Chapter Three
Rosalie
Rosalie grimaces as she swallows the last of her cup. She’s never gotten used to the waters. The light smell of sulphureous
rotten eggs gets her every time.
“Manage your expression, dearest,” Mother whispers, pressing Rosalie’s elbow into her side.
Rosalie smooths her face, gratefully depositing her cup onto the tray of a passing attendant. It’s crowded in the Pump Room
today, and the attendants seem to pop up every few minutes to keep things orderly.
Not that Rosalie and her mother ever frequent the bright, airy Pump Room at any time other than its busiest. Eleven each morning,
they’re here to sign the book, take their waters, and walk up and down the creaking wooden floorboards. Mother recounts gossip
while Rosalie people-watches, or stares out the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows at the abbey churchyard below, pretending
to listen to Mother’s prattle.
It’s dreary out today, like it is most days in March. There’s a steady drizzle, and while it’s nice to be warm and inside,
the room is crowded. The mended cuff on her blue pelisse is a little tight, and with Mother holding her arm in a death grip,
it’s pinching her wrist.
“He’ll be here any minute,” Mother says, her voice soothing.
Let Mother think she’s worried about Mr. Dean being late for their arranged indoor promenade.
It’s a little mortifying that Mother’s still overseeing her courtship so intently.
A year of courting in, Rosalie and Mr. Dean ought to be able to manage their outings themselves with servants for chaperones.
Then again, Rosalie might forget to arrange an outing for weeks without Mother’s prompting, and Miss Wrigsby has much better
things to do than choke down pump water with her every morning on the off chance Mr. Dean might show.
“I’ve arranged for the linens, and Mr. Brook is digging out our finest stemware for this weekend,” Mother continues, diving
into another recounting of all the preparations they’ve discussed six times already for the concert at the end of the week.
Mother’s rather obsessing over it. Rosalie usually couldn’t care less, but she’s been making plans of her own. The seating
has to be perfect: Henrietta, Mr. Rile, Amalie, and Mr. Fortes in between Miss Pine and Mr. Dean. For her mother’s nerves,
Rosalie’s going to ensure that Miss Pine has no further opportunities to speak with Mr. Dean, let alone secure any of his
time or dances.
Further, and far more importantly, she has to keep Miss Pine away from Mr. Rile and Mr. Fortes. She worries about Mr. Rile.
Henrietta is sweet, and delightful, and a perfect match, but Miss Pine is clever.
She talked rings around Henrietta without even trying at last week’s ball; got all kinds of information out of her as if it
was nothing. Rosalie knows she should have sent Amalie in instead, but Henrietta volunteered. She wanted to repay Rosalie
for getting Mr. Rile to dance with her, and how could Rosalie refuse?
Now she’s had to invite Miss Pine to her concert.
She can’t be left to her own devices, not when she’s clearly so bright and observant.
Rosalie needs to pick a suitor, set them up, and see Miss Pine sorted in short order.
Someone perfect, appropriate, and bound to take her far away.
Rosalie’s worked with much worse and made excellent matches.
Miss Pine, with all her allure, and wit, and entrancing eyes, should be no trouble at all.
There’s a thump near the entrance and Rosalie looks over to see Miss Pine and Mrs. Pine struggling to hold up a thin, unsteady
man with gray hair. It’s as if she conjured them.
Miss Pine is valiantly trying support the man Rosalie assumes is her father. He’s clearly saying he’s fine, but Miss Pine
still leads him over to a bench at the side of the large white entrance doors. Miss Pine says something to Mrs. Pine, and
Mrs. Pine turns, wiping her hands nervously on her gray pelisse before heading for the logbook.
Mr. Pine leans lightly against Miss Pine, who’s pointing out the window and talking as if nothing is wrong. Her lighter gray
pelisse only highlights her brown hair and eyes. She can see Miss Pine’s tight grip on her father’s arm from here. Rosalie
feels a sudden surge of genuine concern, wanting to walk over and help distract Mr. Pine.
Surely Rosalie could do more to help than the three glasses of waters Mrs. Pine brings over to the two of them. Sulphureous
vapors hardly seem like a proper cure for whatever makes a man lean on his daughter like that.
She glances at her mother, an absurd urge to ask to go sit with them on the tip of her tongue, but Mother is already looking
at her, her gaze sharp. Rosalie forces a smile and turns them to walk toward the back of the room, away from the Pines.
“We don’t put ourselves out for those who cannot help us in return,” her father used to say when she was small. “It’s not
what we do.”
It’s a phrase that’s never sat overly well with Rosalie. How can you know who could help you in return when they’re in need? And isn’t there value in helping those who cannot help you or themselves?
