But the sun was up, and she knew she must rouse herself. She stepped out of bed and pulled on her cotton wrapper. At the bedroom door she hesitated, wondering whether Tom was on the other side. She steeled herself and opened the door.The sitting room was empty. Seeing that the door to Tom’s room stood ajar, Margaret went over to it. “Tom?” she called softly.No answer.She peeked in. The room was empty, although evidence of Tom’s presence was everywhere. The bed was rumpled, and his clothes from yesterday were draped across a chair. His comb, brush, and other toilette items were scattered on the dressing table, as though they’d been used and set down in haste. He had evidently not called his valet for help.The large wardrobe stood open, now filled with Tom’s clothing. Stephens would have unpacked them last night while she and Tom were at dinner, as Bessie had done with Margaret’s clothes. She fingered one of the shirts, and ran her hands along a wool jacket. Everything was so sturdy, so strong.
