12. Eight Years Earlier
12
Eight Years Earlier
Rosalind stood at the rear window of the drawing room, her eyes tracing the outline of clouds that stretched across the seemingly endless blue sky. She turned at the sound of Jonathan’s greeting.
“Dr. Ramirez,” he said as he shook the hand of the gray-haired, bearded man who had entered the room. “How is she?”
A knot formed between the doctor’s brows. “My lord, I’m afraid she isn’t faring well.”
Rosalind walked over to join the two, as did Valentina, who’d been sitting on the settee near the hearth.
The doctor hesitated. “I’m not sure these young ladies should be privy to what I have to say.”
“Just get on with it,” Jonathan urged, dismissing his concerns with a wave. “If they don’t hear it from you now, they’ll simply demand it of me after. Save me the time, will you?”
“If you insist,” Dr. Ramirez replied somewhat reluctantly. “Her health continues to decline. There is liquid in her lungs now, which is causing the shortness of breath and fatigue.”
“Is there nothing we can offer her to alleviate her troubles?” Jonathan asked. “Another tincture or imbued artifact perhaps? If you have any to recommend—any at all—I shall put in a request with one of our merchants and see if we can have something delivered from Erdesay.”
Rosalind repressed a shiver at the mere mention of merchants, knowing he was likely referring to Lord DuPont of the DuPont Trading Company. Though she hadn’t many interactions with the man himself, the same could not be said of his nephew, Marcus. The young man was relentless in his pursuit to curry favor with Jonathan. Their friendship had never quite been the same after his callous treatment of Rosalind a few years back. And while he was all kind words and warm smiles in front of Jonathan, he made certain to disparage her every chance he got, be it a nasty remark as he nudged past her, or with cruel whispers murmured amongst his peers.
Dr. Ramirez shook his head. “I’m sorry, my lord, I don’t believe the artifacts would arrive in time. But rest assured, there are two medicines I’ll have my assistant deliver tomorrow morning that will make her more comfortable.”
A hand took hold of Rosalind’s. She looked over at Valentina, who observed the doctor with glassy eyes. Hoping to offer some semblance of solace, Rosalind gently squeezed her friend’s hand.
Valentina’s voice was barely above a whisper when she spoke. “How long does she have?”
Dr. Ramirez considered for a moment. Tentatively, he said, “I cannot say for certain, my lady. It depends on how well she takes to the medicine. It’s crucial we do all we can to reduce the risk of infection and stave off any further complications.”
Movement at the corner of her eye drew Rosalind’s attention to Jonathan, who was now pacing the room. He had begun university in Denault earlier this year, forgoing an invitation to the prestigious Almorand University in the capital to remain close to home. Twice a week, he would travel two hours by carriage to visit Brighthall and check in on his grandmother. In addition to his classes, Jonathan had taken it upon himself to manage the estate. His only respite being that he had not yet assumed the chancellorship. In Jonathan’s absence and his grandmother’s ailing health, the affairs of the region were primarily overseen by the regional council .
Jonathan halted his steps and rubbed a hand over his mouth. His eyes were glazed and he appeared lost in thought. Though he remained in quiet contemplation, his inner turmoil manifested as frantic taps of his heel atop the wooden floorboards.
Hoping to alleviate his stress in some small way, Rosalind approached him. “Is there anything I can do to help? Perhaps—”
“No, Ros,” he cut in, voice tight. “There’s nothing more to be done right now.”
Along with the dark circles that had taken up residence under his eyes, Jonathan had become more irritable in recent months. Rosalind couldn’t blame him. So much responsibility weighed on his shoulders: too much for anyone, let alone a young man of only eighteen.
After a moment, Jonathan spoke again, his tone noticeably softer. “Keep Val company, will you? I don’t have time to check in on her as often as I should. She’ll say she’s fine, but…”
“I know,” Rosalind replied quietly.
Jonathan nodded his appreciation, then turned to the doctor. “Let me walk you out. I’d like to discuss any other recommendations you might have.”
He and Dr. Ramirez spoke in hushed tones as they made their way out to the carriage, waiting beyond the entryway double doors.
The next day, Rosalind was seated beside Valentina in the conservatory, pricking her finger for the umpteenth time as she attempted to refine her embroidery skills.
“Rosalind, love.”
She looked up to see Maria standing in the doorway. “Lady Rashford has asked to see you. While there, do you mind helping her take a spoonful of this tincture the doctor’s assistant just dropped off?” The housekeeper held up a small glass vial.
