judge by Mrs. Steele’s reaction, it had fallen as a benediction upon her shoulders, the words welcome and cherished.
“But I’m grateful for your concern, which is why I have asked you to join me this evening.” Miss Baxter turned her head and for the first time addressed Miss Charlotte directly. “I do apologize for your trouble, Miss Holmes. How and where I conduct my life is a matter of contention between my father and myself. It’s really too bad that he refuses to believe regular assurances of my well-being.”
Miss Charlotte inclined her head. “It has been no trouble at all. At worst, this has been a pleasant excursion from London, with Mr. Baxter footing all the expenses.”
Unlike Mrs. Watson, who still felt at a loss, doubting her eyes one moment, her judgment the next, Miss Charlotte seemed to view everything taking place this evening as a most natural development. Even Miss Stoppard, glancing at the callers once in a while from her position behind Miss Baxter, evinced a more skeptical attitude.
“And my apologies to you, too, Miss Fairchild,” said Miss Baxter, lifting her wrist a few inches as if in acknowledgment.
What did she need to apologize to Miss Fairchild for? The presence of three strangers at the Garden?
Miss Fairchild inclined her head, the graveness of her countenance softening a little as she regarded Miss Baxter.
An audience, thought Mrs. Watson. They had all been summoned to an audience—and would be dismissed in time.
Indeed, as everyone drank their tea, Miss Baxter asked about Miss Ellery’s plan for the kitchen garden, and whether Mrs. Steele planned to host another picnic in summer. Miss Ellery and Mrs. Steele both gave detailed, breathless answers, which only served to underscore the awkwardness of the chitchat.
After a quarter hour of this, Miss Baxter said decisively, “How lovely it has been to see you all tonight, my friends.”
Miss Fairchild immediately rose and inclined her head at their hostess.
Miss Ellery stood up much more reluctantly. “Do please come by for tea. Anytime.”
“And we can talk more of picnic plans and other plans at Miss Fairchild’s,” said Mrs. Steele, coming to her feet alongside her husband.
Miss Charlotte, however, remained firmly in her seat. Mrs. Watson and Lord Ingram followed her example. The others, promptly escorted out by Miss Stoppard, regarded them with a mix of curiosity and consternation as they left.
“More biscuits, Miss Holmes?” said Miss Baxter.
“Yes, thank you,” said Miss Charlotte, picking up a ratafia. “These are very good biscuits.”