She crossed to her bed and lifted the photograph of A.B. that she kept on her nightstand. It shamed her to recall that she hadn't loved him when they'd married. For all these years, she'd kept the real reason why she had married him a secret. Yet over the years, her respect for him had slowly transformed into affection, then love. Had she told him lately that she loved him? Had she said those words when they were in Newport? Before he returned to New York? It pained Sylvia that she couldn't remember. How had she allowed days or weeks or even months to pass without saying those precious words?
Sylvia had struggled all day not to give in to the pain and loss she felt, not to let her daughters or the servants or anyone else see her weeping. Jealous rivals had nicknamed her the Ice Queen because of her pale beauty and fair hair, her cool, aloof demeanor. She had perfected that icy role because experience had taught her that it was better to stay distant and cold than to be vulnerable and risk pain. But grief now raged like a fire inside her, thawing the ice. Tonight, Sylvia Grace Stanhope's heart was breaking. She covered her face as a tide of painful memories welled up. She allowed them, at last, to overflow in tears.
CHAPTER TWO
SEPTEMBER 1898
JUNIETTA
Junietta stared at the wrinkled, gray-haired stranger in the mirror, barely recognizing her. In her mind, she didn't resemble that elderly woman but was the same woman she'd been at fifty, even forty years old, able to accomplish anything she put her mind to. It was her traitorous body that was the problem. She heard a soft knock on her bedroom door, and one of the servants entered. "Madame Stanhope, your family's lawyers have arrived. They're waiting in Mr. Stanhope's study."
"Thank you, Hattie. You're a dear."
She made her way carefully down the endless marble stairs so she wouldn't arrive out of breath. Her ankles were not too swollen today. And her heart was behaving itself, keeping a slow rhythmic pace, which was surprising, considering the heartbreaking wound it had suffered. She could hear the somber mumble of men's voices from outside the study and entered to greet the two lawyers. Mr. Wilson, the older one, wore outdated muttonchop whiskers and tiny spectacles. He was seated behind the desk, shuffling through a stack of papers, but he rose and bowed slightly to greet her.
"Good afternoon, Madame Stanhope. Please accept my condolences, once again, on your terrible loss." He gestured to the other lawyer, a much younger man with wide shoulders and thick ebony hair, who was busily arranging chairs in front of the desk for Junietta, Sylvia, and Adelaide. "This is my colleague, Howard Forsythe."
Junietta knew precisely who he was but pretended not to. "How do you do, Mr. Forsythe?"
"I'm honored to meet you, Madame Stanhope." She detected a smile in his blue eyes as he greeted her, and his friendliness pleased her. Lawyers were usually dour, and the reading of A.B.'s will certainly called for solemnity, but it pleased her that young Howard Forsythe didn't take himself too seriously.
Adelaide arrived next, and Junietta's heart swelled with love for her youngest granddaughter. The poor dear looked so detached, so austere, and she wondered what had happened to the gentle girl who would come into her bedroom suite asking a thousand questions. Junietta had neglected her these past few years, becoming so busy with her own work that she'd allowed Adelaide to slip away. Junietta had to remedy that. She wouldn't let her become like all the other Stanhopes.
"Put my chair closer to that window," she directed, brandishing her cane. Young Mr. Forsythe hurried to obey. "And kindly open those curtains and raise the sash to let in some air and sunlight. I told my late husband countless times that this room was too dark and gloomy, but he never cared much for my opinion. Well, it's clear that I was right and he was dead wrong, don't you agree, young man?" She smiled at Mr. Forsythe, who had managed to pull back the maroon velvet curtains, emitting a beam of dusty sunshine. He smiled in return before seeming to catch himself.
"It would seem so, Madame Stanhope," he replied in a properly somber tone. He turned back to the window, straining to open it, tugging almost comically until it finally inched open with a ragged scrape. Warm air drifted into the stuffy room, smelling faintly of fallen leaves. Mr. Forsythe smoothed his waistcoat back into place and wiped his brow.
"Thank you, dear boy." She patted his arm, then took her seat. "Of course, if you have dark, nefarious business to conduct, then I suppose you need a grim-looking lair in which to conduct it."
Mr. Wilson looked up sharply from his papers, shocked perhaps by the word nefarious. Shocking people with her bluntness was nothing new for Junietta. She'd spent her lifetime doing it. But judging by Mr. Forsythe's barely suppressed smile, he found her humorous.
