The duchess, Avery’s stepmother, sat behind them. She looked distinguished in black, though she would not need to wear it much longer, since Riverdale had been only her brother, not her husband or father. What a ghastly invention mourning clothes were. Jessica sat beside his stepmother in a dress that was refreshingly white. Her grandmother, the dowager countess, was on her other side, so swaddled in black that her face looked like a ghost’s. Lady Matilda Westcott, her eldest child, the one who had dutifully remained at home and unmarried to be a prop to her parent in old age, looked no better. Beside her was the youngest of her siblings, Mildred, Lady Molenor, with Thomas, Baron Molenor, her husband. Alexander Westcott sat in the third row, between his mother and Elizabeth, his sister.
What the devil was Brumford up to? Why was this business not being conducted privately as the countess had specifically directed? Avery was inclined even now to stride from the room to hurl the solicitor bodily out through the door, preferably without opening it first. But that woman would remain behind on her chair by the door and so would too many questions for the matter to be hushed up. Fate, it seemed, must be allowed to run its course.
He ought to have exerted himself yesterday, Avery thought, after reading Brumford’s letter.
She continued to sit alone close to the door, looking perfectly in command of herself. She had removed her cloak. It was draped over the back of her chair. She had removed the bonnet and gloves too—they were beneath her chair. Her cheap blue high-waisted dress covered her from neck to wrists to ankles. She had a slender, neat figure, Avery noticed as his eyes rested upon her, not a thin one as he had thought at first. Nevertheless, it was a figure totally unremarkable to a connoisseur of feminine figures. He had noticed when she was standing that she was on the small side of average in height. Her hair was a midbrown and looked as if it must be perfectly straight. It was scraped back from her face and twisted into a heavy knot at the back of her neck. Her hands were clasped loosely in her lap. Her feet in their sensible, unattractive shoes were set neatly side by side on the floor. The woman looked about as alluring as a doorknob.
She was remarkably calm. There was nothing bold about her demeanor, but nor was there anything shrinking. She did not keep her eyes lowered, as one might have expected. She was looking about her with what seemed to be mild interest, her eyes resting for a few moments upon each person in turn.
Her attention turned last upon him. She did not look hastily away when her eyes met his and she realized she was the object of his scrutiny. Neither did she hold his gaze. Her eyes moved over him, and he found himself wondering what she saw.
What he saw surprised him just a little. For when he withdrew his attention from all that was unappealing in her appearance—and that was almost everything—and concentrated instead upon her face, he realized that it was quite startlingly beautiful, like the Madonna in a medieval painting his mind could not immediately identify. It was neither a smiling nor an animated face. It was not set off by enticing curls or beckoning fan or peeping dimples or come-hither eyes. It was a face that simply spoke for itself. It was an oval face with regular features and those wide, steady gray eyes. That was all. There was nothing specific to account for the impression of beauty it gave.
She had finished inspecting him and was looking into his eyes again. He pocketed his snuffbox and raised both his quizzing glass and his eyebrows, but by that time she had looked unhurriedly away to watch Brumford make his self-important entrance. One of his boots was squeaking.
There was a stirring of interest from the family gathered there. The countess, though, Avery saw, looked as though she had been carved of marble.
* * *
Throughout her life Anna had cultivated one quality of character above all others, and that was dignity. She always tried to instill the importance of it in her fellow orphans too whenever they were under her care.
As an orphan one had so very little. Almost nothing at all, in fact, except life itself. Often one did not even have identity. One might know the name by which one had been christened—if one had been christened—or one might not. For everything else except life itself one was dependent upon the charity of others. It might be said, of course, that the same held true of all children, but most had families who cared for them and whose love was unconditional. They had a defined identity within that family.
It would be so very easy as an orphan to become abject and cringing, a nothing and a nobody, or else bold, demanding, and angry, asserting rights that did not exist. Anna had seen both types and could understand and sympathize with both. But she had chosen a different path for herself. She had chosen to believe that she was no better than anyone—and there were orphans who occasionally lorded it over others when they were sent gifts or were taken out for the day, for example. She had also chosen to believe that she was no worse than anyone, that she was no one’s inferior, that she belonged on this earth as surely as anyone else did.
It was an attitude and a quality of character that had never stood her in greater stead than it had today. For she had been in the clutches of terror from the moment the carriage stopped outside this grand house in its stately London square—she did not know its name—and Miss Knox, taking a firm stand on the pavement, had told her to climb the steps alone to the front door and rap the knocker. As soon as the door opened, Anna had been aware of the carriage moving off with Miss Knox inside it.
Anna had soon realized that the man who had opened the door was a servant, but it had not been apparent to her at the time. He had probably not expected her to step right inside past him without a word. It was probably not done in polite circles—and it certainly seemed she had stepped into polite circles. And then there had been the other two men in the large tiled hall in which she had found herself. One was stout and pompous looking and no more disconcerting than some of the governors of the orphanage who sometimes made an official visit and patted a few orphans on the head and laughed too heartily. The other one . . .