Caught off guard by the request, Rosalind hopped to her feet and brushed out the wrinkles of her striped blouse and high-waisted trousers. She threw a questioning look at Valentina, who gave a small shrug without lifting her head from her sketchbook. Her friend sought the comfort of drawing when she was stressed and now was without doubt a stressful time.
Rosalind took the vial from Maria and made her way upstairs. She walked to the end of the long hall and gently knocked on the door before seeing herself in.
A bitter, tangy scent filled her nose as soon as she entered the room. Her gaze flicked to the countless vials scattered about on a nearby table, and she unconsciously tightened her grip on the one in her hand. Maybe this one will work, she thought.
Glancing around the rest of the room, Rosalind was relieved to see the curtains had been opened wide to welcome in the cool breeze and warm sunshine. And there, sitting upright in the massive bed opposite the door was Lady Rashford. At the sound of Rosalind entering, the older woman looked up and smiled, patting the empty space on the bed beside her.
Rosalind greeted her with as bright a smile as she could manage. “Maria asked me to give you some of this,” she explained as she approached. Uncorking the vial, she carefully poured the molasses-like medicine onto a spoon.
Lady Rashford sighed. “Ah yes. Perhaps this one will taste bearable.”
Slowly, so as not to spill it, Rosalind brought the spoon to the dowager’s lips. A slight grimace crossed her features as she swallowed the medicine. “No,” she croaked. “Tea, please.”
Rosalind handed her the cup of tea beside the bed. “Much better,” Lady Rashford said after a few sips .
Settling herself gently onto the bed, Rosalind spoke. “You asked to see me?”
“I did, my dear. I wanted to see how you were faring.”
Though illness had weakened the older woman’s constitution, it had not diminished her keen perception. Lady Rashford’s gaze seemed to pierce the thin veil of composure Rosalind had fitted herself with upon entering the room. It felt as if her inner thoughts and feelings were now laid bare.
Still, she held on to the minuscule hope that she could persuade Lady Rashford and, if she were honest, herself, into believing she was alright. “I’m well enough, my lady,” she answered quietly.
By Lady Rashford’s knowing look, she hadn’t been very convincing. But she didn’t press, and Rosalind was thankful for it. She wanted so badly not to cry in front of her.
“I never did get you to break the habit of calling me lady,” Lady Rashford said after a time. “Stubborn in that way, you are, like the pair of them. Far less pugnacious, though, for which I’m most grateful. Who would keep the peace in this house if not for you?”
Rosalind peered down at her hands, fidgeting in her lap as if of their own accord. “It’s much quieter these days.”
“Yes, I suppose so with Jonathan off at university.” Lady Rashford was quiet for a moment. “How are they? Please,” she said in a quiet plea. “They won’t tell me anything.”
It wasn’t surprising to hear that Valentina and Jonathan had not divulged their true feelings to their grandmother. Rosalind knew from experience they preferred to keep their emotions, particularly those most vulnerable, close to their chest. And because both were charming and quick-witted, it was easy for them to deflect.
“They’re not quite themselves,” Rosalind admitted tentatively. “Valentina keeps to herself more than normal; spends most of her time drawing. ”
Lady Rashford nodded with a melancholic smile. “Yes, she has been sharing her sketches with me. Flowers and animals and sometimes even people. Says she will bring the world to me as I’m unable to leave my bed. So considerate, is she not?”
“Yes, try as she might to seem otherwise,” Rosalind replied, with a breathy laugh.
“And Jonathan?”
Rosalind chewed at the inside of her lip, considering. “Jonathan’s become rather elusive. He isn’t around very often, and when he is, he is either tending to you or to affairs of the estate. I can’t claim to know how he feels; I can only see he is tired. Exhausted, really.”
A pained expression flitted across the dowager’s face.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”
“No, dear, there’s no need to apologize,” Lady Rashford insisted as she rested a frail hand atop Rosalind’s. “I suspected as much and I appreciate your honesty. I only wish he hadn’t had to take on so much at such a young age. He should be enjoying his first year of university, not fretting over me or Brighthall. I thought…” Her voice broke. When she spoke again, the words were little more than a whisper. “I thought I had more time.”
Not knowing anything to say that could alleviate her sorrow, Rosalind shifted closer to Lady Rashford and leaned her head delicately against the older woman’s shoulder.
“Oh, sweet child, I am so grateful to have you in my life. We all are.”
