her own. And do you know, my lady,” Emmie added, waving to the box, “I think she might. If only her life had not been taken from her.”
It was odd, Griz reflected. Surely a girl involved in so many political meetings would at least have let some inkling of her views drop to those closest to her? Unless she was still searching for a view that made sense to her, as Dragan suggested. But even so, would she not have bounced ideas off her friends? Those same friends she had dropped hints to about marrying a gentleman, whom she had told the secret of her pregnancy.
“Emmie, did she still talk about Jack Payne?” Griz asked suddenly.
“Not really,” Emmie said uncomfortably. “I think she’d left him far behind, which is a shame because he seemed a good man who’d have been kind to her.” Emmie shifted from one foot to the other. “He came here, my lady. On Friday, looking for her. Someone might have mentioned the foreign gentleman who was arrested. The one who was here. He might have misunderstood.”
“He did,” Griz said severely. “I’ve already spoken to Mrs. MacKenna, so you might have heard this before, but I don’t want gossip and speculation about poor Nancy. Think of her parents. And Jack, who I think truly loved her. He nearly got himself in a lot of trouble.”
“Yes, my lady. Sorry, my lady.”
“You may go,” Griz told her. “Thanks for helping me.”
Emmie scuttled off, leaving Griz alone in the room. She had been disappointed not to have come across any letters which might have given some clue as to the identity of Nancy’s lover. Surely there would have been something, arranging meetings and assignations, and surely a romantically inclined girl would have saved such things? But there had been nothing at all, not even letters from her parents. And Griz was sure she had received some of those. Did she just throw them out once she had read them?
On impulse, Griz lifted the pillow, felt inside the case, which had not yet been changed. Then she stood and felt under the mattress. She even went as far as pulling the bed out from the wall in order to reach under the other side, but she found nothing.
Letting the mattress fall back onto the bed, she stared out of the little window under the eaves, then let her eyes drop below, where narrow, painted wooden planks lined the wall. One to the right seemed scratched, as though the bed frame had rubbed against it. And yet the marks were below that level?
She knelt on the floor, pulling scissors from the pocket of her gown, and inserted them between the planks, just where the scratches were. The panel pried away easily and clattered onto the floor.
Griz slid her hand inside and in no time had grasped something, a packet of paper. She pulled it free. It was indeed a little bundle of letters tied with a scrap of ribbon. She stared at them blindly for a moment, then slipped them into her pocket with the scissors and replaced the plank. She shoved the bed back against the wall and left the room.
Descending from the attic, she made her way to her more comfortable bedchamber. Privacy, clearly, had been important to Nancy. She had kept things from her closest friends, like where she spent her time and her letters. Perhaps it was her way of preserving her sense of self among people she was forced to live so closely with. Much as Griz, the youngest of a large and forceful family, had found her own way to hide and still be herself with her own much-valued independence.
She dropped Nancy’s letters on her bed. It seemed rude and invasive to read them. Perhaps she should give them to the police. But she had already been selective with the truth she had given Inspector Harris. She should know first what she was giving him.
Sinking on to the bed, she untied the packet. Yes, there were letters from her parents. She put them aside, unread, and turned to the others. One was from Jack Payne, pleading with her to respond and reciting a list of local news in awkward language. She skimmed it and put it hurriedly with the parental letters. Otherwise, there were only a couple of short notes inviting her to tea—one was signed M. Cordell—and a few scraps of paper with addresses written on them. She doubted the latter were in Nancy’s writing.