Louisa and the Missing Heiress Read Online Free Page A

faces.
    “Louisa, you will not be marrying, I suppose?” Aunt Alfreda asked.
    “I’ve no immediate plans,” I answered quietly, hoping that would end this all too familiar portion of the teatime conversation, for young women were expected to talk of beaus and plans, but I had none and wanted none.
    “Nor you, Sylvia,” Aunt Alfreda said, turning to my friend. Sylvia turned red.
    “Weddings are frowned upon in the convent,” I answered for Sylvia, who had recently announced her decision to enter such an establishment. I tactfully changed the subject and carefully balanced my cup and saucer on my knee. “Europe. I wonder if Dottie visited the galleries of the Palazzo degli Uffizi.”
    “I understand they were not at home during the season.” Aunt Alfreda sniffed.
    Footsteps sounded just outside the parlor door.
    “Hush. Here comes the bridegroom,” Sarah said, giggling. Edith frowned.
    “He’ll probably do her in; wouldn’t be surprised,” Edgar Brownly muttered. “For the money.”
    “For the money? Dear brother-in-law, are you talking about the racing season already? How are the stables looking this year?” Preston Wortham threw open the parlor doors just in time to hear Edgar’s final words, not the first.
    “There’s a certain filly I wouldn’t bet on,” Edgar said darkly.
    “Well, you must tell me more when the ladies aren’t present. Instead we shall talk about the latest fashions, shall we?”
    Preston Wortham was a tall man of powerful build; when he entered a room it felt as if all the furnishings were suddenly tilting in his direction. He sighed, a staged sigh that would read, in the play directions, as The contented patriarch greets his womenfolk. “The entire family is here,” he said. “Well, almost. My favorite sister-in-law, little Agnes, is missing.”
    “Agnes is much too young for a tea.” Alfreda Thorney sniffed again. “And my niece, your wife, is strangely missing. What is the time?” She fussed with the little gold watch pinned to her bosom. “Four o’clock. And the invitation was for three-thirty. What can Dot be thinking of? Ten minutes is acceptable, but half an hour simply will not do.”
    “Her hat, I’m sure,” said Digby, standing close behind Preston Wortham and still holding the cake tray. “She was thinking of her hat. Her rose toile from Paris blew off this morning in the park and she went out to purchase another.”
    “Dot and her hats . . .” Mr. Wortham raised his hands palms-up and made a little smile, the kind that husbands make when they are being tolerant. “She has become quite obsessed with style.”
    “Mr. Wortham, you have said so little of your voyage,” I said with forced cheer. “Tell me, did you visit Stonehenge? Did you take a boat down the Seine?” I leaned forward, in eager readiness for tales of foreign lands.
    The terrible siblings, Sarah, Edith, and Edgar, sighed with impatience. Boston had everything a civilized person could need. Why this unfortunate need to wander? their curled lips asked. Miss Alfreda’s eyes, however, acquired that faraway look as she perhaps imagined herself lounging on a silk-draped barge, floating up the Nile.
    “All that is recommended, and more. We were busy to the point of fatigue,” Mr. Wortham replied. “Dot would see everything. For me, however, home is the place to be. Can’t get this in London or Paris.” He picked up a paper, the National Police Gazette, and waved it. “Rousing good tales of murder and mayhem!”
    “Quite,” agreed Edgar, and then cleared his throat, abashed to find himself in agreement with his host on any issue.
    In a more serious mode, Preston said, “I do apologize for my wife.” He sighed, his voice carrying a note of victory. The family might disapprove all they wish, but Dot was his. “Will you have more tea? I’m sure she will return momentarily. My wife would be so upset to learn she had missed you. My wife”—and this time the emphasis on my was heavy as