One Forbidden Evening. Jo Goodman

writes the very same.” Sherry turned the first page over and continued to read. “A shepherdess. That was her costume. Again, Aunt Georgia’s fine hand at work. Cybelline was gratified to see so many other shepherdesses present, though when Aunt Georgia learned of it she was understandably less than pleased. Apparently Aunt thought her idea a complete original.”

      Lily pressed three fingers to her lips to tamp her smile. She noticed that Sherry was smiling as well. It was not difficult for either of them to imagine Lady Rivendale being most put out to discover her original idea was so common. “Go on. What does she say about the evening? Did all go well?”

      Sherry reported all of Lily’s observations about the masque, then mused aloud, “She seems to have enjoyed the anonymity. I wonder that no one recognized her.”

      “She has rarely been about in society since Nicholas’s death. Perhaps if she had accompanied Lady Rivendale someone would have guessed her identity. Your aunt merely has to laugh, and she would make herself known to the assembly. Cybelline would be caught out for the company she keeps.”

      Sherry considered that. “You are most likely right.”

      “And then there was the costume. If Cybelline was the shepherdess from the Gainsborough hanging in your aunt’s London home, even you might have passed over her for all the flounces and furbelows.”

      “I think I would know my own sister.”

      “Do not underestimate your aunt’s design. The fact that there were so many there of a similar mode could have confused you.”

      “I would know you in any manner of costume.”

      “I think you flatter your powers of observation. I could fool you. In fact, you have forgotten that I did. On the occasion of our first meeting you mistook me for a lad.”

      “I would not make the same error again.”

      Lily did not argue the point. She indicated the letter. “Please go on. What has she to say about joining us for Christmas?”

      “I am not come to that yet. She writes that she made an unfortunate decision before the masquerade to wash her hair with henna.” Sherry’s eyes widened, and he read the passage a second time. “Henna. That is what she says. What could she have been thinking?”

      “Mayhap she did not wish to wear a powdered wig.” Lily fingered her own penny-copper hair. “Or mayhap she wished to copy my own coloring—and the disposition that accompanies it.”

      “God’s truth, I hope not.”

      Both of Lily’s eyebrows lifted. “It is just that sort of thinking that you will want to keep to yourself if you expect to find me in your bed this evening.”

      Sherry was uncertain if he was being teased or warned. He decided to tread carefully. “I only meant that your sweet temperament cannot be forced by trying to capture the rare beauty of your hair. I would have thought Cybelline would know that.”

      “Prettily said. You recover quickly from your missteps.”

      “The scoundrels’ influence.”

      Lily was certain there was some truth in that. She smiled. “Does Cybelline say how the henna worked?”

      “Since she tells us at the outset that it was an unfortunate decision, I think it is safe to say it did not work well.” He read on. “The color, she says, prompted Anna to throw porridge at her, Webb to cluck her tongue many times over, and Aunt Georgia to make unflattering comparisons to a cyprian.”

      “Oh my. It must have been ghastly.”

      “She mentions here that it was the red-orange of a popping ember.”

      “Goodness.”

      Sherry withheld comment and continued to read. “I gather the henna is coming out with repeated scrubbing, and there will be a return to her honey-colored tresses within a sennight.”

      “Then no permanent harm has been done.”

      “Apparently, that is the case.” He began the second page of Cybelline’s letter, and it was here that his frown deepened. “She is going to Penwyckham. I cannot believe it.” Looking up, he saw that Lily was not following. “Penwyckham is several days’ journey northeast of London, still south of Norfolk. It’s a village—a hamlet, actually, if that is the smaller. Aunt Georgia inherited a home there years ago. It was her aunt’s, Lady Beatrice Sharpe. Aunt Georgia never spent any significant time there, though I’ve always understood her to care for it.”

      “Care for it? How do you mean?”

      “What? Oh, I see. I was ambiguous. She cared for it in the sense of hiring people to keep it in decent repair and tend the garden. She has never, I believe, had any special affection for the house. At least she has not intimated as much to me.”

      “But why is Cybelline going there?”

      Sherry regarded his sister’s handwriting again and read on quickly. “She writes that remaining in London gives her no peace. She wishes to retire to the country and set up a house for herself and Anna. She will stay the winter there, perhaps longer. Cybelline believes Penwyckham will offer what she has not had in town: solitude.”

      “Solitude? But she is often alone there.”

      “No,” Sherry said softly, shaking his head. “She lives with Nicholas. I do not think she is ever by herself.”

      “Oh, Sherry.” Lily’s shoulders sagged. “Is there nothing we can do?”

      “I don’t think so. It seems she is set on the matter. I have never been able to persuade her to do anything different than what she will. Once turned in a particular direction, Cybelline is single-minded to a fault.”

      “Then there will be no inducement that will bring her to Granville at Christmas.”

      “Not Rosie, not the scoundrels. Certainly not you or me.”

      Lily heard something in her husband’s voice that gave her pause. How hard it was for him to accept that Cybelline did not come immediately to his side. Until her marriage, Sherry was the man his sister put before all others. She still asked for his opinion about a political interest or looked to him for guidance in matters of finance, but nothing was as it ever had been. Nicholas Caldwell had absorbed most of Sherry’s critical responsibilities when he married Cybelline, then abandoned them when he put a pistol to his head.

      “She loves us, you know,” Lily said. “Her decision to go to Penwyckham is not because she does not love us, you above all.”

      “I know.” He had to work the words past the lump in his throat. Sherry could not quite meet his wife’s eye. “God forgive me, Lily, but I find a measure of relief knowing she will not come here—and a greater measure of guilt because I am relieved. Will there ever be a time when any of us is unburdened with regret and pain and guilt?” His voice dropped to a strained whisper. “Cybelline most of all.”

      “Yes, there will be such a time.” Lily felt Sherry’s gaze shift to her. He wanted to believe what she was saying; she could sense the hopefulness of his expression. “I don’t know when, Sherry, or how it will come about, but each of us will make peace with what happened. Perhaps you and I cannot do so because Cybelline has not found it yet. I know it is what we both wish for her.”

      “Above everything.”

      “Yes, above everything. If Nicholas’s death had been in the course of an illness, an accident, mayhap even foul play, all of us would not be at the loose ends that we are now. But it was a suicide, and we both know, Sherry, while Cybelline does not, what profound consequences that has had for you.”

      Sherry laid his sister’s letter on the desktop. He stood and crossed the room to the small drinks cabinet, where he selected a decanter of whisky. “Will you take something with me?” he asked, pouring two fingers for himself. He glanced in Lily’s direction