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Chapter Seven
“Emma has a theory,” Trevor said, putting the telegram in his vest pocket.
“I’m not surprised,” Rayley said. “The one thing our little troupe has never lacked for is theories.”
“Brace yourself, for this isn’t a bad one. A girl calling herself Rose Spencer was recently at a home
for unwed mothers. A rather upper class sort of place, I gather, at least as these things go, and it hides
behind the façade of a boarding school for young ladies. Then apparently she had her child and
disappeared, just as they all do.”
“And Emma thinks Rose is Dorinda’s sister?” Rayley frowned. “That is a bit of a stretch. Spencer is
hardly an uncommon last name.”
“Actually, Emma theorized that Rose and Dorinda might be the same person, but your idea has merit
as well.”
“She’s suggesting that Dorinda bore LaRusse’s child and gave it up, but then returned to Hever?”
Rayley asked, skepticism evident in his tone. “Why would a young woman do such a thing? Continue
to chase a man after he has abandoned her so cruelly? And, even if she might imagine she would still
be his paramour, why would he allow her into the walls of Hever when he has already taken up with
Anne Arborton? No, the woman I met is far too composed to have been through such an ordeal and
even the half-mad LaRusse would not…” He shook his head. “It stretches belief, Welles.”
“I suppose you are right.”
The two were walking in the fields, burrowed into their scarves and hats against the afternoon wind.
It had gotten colder each day since they had come to Hever Castle, and Trevor’s gaze fell on the bush
outside the gatehouse. A singular bloom remained, one final and especially hearty Christmas rose.
“A most unusual plant,” he said, gesturing toward it. “Beautiful, but dangerous. I should take a
cutting back to Geraldine for her garden.”
“I thought Emma tended the flower garden.”
“So she does.”
“Then you should bring Emma the rose. What are you waiting for, Welles? Even the most patient girl
must in time begin to wonder – “
But just then the door to the gatehouse opened and Anne stumbled out. It was obvious she had been
weeping and her clothing was disarranged, as if she had dressed in the darkness or in haste. Her hair
was likewise tousled and she fixed on them a wild and desperate stare that Trevor thought he had
seem somewhere before. Then he remembered: This was the exact same expression Anne’s mother
Tess had borne when she came to Geraldine’s just days ago, begging them for help.
“Are you looking for LaRusse?” the girl said, her voice hoarse from weeping. “May I assume that