Once Sunday morning evolved into Sunday afternoon, the weekend ended quickly. Mary lolled in bed while Meg packed.
She closed the armoire door and walked to the middle of the room, and looked around. “This room is so lovely. The colours, the pinks and whites, are so pleasing in the bright daylight, even with this headache.”
“Mr Carstairs had it decorated for me when I was little. I stayed the night in this room when my parents worked at a dinner or a weekend house party.”
“He decorated it for you? Mr Carstairs never married? I thought maybe it belonged to his wife or daughter,” said Meg, snapping shut her suitcase.
Mary propped herself against the light pink upholstered headboard and studied Meg. “He’s never married, not that I know of. I suppose I’m used to the way this room looks—I’v