Tears pricked the corners of Rosalind’s eyes. “No, my lady, it is I who must be eternally grateful.” She swallowed a sob before continuing. “You took me in, made me feel like one of your own. You’ve granted me privileges I never could have imagined, and I fear I’ll never be able to return the favor.” Rosalind curled in on herself .
“You already have, my dear. A thousand times over.” Lady Rashford didn’t elaborate. She simply sat quietly beside Rosalind, the sound of her slow breaths echoing around them. “Rosalind,” she said after a moment, “you deserve to know something. The day you arrived, and I asked Maria to have you live with us in the home instead of with her and Louis in the cottage, it was not out of the kindness of my heart. I had a motive for doing so, one that has haunted me for years.”
There was a wistfulness about her voice when Lady Rashford spoke again. “I loved my son, as did my husband, rest his soul. We disagreed about many things, but there was one thing we invariably agreed on—that our son, Arthur, deserved nothing but the very best.”
Jonathan and Valentina’s father. The siblings didn’t speak of him often; when they did, the words weren’t spoken with any particular warmth or fondness. It had surprised Rosalind at first, because she cherished every memory she had of her father and found every excuse to talk about him.
Over the years, she came to realize it was not a coldness on their part but on his. He hadn’t provided them with fond memories to hold on to like her father had. Instead, praise of the late Lord Rashford was more often than not voiced by the upper echelon of high society—those whose wealth and power flourished during his time as Chancellor.
“We coddled him from the day he was born,” she continued, “ensured he was afforded every privilege. In our view, he was next in line to serve as Chancellor, and as such, his safety and satisfaction were paramount, not only for his benefit but for the benefit of Denault’s future.
“When he succeeded my husband as Chancellor, I couldn’t have been more proud. He’d grown into such a smart, driven, and capable young man. Damn near every piece of legislation he wrote was enacted into law. There was little to no dissent from the regional council, and for good reason. High society was prospering, and people revered him for it. Even Chancellors in other regions began to follow suit.”
A dry laugh escaped the older woman. “I felt vindicated in our decision to raise him as we had done. That Arthur wanting for nothing had allowed him to focus on what was important. But that was far from the truth. And by the time I realized it, it was already too late.”
“The truth?” Rosalind asked meekly.
“Arthur had grown up with everything, and yet, it was never enough. He was never satisfied with what he had. He always wanted more and felt entitled to it. More power, more wealth, more adoration. That’s what drove him. What blinded him.”
Rosalind lifted her head from Lady Rashford’s shoulder to peer up at her. There was a faraway look in the older woman’s eyes. When the haze cleared, she spoke again.
“I didn’t want to make the same mistake twice,” Lady Rashford admitted quietly. “That said, I could not deprive my grandchildren of the privilege of their station. Then you came along, and I saw an opportunity. If Jonathan and Valentina were to have shared experiences with someone born of different circumstances, they might grow to be more compassionate and understanding. Perhaps then the sense of entitlement that ensnared my son would not have such a hold on them.
“The worst of it is, I knew full well what you would endure living amongst high society. That they would not welcome you as an equal. But I convinced myself that, by taking you in, I would be providing you with a better life than you would’ve had otherwise. Now”—her voice cracked—“I’m not so sure.”
Rosalind lowered her head and fixed her eyes on the floral embroidery of the duvet. How different would her life have been if she’d lived in the cottage with Maria and Louis? If she grew up to serve high society instead of mingling amongst them? She would likely have worked alongside Charlene and Sylvia. Perhaps she would be the one to fix Valentina’s bath and bring her tea. There would be no disparaging of her station as they would be equals, but there would still be the matter of her enchantment and the misgivings surrounding it.
“I’m so sorry, my dear Rosalind.”
The wavering words pulled Rosalind from her ruminations. In the aftermath, a quiet whistle accompanied each breath the dowager took—echoing the labored breaths of her father from years ago. The sound, distinct and unforgettable, served as a stark reminder: Lady Rashford was sick, and she wasn't going to get better.
Sadness sat thick in Rosalind’s throat. Whatever feelings the admission had stirred within her could wait. There would be plenty of time to contend with them later. Right now, she thought only of easing the older woman’s suffering in whatever way she could. And so, she posed a question she already knew the answer to.
“Do you love me?”
With slight apprehension, Lady Rashford lifted a hand to stroke Rosalind’s cheek. “Yes, my love. As if you were my own.”
Rosalind forced herself to smile through the tears that clouded her vision. “Then that’s all that matters.”