have his valet hear him use. He threw the covers back and climbed out of bed in an extremely bad temper, added to by the fact that he was now also afraid.
Isadora had risen early. The hours before Reginald was up were frequently her favorites of the day. Sunrise was coming sooner with every passing week as the year strengthened. This particular morning was bright, and the sharp light fell in dazzling bars across the dining room floor. She enjoyed breakfasting alone. It was extraordinarily peaceful.
When the maid told her that Mr. Cornwallis was in the hall she was amazed, but in spite of herself, and the knowledge that if he had called at this hour it could not be for any happy reason, she felt a quickening of excitement.
“Do ask him if he will join me,” she said hastily, with less dignity than she had intended. “I mean, ask him if he would care for a cup of tea.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the maid acknowledged obediently, and a few moments later Cornwallis came in. Isadora saw the unhappiness in his face immediately. It was not the simple grief of a tragedy but the complex distress of indecision and embarrassment.
“Good morning, Mr. Cornwallis. I am afraid the Bishop is not yet down,” she said unnecessarily. “Please join me for breakfast, if you should care to? Would you like tea?”
“Good morning, Mrs. Underhill. Thank you,” he accepted, sitting opposite her, avoiding the chair at the head of the table.
She poured for him from the large silver pot, and offered milk and sugar.
“Would you like some toast as well? There is honey, marmalade or apricot preserve.”
Again he accepted, taking the toast from the rack self-consciously and spreading it with butter. He chose the apricot preserve.
“I am sorry to intrude so early in the morning,” he apologized after a moment. “I really think perhaps I should have waited. I did not wish the Bishop to hear in some other way. It would have been unfortunate.” He looked up at her quickly. He had clear, hazel eyes, extremely direct. She could imagine all sorts of expressions in them, but never evasion or deceit. But that was not something she should be thinking. After this wretched business with poor Parmenter was over, she would probably not see him again. Suddenly she felt terribly isolated, as if the sun had gone in, although in fact it was still shining across the table. Now the light was hard, lonely, revealing an emptiness.
She looked down at her plate. She no longer had any desire to finish the toast which a moment ago had seemed delicious.
“I assume that something of importance has happened,” she said, and was ashamed that her voice sounded so hoarse.
“I am afraid so,” he answered. “I—I am sorry to intrude upon you in this way, and before you have even begun your day. It was clumsy of me …”
He was embarrassed. She could hear it in his words and almost feel it for him. She forced herself to look up and smile.
“Not at all. If there is news you have to tell, this is as good an hour as any. At least there is time to think about it and to make whatever decisions are necessary. Can you tell me what has happened?”
The tension slipped away from him, in spite of the fact that he was about to discuss whatever it was that had brought him here. He sipped his tea and met her eyes steadily. Gently he told her what had happened.
She was horrified. “Oh dear! Is he badly hurt?”
“I am afraid he is dead.” He watched her anxiously. “I’m sorry. Perhaps I should not have told you until the Bishop came.” Now he looked thoroughly distressed. He half rose to his feet, as if he feared she might faint and need physical assistance. “I’m so sorry …”
“Oh, please sit down, Mr. Cornwallis,” she said hastily, although in truth she did feel a trifle shaky. It was so preposterous. “I assure you I am quite all right. Really!”
“Are you?” His face was creased with worry, his eyes bright. He remained standing awkwardly.
“Of course I am. Perhaps you do not realize how many times a bishop’s wife is called upon to face situations of bereavement? It is a far larger part of my life than I could wish, but if you cannot turn to your church in times of extremity and grief, then where is there left?”
He sat down again.
“I had not thought of that. I still