7. Chapter 7
CHAPTER 7
S leep eluded Alice. She sat upright in her bed in the darkest hours of the morning, listening to the silence of Fairfax Hall. Her chambers adjoined her mother’s, connected by a door that Miss Eastridge had wisely locked the moment they’d returned from the ball, pressing the key into Alice’s trembling hands before setting about preparing her charge for bed. Their maid’s intervention had likely saved Alice from the full force of her mother’s wrath, though she suspected the reprieve was temporary at best.
Mercifully, Mrs. Montrose had not attempted to force entry, allowing Alice a few precious hours of peace. She had kept down some water and fallen into a fitful sleep, only to wake when the moon was highest in the sky, her mind refusing to grant her further rest.
Unable to bear the confines of her bed any longer, Alice crossed to the windows, drawing back the heavy curtains. Her room overlooked the grand gardens, with their expertly manicured hedge maze stretching out beneath her window. Beyond the grounds lay a small lake, its surface dark and still. Between copses of trees in the distance, she spotted a flickering light and a wisp of smoke rising from a chimney. The Violet Cottage perhaps, where Captain Lacey had taken up residence? The very thought of him—of his knowing smirk as she’d made a complete fool of herself—sent her hands flying to the curtains, yanking them shut.
She turned to face her chamber, allowing her eyes to adjust to the darkness. It was an elegant room, every surface decorated in the floral motif that seemed to thread through all of Fairfax Hall. The wallpaper displayed delicate rose patterns; the furniture was carved with trailing vines, even the bedposts twisted upward like growing stems. Crossing to the fireplace, she stoked the dying embers and added a fresh log, then wrapped herself in a thick robe before sinking into a high-backed chair.
As the flames grew stronger, she allowed her mind to replay the events of the evening. The dark thoughts she usually fought so hard to suppress now had free rein, and she sank deeper into despair with each passing hour.
Time passed slowly, the light changing behind the heavy curtains. The sounds of the house stirring to life pushed through her dark thoughts—the footsteps of servants, soft murmurs in the corridors. Then came three sharp, decisive raps against the connecting door to her mother’s chamber.
Panic seized her chest. She had to face her mother eventually—it might as well be now.
Alice blinked away from the flames, her vision spotted from staring too long into the fire. She rose from her chair, swaying slightly as her empty stomach reminded her she still hadn’t eaten in nearly two days. Steadying herself against the chair back, she heard another impatient knock.
“I’ll be right there,” she called, her voice rough.
The key turned heavily in the lock. The moment the door opened, Mrs. Montrose swept in like an avenging angel, Miss Eastridge trailing in her wake with a worried expression. Her mother, already fully dressed for the day, barely spared Alice a glance as she crossed to the bell-pull. Miss Eastridge hurried to throw open the curtains, flooding the room with harsh morning light that made Alice wince.
“Dress her,” Mrs. Montrose ordered bluntly, and their maid jumped to obey.
The silence grew unbearable until Alice could stand it no longer.
“Say something, Mama,” she whispered. “Anything.”
The words ignited something within her mother, who whirled to face her with blazing eyes.
“What would you have me say?” Mrs. Montrose’s voice cracked with fury. “What would you have me do? You have ruined us completely. We are in tatters, and now we must leave with our tails between our legs like beaten dogs.”
“Leave?”
“Of course we are leaving. As soon as we can procure a driver. I shall immediately make the request of Lord and Lady Fairfax myself, along with our sincerest apologies for the spectacle you created.”
“S-should I join you?”
Her mother barked out a laugh.
“After all you have done? You will stay in this room and hide your face in shame until we can make our escape from this place.”
Alice stared at the floor, feeling numb.
“I am so sorry, Mama. I know I have failed you, failed our family. It is all my fault.”
The words seemed to drain the rage from her mother. Mrs. Montrose crossed the room and gathered Alice close, allowing her daughter’s head to rest upon her shoulder. Alice knew she ought to cry—knew a few well-placed tears might help restore her mother’s favor—but she felt hollow, emptied of all emotion since the previous night’s disaster. She remained still as her mother’s fingers combed through her hair.
“Oh, my baby.” Mrs. Montrose’s voice softened. “Perhaps I share part of the blame. It was all too much, too soon. I demanded more than your delicate spirit could bear.”
Alice remained silent, afraid any word might rekindle her mother’s ire.
“We will return home and find you a match more suited to your constitution. I expected too much. Too much.”
The duke’s shocked face flashed through her mind, his pristine cravat spattered with wine. The thought of never seeing him again felt like a door slamming shut in her face forever.
After several moments of gentle comfort and whispered assurances, her mother stepped back, wiping away her own tears. Alice kept her gaze lowered, using her apparent shame to hide her lack of emotion. The ploy seemed to work.
“Poor thing,” Mrs. Montrose murmured before exiting the room, leaving Miss Eastridge to prepare Alice for their journey home.
She avoided her reflection as her maid dressed her, staring at nothing while Miss Eastridge pulled her stays uncomfortably tight, each tug leaving her more breathless than the last.
A knock at the door interrupted their packing. Alice expected her mother’s return, but to her surprise, a small procession of servants entered, each bearing bouquets larger than Alice’s torso. They placed their vases on every available surface while she and Miss Eastridge watched in stunned silence.
The butler stepped forward, presenting a silver tray.
“Miss Alice Montrose?”
“Yes?”
“You have a message.”
Alice lifted the missive, aware that none of the servants showed any sign of departing to grant her privacy.
“Read,” the butler instructed, “and all will be clear.”
The note was brief, written in an elegant hand:
Some flowers bloom and wither in but a day.
Others require careful pruning so that they might grow into their full magnificence.
Your pruning shall begin presently.
The letter was signed—not with a name, but with the careful illustration of a rose.
It did not, in fact, make anything clearer, as the butler had claimed. Rather, she was more confused than ever.
“The Dowager Countess of Fairfax requests your immediate presence.”
“But my mother?—”
“I have strict orders that she is not to follow. You must come alone.”
Alice turned helplessly to Miss Eastridge, who stepped forward to grasp Alice’s forearm.
“Do as he says,” the maid whispered. “I will deal with your mother while you’re gone.”
“Thank you.”
Only then did Alice truly notice the type of flowers that filled her room—dozens of roses of the palest pink, their petals perfectly arranged. She drew a steadying breath and nodded to the butler, who motioned for her to follow. As the servants fell into step behind her, Alice wondered exactly what the dowager had in store for her.