Chapter 8 #2
In the kitchen, she studied the plain garments, confirming that they were not the style and quality expected of an aristocrat.
Perhaps despite his family, he truly was a simple man.
Her willful mind settled on that, on the fact that they might not be wildly divided by their stations, but then she forced herself to stop such folly.
Rank was the smallest obstacle in their way.
She was married.
She was seeking a child in order to save Wenscote, and she could only carry that off if no one in the world would imagine that Lady Overton might take a casual lover.
Even if those barriers fell, she was a farmer’s daughter—a gentleman farmer, but still a farmer—and Brand Malloren was the son of a marquess.
And, she reminded herself, he had no lasting interest in her. He was paying a debt and amusing himself. That was all.
She sent Millie up with the clothes.
Now, she needed to be seen out and about. She put on her cap, the one that hid the edges of her face, then went to wander in the part of the garden that ran close to the passing road.
A number of vehicles and people on foot came by. If they saw her, she greeted them. They were all people she knew, and none of them seemed at all suspicious. It was not unusual for her to spend a day or two here with Diana.
Perhaps she should suggest that Diana move into the dower house to make it even more proper. She didn’t want that, though. She didn’t think she could go through the night if Diana was sleeping in the next room.
She settled to doing some weeding until she was interrupted by Millie stumping down the garden path, muttering again about half-naked men. “He wants something to read.”
“Read?” Rosamunde echoed blankly, though it made sense. The poor man was recovered, but stuck in that room with nothing to do.
“Should I take him something from the library, milady?”
“Yes—” But then Rosamunde thought of a complication. “No! No, I’ll go and choose something for him. Thank you, Millie.”
As Rosamunde hurried to the few shelves that passed for a library in the dower house, she knew she’d just escaped another disaster. These books came from the big house and were embossed with the word “Arradale” and the family crest.
She ran through them, hoping desperately to find an unmarked stray, but of course there was none. She could cut out a front page, but she hated the thought of mutilating a book.
What now?
With sudden inspiration, she left the house and walked the half mile to Arradale itself. She entered by the kitchens and asked for Diana.
“Ridden out to inspect the hay, milady,” said the butler, who had appeared with that instinct butlers seemed to have. “The dowager is available.”
Rosamunde wished she could just ask for some recent papers, but she would have to speak to her aunt.
Round as her sister, Lady Arradale managed to carry her weight with the presence expected of a countess, and her hair by some miracle of cosmetics was still the rich brown of her youth.
“So, dear,” she said, accepting an airy kiss near her delicately powdered cheek, “rumor says that you are having a little adventure.”
“Adventure, Aunt Arradale?” Rosamunde queried as she sat on a brocade-covered chair, a jiggle of nervousness stirring deep inside.
“Mariah stopped by, and told me of your invalid. Very charitable of you, dear.”
Of course her mother would visit her sister when so close, and of course she’d tell her what was going on. But what exactly had been said? Rosamunde desperately tried to judge her aunt’s tone, but she’d always been hard to read.
“It’s rather tedious, really, Aunt,” she said in a bored tone, “but I feel I must stay at the dower house until we can send him on his way. Tomorrow, I hope.”
She’d thought she was grown up, but this business was pitching her back into childhood. Rosie and Dinah, in trouble again.
Rosamunde’s parents had always been soft-hearted and hated to punish their children, but Lord and Lady Arradale set high standards for their only child, and enforced them.
If Diana had been in trouble, it was certain that Rosamunde had been involved, too, and so everyone—including Rosie and Dinah—had agreed the penalties should be the same.
If a whipping was called for, however, it had always been Aunt Arradale who’d dispensed it.
Now Rosamunde could almost imagine her aunt calling for a birch!
But that jerked her memory to the New Commonwealth and their harsh way with children. Even under Aunt Arradale’s firm hand, punishment had never been severe. Just enough to make them truly sorry for whatever they’d done wrong.
“Problems?” her aunt asked perceptively, and Rosamunde gathered her wits.
“Not really, Aunt. Well, there’s Sir Digby.” Rosamunde leaped into an innocent subject eagerly. “I wish he would eat and drink more moderately. The way his color rises, the way he wheezes when climbing the stairs, it does worry me.”
“With reason. The earl was in a similar state, and it took him from us.”
Rosamunde had forgotten, and was sorry for stirring sad memories.
“And,” said her aunt, “when Sir Digby dies, his heir is an adherent of this new extreme sect, I understand.”
“Edward Overton, yes. It is a worry.”
“You should get with child, dear,” said her aunt blandly.
Rosamunde, feeling hot all over, had never dreamed of speaking of marital matters with her august aunt. “We are trying. Digby and I….” It was true, after a sense.