Rosalie shakes herself. She’ll help Miss Pine by finding her a proper suitor. Perhaps find her someone with wealth and acumen
enough to help Mr. Pine as well. And if it takes her out of the courting pool at the same time, well, no one ever said charity
can’t also be self-serving.
She needs someone pleasant, kind, and inoffensive, with money, and a need for marriage. Rosalie casts about the room, searching
for viable candidates. They’re all rather interchangeable.
Ah, there’s Mr. Sholle. Son of a baron, taller than Miss Pine, with a charming smile—he’ll do nicely.
Rosalie starts to guide her mother across the room to where Mr. Sholle and his friend are leaning against one of the columns
talking. She just needs a good excuse to interrupt them and bring Mr. Sholle over to introduce him to Miss Pine.
“Miss Pine, how lovely to see you again.” Mr. Dean’s booming voice echoes around the room. Rosalie winces.
Mother’s hold on Rosalie’s arm goes tight again. Mr. Dean has stalled at the entrance to the room to talk to Miss Pine and
Mrs. Pine, and get an introduction to her father, instead of coming further in to meet Rosalie and her mother for their prearranged
outing.
“Go interrupt,” Mother hisses.
She starts pushing Rosalie across the floor, as if she can just walk straight up and say, “That’s my suitor, get your own!”
Rosalie pulls Mother to a halt and Mother’s lips go thin. “Trust me,” she says, squeezing her mother’s arm before gently yanking
her own away.
Rosalie composes herself and walks across the room toward Mr. Sholle. Mr. Sholle and his companion see her coming and tip their hats. Rosalie curtsies, giving both her best smile.
“Mr. Sholle, so good to see you,” she says, her voice dripping honey.
He stands up a little bit straighter, as does his friend. “Lady Rosalie, so good to see you. To what do we owe the pleasure?”
Rosalie glances at his friend, letting her smile fall just slightly.
“Ah, Sholle, I’ll see you later in the week at the club, must be going now,” he says, offering Rosalie a quick nod before
ducking away and striding out of the room.
Mr. Sholle doesn’t look surprised.
“I’d like you to meet a friend of mine,” Rosalie says, taking Mr. Sholle’s arm and turning to walk sedately toward the entrance.
“I don’t think you had the opportunity at the dress ball last week.”
“I didn’t,” Mr. Sholle says, seeming to notice Miss Pine and her family for the first time. His back goes straight and his
smile grows. “Very thoughtful of you, Lady Rosalie.”
“I’m sure you and Mr. Dean have things to discuss as well,” Rosalie adds, sweetening the deal as they near the group.
“Yes, I need to ask about the hunting trip in a month,” Mr. Sholle says.
There’s always something for the men to discuss. She can count on that.
Miss Pine looks up at them as they approach, her head tilting. Mr. Dean doesn’t even notice, too engrossed in whatever he’s
saying to Mr. Pine. Mrs. Pine stares at them, her look bordering on a full-out glare.
But Rosalie’s never cowered from an unhappy mama before. She’s not about to start now.
“Mrs. Pine, Miss Pine, may I introduce my friend, Mr. Sholle,” she says, smiling brightly at both women.
Mrs. Pine dips in a curtsy with a sour look on her face while Miss Pine inclines her head. “Papa,” she says softly, cutting
through whatever Mr. Dean was saying.
“Oh, hello,” Mr. Pine says, his narrow face splitting in a charming smile that puts both Mr. Dean’s and Mr. Sholle’s to shame.
So that’s where Miss Pine gets her sparkle.
“Mr. Pine, Mrs. Pine, Miss Pine, a pleasure to meet you,” Mr. Sholle says quickly. “Lady Rosalie has been singing your praises.”
So he can lie to charm, can he? That’s useful.
Mrs. Pine and Miss Pine both look at her, surprised, and Rosalie smiles brightly. “I thought he should meet our new lovely
society members. And Mr. Dean, you know Mr. Sholle,” she adds as Mr. Dean finally looks up at them.
He blinks, as if just realizing they’re all standing there. God, he can be oblivious.
“Yes,” Mr. Dean says. “Been meaning to find you about the hunt, actually. You must come as well, Mr. Pine.”
Mr. Pine’s eyes crinkle. “That sounds marvelous, though I’m not sure my joints will allow me. But tell me of your plans.”
Mr. Sholle leaves Rosalie and squishes in next to Mr. Dean, both of them intent on Mr. Pine again. Would that these boys were
ever so intent on ladies as they are on talk of hunting.
Miss Pine stands, allowing Mr. Pine and the boys to scooch down the bench more comfortably. Mrs. Pine rolls her eyes and Miss Pine
shrugs, making Rosalie think of her own mother. She glances back and finds her white-knuckling the windowsill halfway across
the room, watching them shrewdly.