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In his own room Henry kneels at his trunk, unlocks it, takes from it the letter Julian sent him. It is crumpled, well read, folded and re-folded countless times, far more than Henry can remember since receiving it all those weeks ago, for he has memorised every line and word but needlessly he opens it, reads again the first sentence indelibly printed in his mind’s eye:

It has come to my attention that you are without position under circumstances most unfortunate. To ease such misfortune it would be my greatest pleasure to offer you the vacant post of physician in Penhelyg, Meirionydd.

Frowning, Henry closes the letter again, rubs his thumb over the wax seal, the sigil imprinted into its crimson face.

Observation. Contemplation. Interrogation.

Watch and wait.

But the time now for watching and waiting is past. Nothing has come from Francis Fielding’s advice, certainly nothing concrete enough to provide an answer to all the unanswered questions lingering still about Penhelyg like a pestilent curse. No, now is the time for action and, decided, Henry leaves the bedroom and climbs the stairs to Linette’s, knocks sharply on her door.

‘Linette? Are you there?’

Still, silence.

‘Linette!’

The door to Lady Gwen’s room opens. Henry turns, expecting to see Mrs Evans, but is surprised to find Cadoc Powell standing at the threshold instead, Merlin pushing his snout between his legs.

‘She’s out, sir.’

‘Out?’

‘Somewhere in the grounds, I suspect.’

‘And Miss Carew?’

‘With her, I believe.’

‘Can you think where they might have gone?’

Merlin looks up at the butler, wags his tail against the back of the older man’s knees, and Powell opens the door wider.

‘Take the dog,’ he says, and Henry swears for the briefest of moments that Powell smiles. ‘He will lead you.’

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Julian’s guests left at noon. Linette watched them from the small dragon window of her bedroom, half-hidden behind a curtain. She watched through a red stained-glass wing as the carriages were brought round from the stables, watched as farewells were exchanged during which Lady Anne leant a little too close into Julian’s polite embrace, the bodice of her travelling cambric straining hard against his waistcoat. Linette watched as he helped her into the Pennants’ carriage, Lord Pennant pulling his squat figure up after her, and then Mr Lambeth – clearly still foxed from whatever he imbibed after dinner – as he climbed up after him. Sir John entered his own carriage with ungainly movements, followed pertly by that hateful Dr Beddoe, but Selwyn’s wife was altogether more serene. She dipped her knees in a perfectly executed curtsey, allowed Julian to kiss and linger over her gloved hand. Then she placed it on the carriage’s doorway, turned in the direction of the house, her gaze resting on the topmost window of Linette’s bedroom. Too slow to hide, Linette met that cold gaze of Lady Selwyn’s head on. Then, as if she still thought the whole matter a joke, the lady smiled in that sardonic way of hers which Linette has grown so thoroughly to loathe, and raised her hand in a small mocking wave.

Linette could only grip the curtain so hard that it pulled free from one of its rings. The sound caused a rook to burst upward from the slate overhang with a loud discordant caw, and the shock of it broke the moment. By the time Linette looked down to the drive again, Lady Selwyn had climbed into the carriage.

Within moments, all of them had gone.

Now, lying once more on her bed, Linette pinches her eyes shut and tries to stem the ache behind them. She has not slept. Could not. All she could think of was her mother, of Julian, of Enaid’s betrayal. At one point Linette heard a soft knock on the door and Enaid’s frail voice sound through the panelled wood, but she did not have the energy to respond.

It was simply all too much.

In the space of twelve hours everything she knew – or thought she knew – about her life has changed. Until now Linette assumed her mother’s condition was hereditary, a canker present from birth; that she has been weak and fragile in both mind and body, always, but her father’s death affected her so deeply there had been no recovering from it. Now, to learn Lady Gwen has been made this way and given tinctures to keep her so under Julian’s orders, is something Linette cannot comprehend. And Enaid knew. She knew!

Linette turns over, presses her face into the pillow.

She could confront Julian, of course, ask him why he ordered her to do such a thing, but after dinner last night, what use would it be? It would simply garner more dismissals, more lies.

No, Linette would get nothing from him now.

She wonders where Henry is. When he knocked at her door earlier she was too wretched to respond. Perhaps, Linette thinks, he is with Miss Carew and the reverend.

Miss Rowena Carew. Mr Owain Dee. Did Linette not deserve to know Henry’s suspicions? Did she not have a right above them? Henry suspected long before the collapse at the mine, and evidently his qualms were confirmed the day Miss Carew came to call upon him.