“It’s fortunate that men are not like women, and seem able to procreate in their older years. How fortunate he is to be married to a healthy young woman.” She inclined her head with a very slight smile. “To you, dear.”
Was that royal approval? This was the most extraordinary conversation of Rosamunde’s life.
She moved bluntly on to the purpose of her visit. “My invalid would like to read a newspaper, Aunt. I came to ask if I could borrow yours.”
“Of course, dear.” Lady Arradale rang the golden bell by her hand, and when a footman responded, sent him on the errand.
“So,” she asked, “who is he?”
Rosamunde steeled herself to lie. “He doesn’t seem to remember yet.”
“From?” asked her aunt.
“He doesn’t know that either.”
“And a victim of drink.” Her brow furrowed a little. “Perhaps he prefers not to give his identity. Be careful, Rosamunde.”
“He does claim not to drink much as a rule, Aunt Arradale.”
“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?”
It amused Rosamunde how all the older women were so skeptical about men.
Shrewd eyes assessed her. “Have a care, my dear. Rogues and rascals are often charming, which makes them all the more dangerous, especially if they are handsome, which I gather this one is. If you wish, you may send him here for the night.”
Rosamunde was saved by the footman returning with a small pile of papers on a silver platter.
Aunt Arradale waved them over, and Rosamunde snatched them, standing. “Thank you, Aunt. It hardly seems worth moving him, and Diana’s going to help return him to civilization tomorrow.”
“Is she? Too much to hope that she’d leave such an unusual situation alone. However, since you know neither his name nor his direction, where, pray, are you going to return him to?”
Oh Lord. “Thirsk. He seems to think he comes from there, so we hope he’ll be recognized.”
“And if he isn’t?”
“Then I’ll leave him there with some money. I can hardly keep him here, Aunt Arradale!”
“I do hope that the two of you are acting according to your age and dignity.”
“Of course, Aunt!” Rosamunde exclaimed, definite visions of the birch swirling. But then an idea stirred. “Perhaps,” she said, thinking it out as she spoke, “I should move here for the night. It does concern me a little, being there with him now he has recovered consciousness.”
Aunt Arradale nodded with obvious approval. “Very sensible. You can never be too careful about reputation, and it will be pleasant to have your company for dinner.”
Rosamunde hadn’t quite intended that, but the words had the aura of a royal command, so she had to agree. She gave her thanks and good-byes and threaded her way back out of the grand house, turning things over in her head.
Yes, she thought, emerging into sunshine on the sweeping terrace that led down to the east lawns, it was the right thing to do. If news of his presence leaked out, the fact that he’d been vilely ill the night before, and she’d slept elsewhere tonight, would help deflect suspicions.
Why, she wondered, did people assume that nighttime was the only dangerous time?
She hurried across velvet lawns and through the carefully managed wilderness, happy to be seen by a number of gardeners, but strangely unsettled by her visit to the big house.
Why?
Pausing on an ornamental wooden bridge, she watched the racing water, pondering.
She’d known and accepted the style at Arradale all her life—in fact, as a child she’d used its grand staircases and marbled halls as a place to play.
She’d never pined to live that way, preferring the simpler ways of her childhood home and Wenscote.
So why did it disturb her now?
Ah. Because Arradale was Brand Malloren’s accustomed style of living. Or something even grander. It emphasized the gulf between them.
She shook her head at the way her foolish mind kept taking that path. The gulf was as wide as an ocean, formed by dishonesty, the pressures of her cause, and the absolute fact that she was married.
And that they were strangers, she reminded herself, walking on briskly, heels rapping on the wooden planks, then turning silent on the leaf-mold path.
Brand Malloren had a gift of seeming familiar, but this time yesterday she hadn’t even known the man.
She was crazily building a romantic fancy over a disreputable stranger.
What was worse, both Diana and Aunt Arradale might have guessed it.
Bad enough to be known as adulterous, even in a noble cause. Intolerable to be thought stupid!
She stopped by the old oak near the Hawes road, struck by another thought.
Why had he not told her he was Lord Brand Malloren? Why had he kept some of his identity hidden? Probably—why had she not thought of it earlier?—his simple clothes were a disguise. So, what had Lord Brand Malloren been up to that led to him ending up unconscious and in danger of death?
She doubtless didn’t want to know. After all, the son of a marquess could be many other things—a highwayman, a smuggler, a felon running from the law.
She was in danger of being bowled over by a charming rogue. She must not let herself start to trust him. She was doubtless being a fool to trust him as much as she did. A wise woman would have nothing more to do with him.
Rosamunde, however, wasn’t wise enough for that.
She plucked a buttercup by the path and spun it so it shone in the sun as she considered how to sneak back into the dower house after dinner to enjoy a seductive tryst.