PEATE WAS NOT standing at his aunt’s bedside when Lavinia was there. The old lady lay alone in the vast room. A servant had shown Charlotte and Lavinia in, and had then left. All the windows set in their medieval Gothic arches were shut and the room was stiflingly hot. Candles burning in a branched chandelier of Venetian glass added to the warmth. Their light was reflected in several mirrors so that the room seemed overilluminated, and yet curiously dark. The darkness came from the dark red damask walls and the heavy curtains. The face of the old woman in the bed was almost the color of the candle flames, a pale yellow, in which gleamed a pair of berry-black eyes. There was a strong smell of violets, which, blended with the heat and the candle smoke, was a little sickening. “How are you this evening, Aunt Tameson?” Charlotte asked. “It’s very hot in here. Don’t you think you should have a window open?” “And be poisoned by the smell of the canals!” For all her look of frailty the old lady had a surprisingly strong voice.
