The woman she had seen on her first day here was standing halfway to the breakfast table, her dark eyes glued to Lucy’s features. She was heavily pregnant, the protrusion emphasised by the currently fashionable high waistline, and looked even grosser than when Lucy had seen her on the stairs. Her hair was largely concealed beneath a turban style cap that did nothing for the shape of her face, just now swollen with the added weight of her condition. But what was visible matched Lucy’s own colouring. All at once, a memory crashed into Lucy’s mind: Mrs Ankerville, commenting on the similarities of feature so obvious that she took Lucy and this stranger for sisters. The shock took her breath away, and she was unable to utter a word, which most unfortunately allowed Lady Sarclet to get in first. ‘So she is still with you.’ Predictably, Dion rose to the bait. ‘Of course she is. Surely Corisande told you we went only to fetch Lucy’s trunks?’ Lady Sarclet came to the table, still fixing Lucy with an unloving eye.
