Dorchester Terrace by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online Page B

people might call,” Vespasiasuggested. “Someone who understands sufficiently to interrupt any conversation that might veer toward the confidential.”
    “Do such people exist?” Serafina asked dubiously.
    “They must,” Vespasia said, although she had only just thought of it. “What happens to people who have been in high positions in the government or the diplomatic service, or even the judiciary, and know things that would be disastrous if spoken of to the wrong person? They too can become old and ill—or, for that matter, drink too much!”
    Again Serafina laughed. It was a light, happy sound, an echo of who she used to be.
    “You make me feel so much better,” she said sincerely. “I am growing old disgracefully, shabbily in a way, and becoming a liability to those I loved and who trusted me. But at least I am not alone. If you are not too busy doing great things, please come and see me again.”
    “I shall come with pleasure,” Vespasia replied. “Even if I should be fortunate enough to have some great thing to do—which I doubt.” She rose to her feet. “Now I must see Miss Freemarsh, and Tucker, if I can. Then I will look for a nurse with intelligence and discretion.”
    “Thank you,” Serafina replied, her voice for an instant husky with gratitude, and perhaps relief.
    Vespasia left the room and went farther along the corridor, hoping to find Tucker. She could remember her as a young woman, just starting out in Serafina’s service when they were all in Italy, when Vespasia herself was not yet twenty. She had seen her again briefly, maybe a dozen times over the years, but would she recognize her now? She must be greatly changed.
    There was a young laundry maid with a pile of freshly ironed sheets coming toward her.
    “Excuse me, will you tell me where I might find Miss Tucker?” Vespasia asked.
    The maid dropped a half-curtsy. “Yes, m’lady. She’ll be downstairs. Can I fetch ’er for yer?”
    “Yes, please. Tell her that Lady Vespasia Cumming-Gould would like to speak to her.”
    Tucker appeared within a few moments, walking stiffly but withhead held high along the passageway from some stairs at the farther end. Vespasia knew her without hesitation. Her face was wrinkled and pale, her hair quite white, but she still had the same high cheekbones, and wide blue eyes, which were a little hollow around the sockets.
    “Good morning, Tucker,” Vespasia said quietly. “I am grateful that you came so quickly. How are you?”
    “I am quite well, thank you, m’lady,” Tucker replied. It was the only answer she had ever given to such a question, even when she had been ill or injured. “I hope you are well yourself, ma’am?”
    “Yes, thank you.”
    The ritual civilities observed, Vespasia moved on to the subject that concerned them both. “I see that Mrs. Montserrat is not well, and am very anxious that she should not cause any ill feeling by her possible lapses of memory.” She saw instantly in Tucker’s face that she understood precisely what Vespasia meant. They were two old women, an earl’s daughter and a maid, standing in a silent corridor with more shared memories and common understanding than either of them had with most other people in the world. And yet it was unthinkable, especially to Tucker, that the convention of rank should ever be broken between them.
    “It might be advisable if you were to remain in the room as often as you may, whether Mrs. Montserrat thinks to ask you or not. Even if you do no more than assure her that she said nothing indiscreet, it would comfort her a great deal.”
    Tucker inclined her head very slightly. “Yes, m’lady. I’ll do my best. Miss Freemarsh …” She changed her mind and did not say whatever it was she had been about to.
    “Thank you.” Vespasia knew she had no need to add more. “It is nice to see you again, Tucker. Good day.”
    “Good day, m’lady.”
    Vespasia turned and went to the main staircase.
    “It was kind of you