When Maidens Mourn Read Online Free PDF

gilded table beside a grouping of silk-covered settees.
    Winthrop splashed wine into two glasses. “My wife believes the Sabbath should be a day of rest. On the seventh day, the Lord rested, and so should all of his children.”
    “Commendable,” said Sebastian. Through a long bank of tall windows he could see an angular, bony woman he recognized as Lady Winthrop standing at the edge of an old-fashioned garden of box-edged parterres filled with roses. Despite the heat, she wore a long-sleeved sprigged muslin gown made high at the neck and trimmed with only a meager band of lace. She was younger than Winthrop by some fifteen or twenty years, a second wife as plain as her husband was handsome, her eyes small and protuberant and close set, her chin receding, her head thrust forward in a way that made her look forever inquisitive.
    Or aggressive.
    She was in the process of giving directions to a cluster of gardeners equipped with wheelbarrows and shovels. As Sebastian watched, she waved her arms in extravagant gestures as she delivered her instructions. Piles of rich dark earth and stacks of brick lay nearby; the Winthrops were obviously expanding their gardens as well as their new house. Watching her, Sebastian wondered if Lady Winthrop also referred to Miss Tennyson as “Gabrielle.” Somehow, he doubted it.
    Winthrop set aside the decanter to pick up the two glasses. “At first, in her naivety, my wife actually expected the brutes to be grateful. But she soon discovered how mistaken she was. All they do is grumble about being forced to go to church services.”
    “It’s required?”
    “Of course.” Winthrop held out one of the glasses. “Religion is important to the order of society. It reconciles the lower classes to their lot in life and teaches them to respect their betters.”
    “So it does,” said Sebastian, studying the banker’s faintly smiling face as he took the wine handed him. But he was unable to decide whether Winthrop agreed with his wife or quietly mocked her. “So, tell me, do you honestly believe you’ve found King Arthur’s Camelot?” He took a sip of the wine. It was smooth and mellow and undoubtedly French.
    “Honestly?” The banker drained his own glass in two long pulls, then shook his head. “I don’t know. But the site is intriguing, don’t you agree? I mean, here we have a place long associated with the kings of England—a place whose name actually was Camelot. I’m told the word is of Celtic origin. It probably comes from ‘Camulus,’ the Celtic god of war. Of course, Miss Tennyson says—said,” he amended hastily, correcting himself, “that it could also mean ‘place of the crooked stream.’ Personally, I prefer to think it is named after the god of war.” Turning away to pour himself more wine, he raised the decanter in silent question to Sebastian.
    Sebastian shook his head. He had taken only the one sip.
    “The important thing,” said Winthrop, refreshing his own drink, “is that we know the name dates back to well before the time of William the Conqueror. The corruption of ‘Camelot’ to ‘Camlet’ is quite recent, within the last hundred years or so.”
    Sebastian studied the older man’s handsome features. His manner could only be described as affable, even likeable. But Sebastian couldn’t get past the knowledge that the previous owner of Trent Place had been forced to sell the estate to Winthrop at a steep loss—and then blown his own brains out the next day.
    Sebastian took another sip of his wine. “How did you meet Miss Tennyson?”
    “By mere chance, actually, at a lecture presented by the Society of Antiquaries. She’d been doing research on the history of CamletMoat and approached me when she learned I’d recently purchased the estate. Until then, I’d barely realized the moat existed. But the more I learned about it, the more intrigued I became.”
    “And you began the excavations—when?”
    “A month ago now. We’d hoped to begin