Chapter 3
She had asked.
I remembered badly.
That was worse than not remembering at all.
Six months earlier, Isabetta stood in my study and said:
“Will this house ever become ours?”
I kissed her forehead and answered:
“It already is.”
Beautiful.
Useless.
She meant Rosamund’s clothes still occupied a locked dressing room.
Rosamund’s favorite flowers dominated formal dinners.
Rosamund’s oldest maid still corrected how Isabetta arranged the breakfast table.
Rosamund’s photograph remained beside mine in the family sitting room.
I thought acceptance meant letting Isabetta enter without forcing Rosamund out.
Isabetta experienced it differently.
She entered a marriage where the first wife could never make another mistake.
Dead women are difficult competition.
They stop changing.
Their worst days soften.
Their best ones become doctrine.
I had not understood that.
Still—
I held up the photograph of Maribel kissing Sebastian.
“This is your answer?”
“No.”
Isabetta wiped her eyes.
“This was desperation.”
“Desperation with lighting equipment.”
Her face tightened.
Fair.
Then I turned to Maribel.
“How much?”
She looked ashamed.
“Twenty thousand.”
“For how many photographs?”
“Twelve.”
“Who gave you Rosamund’s appearance?”
Isabetta answered.
“Me.”
Not enough.
Hair style.
Lip color.
Pearl placement.
Wedding posture.
Details from photographs.
Someone had studied Rosamund carefully.
Too carefully.
Then Maribel said:
“There was supposed to be a letter too.”
I turned.
“What letter?”
Isabetta went pale.
There.
Not jealousy alone.
The photographs were only half the plan.
Maribel explained.
After the engagement reception, an envelope would appear among items “discovered” in the locked bedroom.
Inside:
A copied letter from Rosamund to Sebastian.
Romantic.
Apologetic.
Suggesting she nearly left me before our wedding.
My jaw hardened.
“You forged her handwriting?”
Isabetta whispered:
“I had samples.”
“Where?”
No answer.
Then Celandine spoke from the doorway.
“The desk.”
I looked at her.
“Which desk?”
“Mrs. Hawthorne’s old writing desk.”
Someone had opened it.
That desk had remained locked since Rosamund died.
Only two keys existed.
Mine—
and one Rosamund gave to her younger brother.
May you like
I still had mine.
Which meant someone else had brought the second key back into my house.
