how. There’s no boy . . .
An image flashes. August in the dining room, his eyes glowing with pride as he talks of his son. I give a convulsive shiver.
Please do not let that be the answer.
I could check. Pop over to William’s side after he’s gone, slip into the passageway and see whether the body is there. If it isn’t, then it could be August’s son, due to perish in a few years, and I can make sure that never happens.
I’ll investigate that this afternoon once both William and Mrs. Shaw are gone. For now, I set the boy aside to focus on Rosalind. She is the woman in the moors. I’m sure she is.
Is she also the woman in black?
Another image flashes. Another hidden face. The woman in the shroud.
Is that also Rosalind? I’d been sure the woman in the moors was the same as the one in the shroud, and it does still fit. The strong-willed woman William described could easily be the angry ghost I encountered, frustrated at my inability to understand and help her.
If is it Rosalind, though, then there is one more question I must ask William.
30
We’d agreed that I’d return at eight for breakfast, and I arrive twenty minutes early to find William in the barn. That gives me time to sneak in with my basket of food. I narrowly avoid discovery as he comes charging into the house to change for breakfast. He stops in the entry and inhales, as if catching the scent of food, but after a quick “Bronwyn?” he dashes up the stairs, and Pandora comes in to watch me set the table, accepting scraps of honeyed ham and bacon.
I’ve cooked a full “American” breakfast. Bacon, ham, eggs, pancakes, hash browns and toast, bringing it all in an insulated bag. I also brought proper coffee, plus orange juice.
The juice proves to be the highlight of the meal along with the maple syrup for the pancakes. He tears through the food with such appetite that I almost wonder whether I brought enough. When I comment, he only remarks that he needs to get rid of it all before Mrs. Shaw returns.
We’re nearing the end of the meal when I lift my empty fork, hoping I look as if a thought just struck me. “Speaking of Mrs. Shaw, I was thinking yesterday that I seem to recall another employee of yours. Or perhaps a day laborer? I only remember that he was rather fearsome.”
William’s brows lift.
I describe the man with the spade, fudging the age by saying that he looked old to me, but of course, when we’re young, anyone over forty seems elderly. I barely finish my rehearsed description when William nods and cuts a slice of ham. “That would be Harold. I don’t believe I ever thought of him as fearsome, but I suppose he could seem a dour sort.”
“Harold?”
“Our head groom. Mrs. Shaw’s husband.”
My gut twists.
“Are you sure?” I say as lightly as I can. “I thought I’d have remembered if she had a husband.”
I describe the man in more detail.
William nods. “That was certainly him. He tended to fade into the background beside his wife, content for her to speak while he tended to his chores. He was an excellent groom. I’m not fond of sharing my stable, but Harold is sorely missed.”
“Is he . . . retired?”
“He passed a year ago. That’s when I suggested Mrs. Shaw move to the village. Harold liked to be near his stables, but I knew she’d enjoy the company of her grandchildren more.”
Harold Shaw died last year. Meaning he was still alive when Rosalind disappeared.
I return to find an email from Freya, inviting me to come down at any time, and we’ll visit the library together. At one o’clock, I’m in the parlor of her picture-perfect cottage. It’s tiny, maybe a quarter the size of Thorne Manor, and guilt stabs me at first, thinking of myself knocking around in that huge house, having it all to myself. But one glance around Del and Freya’s cottage tells me that the size is a choice. It’s impeccably refinished and furnished, suggesting no lack of retirement funds.
This cottage tells the story of a couple happy to live in each other’s pockets, and that turns the guilt to envy. I could have this with William. We’d pursue our own interests outside the home, yet when we were there, we’d be happiest in close proximity, doing our own thing, like reading together last night.
I can