stays. “No, ma’am, his grandmother.”
The news came as a shock. “You speak of Charlotte Drake? Charlotte Drake died a month before her grandson?”
An abrupt cough drew Juliet’s attention to the dressing room door. Mrs Barbary stood watching them with her hawk-like gaze.
“Take Mrs Drake’s wet garments to the laundry, Tilly,” the housekeeper snapped. “I shall assist her into the tub.”
Tilly stood frigid for a few seconds, but then scooped up Juliet’s clothes and hurried from the room. Juliet shivered, too. One glacial stare from Mrs Barbary and it was as if a winter chill breezed in through the window to freeze the blood in her veins.
Mrs Barbary took a silk robe from the armoire and draped it around Juliet’s shoulders. “You should direct any personal questions about the family to me. The maids are prone to gossip and bouts of exaggeration. As mistress of Blackwater, you must not let them think you ignorant else they will ride roughshod over you every chance they get.”
While she was in no doubt that Mrs Barbary meant well, her tone lacked the warmth needed to put Juliet at ease. And although she felt the urge to chastise the servant for forcing her opinion, the heat of shame flooded her cheeks. She was the daughter of an actress, not a lady of the ton. She knew how to work with servants not command them.
A hushed conversation from the bedchamber drew Mrs Barbary from the dressing room.
Tears prickled Juliet’s eyes.
Oh, it was ridiculous that she should let the woman affect her mood.
Mrs Barbary barked instructions at the footmen, and their retreating steps preceded the click of the bedchamber door.
“Your bath is drawn, ma’am,” Mrs Barbary called.
Juliet sucked in a breath, straightened her shoulders and exited the dressing room. “Thank you, Mrs Barbary, you may leave me. I wish to bathe alone.”
The housekeeper’s face remained expressionless. “Then I shall stoke the fire before I do.”
Juliet slipped out of the robe, the silk garment pooling to the floor. Her numb fingers stung a little as she dipped them into the hot water. The same would be true for her limbs, and so she took her time, slowly immersing herself into the steamy depths.
Questions bombarded her mind—the persistent voice eager for answers.
“When you said the mistress read her letters on the bench by the brook, were you referring to Mr Drake’s mother or his grandmother?” Juliet spoke with an air of authority and would demand a reply if necessary.
As an unmarried man, Ambrose Drake would surely have sought his grandmother’s assistance—a lady familiar with Blackwater—in the running of such a large house.
Mrs Barbary straightened. She returned the poker to its fireside stand and turned to face Juliet. “I spoke of his grandmother.”
“Of Charlotte Drake?”
“Indeed.”
“And these were her apartments?”
Mrs Barbary gave a curt nod. “The lady returned to live at Blackwater when her daughter-in-law died.”
“And how did Charlotte Drake die?” From old age, no doubt, for the lady must have been in her dotage.
“Mrs Drake passed peacefully in her sleep.” Mrs Barbary glanced at the large poster bed. A brief flash of pain marred her haggard features. She dabbed her finger to the corner of her eye, perhaps for effect. “I found her cold in her bed.”
Another icy shiver ran the length of Juliet’s spine. The warm water did little to keep the chill at bay. Was that why she had the sense someone lingered in the shadows? Watching. Waiting. For what she did not know.
Ambrose Drake had ended his betrothal less than a month before he died. Had grief over his grandmother’s death persuaded him of the unsuitability of the match?
It could not be a coincidence.
“Had she been ill?” Juliet pressed the housekeeper for more information.
“Not ill. Just tired and weary the last few weeks and so kept to her bed. But that’s to be expected for someone of her declining years.”