I didn’t see Isobel again for the rest of the morning. She wasn’t in the theater, which I found after washing the library windows, and I didn’t spot her through the French doors that led into her garden. I meandered my way back to the kitchen just in time for lunch, but neither she nor Mr. Nash showed to eat.
So I sat down with Constance, Mrs. Pan, and Kit, wondering, “Where do the Nashes eat?”
“Mr. Nash has already taken a tray in his office,” the cook replied.
I nodded and waited to hear what the rest of the family did or would do, but no one spoke again.
Just as I began to feel awkward from the brutal silence and bit into a homemade roll to combat the feeling, Constance said, “I noticed you were cleaning the windows in the library earlier.”
I lifted my eyebrows and chewed before wi
