When Willa got back to her room, the photo was gone. She never hung up anything else.
She put on a black knit top and matching trousers that Nadine had chosen for her. They had been loose but now fit tightly, showing all her lumps and rolls.
For a moment, Willa sat on the edge of the bed. It had been months since she’d seen Nicky and the others, and she wondered if they missed her. Did they ever think about her?
She looked at her watch. It was a few minutes until four. She’d timed her arrival for afternoon tea.
Standing, she smoothed her top, tried to suck in her belly, and went down the stairs. She heard voices from the Yellow Drawing Room, and she knew they were in there. She stopped just outside the room.
“Do you think she’s going to come down or will she hide like she usually does?” Niall asked.
“She’ll be here,” Beatrice said. “But now she no longer has that vile little entourage around her. I fear that she was kicked out because she ran through the money. They—”
“Speaking of which,” Nelson said, “does anyone know about Mother’s will? Surely she left us something.”
“She had nothing that was hers,” Niall said. “It’s all in Father’s name.”
“Here’s to our very healthy father,” Nelson said in sarcasm.
Willa leaned against the wall. For all that she’d spent on feeding her friends, she hadn’t really dented her trust fund. She wasn’t into fancy cars as her brothers were. Didn’t own an apartment in London as each of them did. She didn’t buy multi-thousand-pound gowns as Beatrice did.
“Do you think she has anything left?” Niall asked.
Willa drew in her breath. She knew he was talking about her.
“I doubt it,” Beatrice said. “When I was there at that decaying Oxley Manor, her motto seemed to be ‘If you pretend to love me, I’ll give you money.’”
“Then she is surely broke,” Niall said and they all laughed.
Willa didn’t want to hear any more. She ran through the house toward the side door. She wanted to get as far from them as possible.
But she didn’t make it. Coming inside was a little boy, about seven, and his pretty, young nanny. Willa had almost forgotten that Nelson had married and produced a son.
The boy ran to a big ceramic bowl set on a marble-topped table and started to pull it off.
“Martin!” the nanny said. “You can’t play with that. It’s eighteenth century.”
“My mother says you are nothing and nobody. I don’t have to obey you.”
The look on the young woman’s face was half rage, half depression.
For a second, her eyes locked with Willa’s, and they shared identical emotions.
When the big bowl teetered on the table, the two women leaped to save it.
Angry, the boy stamped his foot and ran out of the room.
Willa and the nanny put the bowl back into place. “I better go get him,” the nanny said.
“Maybe he’ll go to the library,” Willa said. “Some of the tall shelves aren’t bolted to the wall. They could come crashing down.”
The nanny’s eyes widened in shock, then she smiled as she backed toward the door. “I’m Katrina.”
“I’m Willa the Unwanted.”
The nanny caught her breath for a moment, then laughed. “If they don’t want you, then you must be doing something right.”
There was a crash in the distance and the nanny went running.