“What the hell,” Will muttered. The woman was swathed in about an acre of dark green fabric, and on her head was a hat the approximate size and shape of a punch bowl, apparently consisting of feathers dyed the same unlikely shade of green as her gown, or cloak, or whatever that sort of getup was called.
Will’s first thought was that Martin had found some rich woman to hire Friars’ Gate and neglected to tell Will about it. He knew Martin had written to his solicitor some weeks ago. But in that case, surely the new tenant would confine herself to correspondence with the solicitor, rather than squeezing her elaborate chaise down a cramped country lane and calling at a tiny cottage. Whoever and whatever she was, she didn’t belong here. As if to prove him wrong, Martin came up beside him, and Will was forced to remember the fact he had been trying to shove from his mind all these months—Martin didn’t belong here any more than this stranger with her elaborate hat did.
“Oh no,” Martin muttered.
“Martin?” the woman said. “Well, you aren’t dead. That’s something, I daresay.”
“Aunt Bermondsey,” Martin said faintly.
“This is your aunt?” Will said. “This is your aunt?” The way Martin talked about her, Will had imagined a dragon of a grand dame, at least sixty, with gray hair and a certain amount of gravitas. This lady was not much older than they were, although it was difficult to tell with her face shadowed by the brim of that hat. She was willowy and unmistakably fashionable. When she tilted her chin up to get a look at her nephew, he could see that her mouth was set in a familiar wry twist.
“Lady Bermondsey,” Martin said, “this is William Sedgwick.”
Will managed a small bow, and she flicked a glance at him as if surprised to have been introduced to a servant.
“How did you manage to find me?” Martin went on. “In my letter I only told you that I was well.”
“And that you were in need of stagecoach fare,” she said, dropping her voice as if loath to be overheard speaking of such common things.
“Stagecoach fare?” Will repeated. Both Martin and his aunt ignored him.
“Some weeks ago, your solicitor kindly informed me that you had requested his aid in finding someone to let Friars’ Gate. He mentioned that you were staying in one of the outbuildings.” She spoke as if Martin had been living in a root cellar or milking shed, and Will had the mad urge to defend their cottage against her insults.
“I specifically requested that he not divulge my whereabouts,” Martin said. His face was a mask of bored passivity that Will realized he hadn’t seen in a while.
“Well, then, I suppose you can number your lawyer among those who don’t wish to see you die in poverty. Not a bad quality in a solicitor,” Lady Bermondsey observed. “In any event, I didn’t seek you out immediately. I waited to hear from you. You may congratulate me on my restraint when we’re back in town. You didn’t think I’d actually let you take the stagecoach, darling. If we leave now we can be back in London before dusk.”
“Thank you for your solicitude, ma’am, but I’m not prepared to leave quite yet.” Martin’s hands were clenched into fists by his sides. “As I said in my letter, I have business in town at the end of April.”
Will’s mind reeled. That business in town was Will’s play. “I thought we were traveling up together. If you had wanted to go earlier, I would have given you the money for the fare.”
Martin didn’t look at him. Lady Bermondsey, however, lifted a lorgnette to her eyes and peered at him closely. “Nephew, have you been living entirely on the charity of this man?”
“No!” Will said. Martin said nothing. “It’s his house,” Will added feebly.
“Mr. Sedgwick and I grew up together and he kindly looked after me during my last illness. I hesitated to trouble him for any further expense. That is all.”
“To trouble me—” Will shook his head. “The money from the play is sitting there on the chimneypiece and I’ve told you to help yourself.” And Martin had even done so a few times to do the marketing. Perhaps he hadn’t wanted to take a sum as large as the stagecoach fare. Or perhaps he hadn’t wanted Will to pay for Martin to leave. That latter explanation sent a chill down Will’s spine. Had Martin