“No, not entirely.”
Quincy paused, his hand suspended as he reached for a strawberry. “Not entirely what?”
“Not entirely empty.”
“But who could possibly have been living there?”
“There was a young woman who took up residence after the property changed hands,” Lady Tesh said, her focus on her biscuit, which she was feeding crumb by crumb to Freya. “She kept to herself—an easy thing, Swallowhill being quite secluded from most of the Isle. Though as I recall, Clara and Phoebe’s mother befriended her. Unfortunately, the woman died quite young.” She frowned, a bit of biscuit suspended in the air, which Freya was trying valiantly to reach. “What was that girl’s name? Wanda? Wisteria?”
“Willa,” Clara whispered.
Her face heated as all eyes turned her way. She hadn’t meant to say a thing, hoping the subject would eventually drop. But her great-aunt’s attempts to remember the woman’s name had dislodged the memory, and it had escaped unbidden from her lips.
“What was that?” Aunt Olivia demanded.
Clara cleared her throat. “Willa. Miss Willa Brandon.”
Her great-aunt blinked. “Why yes, I do believe you’re right. But how in the world did you know that?”
“My mother used to bring me along with her on her visits.”
“But I don’t understand,” Quincy said. “If my father owned the property, what was a Miss Brandon doing there?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Aunt Olivia answered primly.
“Oh, I’m sure you have a theory,” Peter drawled.
She gave both Clara and Phoebe pointed looks before glaring at her nephew. “Regardless, it’s not for mixed company.”
Which meant it was scandalous. Which meant she believed Miss Willa Brandon had been the duke’s mistress.
No, that didn’t seem right at all. Clara remembered the young woman’s stark black wardrobe and constant air of muted grief. She had looked more like a widow than anything else.
“I see,” Quincy said, his voice flat.
Without thinking, Clara slipped her hand in his and squeezed. It seemed to snap him out of whatever dark thoughts had taken hold of him. He looked at her with a bright smile.
“But regardless of its history, I’m glad to have it now.” He turned to Peter. “I assume you know of a good house agent?” At Peter’s scoff he grinned. “Of course you do. Whatever was I thinking?”
“Shall I take you there tomorrow?”
“That would be brilliant. The sooner I can unload the place the sooner I can save the dukedom with the proceeds. Though perhaps I’d best take a look at the property first.”
Clara bit her lip as he laughed. There was something too bright in it. She knew that he had the greatest regard for his father. No doubt the idea of the man possibly having a mistress pained him. She knew if she ever learned the same thing of her own beloved father, it would destroy her.
“Clara, will you join us?”
Quincy’s voice in her ear startled her. “Join you?”
He gave her a small, amused smile, making her wonder how long he’d been trying to get her attention. “On our trip to Swallowhill tomorrow. It’s been decided that we’ll leave immediately after breakfast.”
She nearly recoiled. Plastering a smile on her face, she gently extricated her fingers from his and reached for her teacup, praying her hand didn’t tremble. “Oh, I don’t think so. The wedding preparations—”
“Can wait a few hours while you take some much-needed air,” Aunt Olivia cut in, spearing her with a stern glare. “You’ve done little else over the past sennight. I’m beginning to think there will be nothing within your head at the end of this month other than bits of lace and a few crumbs of cake.”
Much of the fault in that lay with Aunt Olivia and her constant nagging, of course. But Clara would never say such a thing aloud.
“You need an outing,” her great-aunt continued, a note of finality in her voice. “And this is just the thing.”