“They say he is addicted to opium…and that it makes him quite mad,” adds Rosemary, with a smug flourish.

“All nonsense.” I scoff, even as I feel my cheeks redden. “Quinn walks ’round the garden three times a day on the doctor’s orders, because he needs the fresh air. And yes, we’ve hung some crepe over the mirrors. Just like any other house in mourning. But I suppose that’s how these silly stories get started.”

The Wortleys nod, seeming to accept this, but I’ll have to speak with Mavis about being more careful about what she says to Betsey.

Because some of what they say is true. Only two days ago Quinn tore down the portrait of himself and Will that hung in the hall and flung it across the room, cracking the frame and smashing a wall sconce beyond repair. Nobody has dared to rehang it, and so I have wedged the damaged frame into the back of the guest room armoire and pasted the photograph in my book for safekeeping.

Rosemary speaks in a burst. “What are you going to do, Jennie, dear? Without Will to marry you, Mrs. Pritchett might just snap her fingers and force ”

“Hush, Rosemary!” Flora’s eyes shoot daggers at her younger sister. “I’m sure Mrs. Pritchett would never dare. Let’s speak of pleasanter things.”

I hesitate, then plunge. “Might I pay a call to your family next week?” A despairing edge grates my voice and embarrasses me, but I press on. “Say, Tuesday? I’d be so glad to steal away for a few hours.”

“Oh. Lovely.” But Rosemary gives care to her next words. “If you could arrange your carriage to arrive by half past two? For that’s when we’ll be finished with dinner.”

I am mute with mortification. Both girls know that Aunt Clara would never permit me use of the carriage for my own amusement. In the pause neither sister offers use of the Wortley coach yet of course they’d be priggishly aghast if I arrived at their doorstep, my hem muddy from walking.