Chapter Two
Landry Hall
Kempston, near Bedford
Bedfordshire, England
The Honorable Miss Rose Landry, oldest daughter and second child to the Viscount of Rolston, frowned as she peered out the drawing room window.
“Why does it have to rain again?”
Perhaps she was being a touch dramatic, for this was the first day of rain in a bit.
However, the precipitation kept her from practicing archery, which she adored.
In fact, she’d won several local competitions, under the guise of being someone else, of course, but still, it had been nice to receive the accolades.
But today, because of the rain, she was stuck inside embroidering, not that she minded such a pastime, but it required a different sort of concentration than archery.
And it wasn’t as exciting as listening to the whiz of an arrow or the thwack! of the tip hitting a straw-filled target.
After a regretful sigh, Rose returned to the low sofa and took up her embroidery once more.
The pillow slip she was working on would eventually become a peacock with a tail on full display, and already the varying shades of greens and blues were beautiful.
Would she use it for her own bed or would she put it on one of the guest beds?
She didn’t know. There was every possibility she would give it to one of the servants.
Usually, ladies such as her would add it to a trunk to take with her to the house she would one day oversee once she married, but that would never happen.
Keeping busy helped to pass the time since she’d been banished to the country property from London.
While the whole of her family was no doubt enjoying the Season and her sisters were meeting eligible men or making connections, she was here, with nothing much to fill the time, embroidering everything that could possibly be enhanced with a bit of needlework.
And why? Where was the purpose in any of that? What was the point of being ordered here indefinitely?
As she stewed, Rose fell more deeply into her thoughts; it was something of a habit these days.
What she’d done in her past might reflect poorly on her two sisters and damage their own marriage prospects, so clearly her parents decided out of sight was definitely out of mind.
No doubt they hoped the gossips of the beau monde would forget all about her and that indiscretion.
So her sisters could make their matches, and her brother could gad about society unscathed.
Men have it so easy. If they were caught in scandal, they endured perhaps a slap on the hand while the woman bore the brunt of gossip, of being shunned, of being tossed from the public eye.
In and out, up and down she drew the needle through the fabric.
The long thread of green was a stark contrast against the white pillow slip.
She’d had a handful of Seasons filled with much potential.
In her second one, she was hailed a Diamond of the First Water, the perfect English rose—which had been a play on her name—and with her strawberries and cream complexion and blonde hair, men had lined up in order to ask her to dance.
But she enjoyed herself far too much and didn’t wish to settle into marriage so soon.
It wasn’t until her fifth Season that a man turned her head.
In fact, he’d turned her world upside down.
So much so, that when the earl, who was only a handful of years older than her, whisked her off to an unused room at a ball three years, she went willingly.
In her naiveté, she’d honestly thought he wished to ask for her hand.
Instead, he’d seduced her and they’d shared the greatest intimacy, where she’d been an enthusiastic participant.
The earl was handsome and charming, and his form was quite easy on the eyes.
After that, she waited for the inevitable question, the joyous rush that would undoubtably follow the proposal, the knowledge that she would be a countess and that her parents would be pleased with the match.
Except, none of that came. He thanked her for lying with him. When she questioned him about an engagement, he’d laughed at her, said he wasn’t marriage minded, and even if he was, he’d been engaged since he was a boy to a woman his parents had chosen.
But he hoped they could remain friends… or occasional bedmates.
She’d been livid and embarrassed, so she’d said nothing in reply, more from shock than anything else.
The earl had left her there, alone and violated, and at the time, she thought that was the end of their association.
Except, a few months later, after an illness, it was discovered that she was increasing, made pregnant from that one little indiscretion.
To say that her parents had been angry was an understatement.
Unmarried and late in her twenty-third year of life was an embarrassment on many levels according to them.
When they asked who had put her in that situation, she refused to name the earl.
Firstly, she didn’t want a forced marriage between them, for he’d made it clear he didn’t want her past sex, and secondly, she had a feeling he wouldn’t be true to her if she were his wife.
And thirdly, she suffered from extreme sickness because of the pregnancy, and she didn’t care about much of life during that time.
So when her parents banished her from London to Landry Hall, she didn’t protest. All she wanted at that point was time alone to marvel over her pregnancy and to get ready to welcome her baby.
The memories of that time had a maudlin cocoon falling over her, and she stopped her embroidery work as she continued through them.
It was now almost two years since she’d given birth, and Rose had often thought about that infant, wondered what became of it, for after she’d woken from the trials of labor, she been told that she’d nearly hemorrhaged to death, and that it had taken a bit to stop the bleeding.
When she’d finally moved out of the danger of dying, her mother said everything had been taken care of, and that all was well at the manor.
Of course, she’d questioned that, had asked to see her baby, but her mother didn’t answer either request. Desperate after a day, she’d finally asked the housekeeper about what had happened after she’d birthed the child. How come she couldn’t see her baby?
That dear woman was more honest than her own mother.
Apparently, her parents had agreed that the baby would be taken away.
It was her father who’d taken the boy—she’d had a son!
—and promised it to a couple in London who couldn’t have a baby of their own.
Her father had written the couple about Rose’s scandal, informed them when she had begun her confinement period, and that was that.
After the birth, the couple had sent a contingent of servants to retrieve the infant, packed up in a willow bassinette and swaddled with a cotton blanket that Rose herself had embroidered bluebirds on the corners.
She had managed to drag herself out of bed and watched from her window that overlooked the curved drive as her baby was put into a carriage and taken away from her as pain wracked her body.
And then it was over. She hadn’t been allowed to see the boy or even hold him. They had stolen the right to cuddle with him or even breathe in the scent of him; she hadn’t been allowed to name him! Unfortunately, she had been a mother all of a few moments before the darkness had claimed her again.
She’d never had a say in any of it.
A period of depression had followed, where she didn’t care about anything.
To friends and other family members, her parents said Rose was ill and in poor health, that her lungs were fragile and required the clean air of the country in order to get better and be strong again.
That was the reason to explain her absence from society.
They said it could be many months to a couple of years before she’d be able to return to London.
In the bitter portion of her brain, she wondered if her parents would welcome her back to the London townhouse and proclaim her “cured” of her “illness” and then drag her to events as if nothing had happened.
Everything had been perfectly wrapped up into a neat little package so her family could return to their lives without guilt, while Rose had been left alone with no child and no reputation and no prospects.
No doubt she would forever mourn that loss as well as the betrayals on multiple fronts.
In the two years since she’d had her baby, her parents more or less pretended she didn’t exist. She wasted away here in the country, waiting for a life that would never find her.
How could it? At least she’d had fun before it all stopped.
She’d gone from being a Diamond and a hoyden to becoming a tired, untrusting, bored spinster, but most of the time, she felt as if she were her grandmother’s age, for she was so far on the shelf no one would ever look at her again.
Perhaps that was the payment for what she’d done.
What will it take to help me return to the hoyden I used to be? Or can I even be her again? After all, her life hadn’t ended, had it?
Later that evening
Rose had just finished dinner when one of the footmen entered the morning room—since it was only her, she disliked using the dining room, which seemed cold and far too formal—with an expression of alarm mixed with excitement.
“What is it, John?” she asked as she folded her linen napkin and set it beside her empty plate. “Is all well?”
“I’m not sure, miss.” He shoved a hand through his straw-colored hair. “One of the stable hands came into the kitchen and told us that he found a man unconscious in the barn.”
“What?” Excitement twisted down her spine. Such things didn’t happen. “Why is he unconscious?”
“I couldn’t say, miss, but what should we do? I told the housekeeper not to do anything until I talked with you.”