Chapter 11
Dinner and an evening in stately Arradale should have been interminable, but Rosamunde found it a steadying time. Here were order and manners and convention to quench some of the unruly flames.
She, Diana, and Aunt Arradale were joined by her aunt’s companion, Mrs. Lampwick, an intelligent, self-composed woman; and Mr. Turcott, Diana’s secretary, whose devoted hobby was to research the history of this part of Yorkshire.
Conversation at table was easy, erudite, and never touched on the emotions.
Except, Rosamunde thought, that there might be some sort of connection between Mrs. Lampwick and Mr. Turcott.
It did seem, after all, that the lady had been helping the gentleman with some of his research.
Though both were cool in their manner, sometimes she caught their eyes lingering on each other for a moment, or a range of excitement and intensity in their exchanges not shown when they spoke to others.
Would she have been so attuned to it a day ago?
As the meal progressed, it turned her gloomy. What a wonderful marriage those two might have—two equals with shared enthusiasms, together in everything, and free to love. Why was that denied her?
Because at sixteen, devastated by her wounds, she had run away from life, run behind the high stone walls of Wenscote. She had made her bed, however, and must lie in it. Choices must be lived with.
But I was only sixteen!
Even so.
The older couple disappeared after dinner, supposedly to separate occupations.
Rosamunde wondered, then pushed such suspicions away.
Just because she had become a wicked wanton was no reason to doubt the honor of two respectable, middle-aged people.
If there was anything between them, they would move through the acceptable stages to the altar, not fumble and tumble among dusty family archives.
The mere idea must have made her lips twitch, for the dowager asked, “What amuses you, Rosamunde?”
They were in the drawing room, glorious with Chinese wallpaper, taking tea in tiny, delicate cups. As was her nature, Rosamunde told as much of the truth as she dared. “I wondered if there was a romance stirring between Mrs. Lampwick and Mr. Turcott.”
Aunt Arradale’s eyes twinkled. “You see it, too, do you? Yes, it is my dearest hope. Two more harmonious people cannot be imagined.”
“How lovely,” said Diana. “We must see what we can do to push them together.”
“They are old enough to manage for themselves, dear.”
“But I like to arrange lives. Left to themselves, people so often make a muddle of it!”
“Sometimes muddle is just what is needed. What you need, Diana, is a family of your own to manage.”
Diana raised her chin. “You know I will not marry.”
“Such foolishness. What use your precious independence when you are alone and bored?”
“I’m not bored. I live a very interesting life.”
“Then don’t interfere in the lives of others. Why not play for us, dear.”
Diana rose with a flurry of silken skirts. “Very well. But considering how often you have lectured me about tidiness, Mama, I think it very inconsistent of you to preach muddle. Come, Rosa. Let’s play an orderly duet.”
As they walked toward the harpsichord, Aunt Arradale’s voice pursued them.
“The difference, Diana, is that human affairs are supposed to be muddled. That’s when matters work out for the best. In a tidy world, your father would never have married me.
He’d have married the Duke of Langton’s daughter and been miserable. ”
Diana rolled her eyes at Rosamunde, then turned to look through the stack of sheet music by the instrument.
Rosamunde, however, pondered her aunt’s words.
Her own marriage was not at all muddled.
It had been a tidy solution to her problem, and had been orderly from the moment she’d left the church on Digby’s arm.
It was also lacking. She wasn’t used to thinking of it like that, but it was.
It had never occurred to her that mature lives were supposed to be anything but orderly, but if someone as clear-sighted and intelligent as Aunt Arradale thought so… .
As Diana pulled out a sheet of music and sat down, Rosamunde had to suppress a laugh.
If muddle was proper, her life at the moment was the epitome of propriety!
She sat and looked at the music, then began to pick out her part.
As she and Diana made order out of the muddle of notes and settled into the sprightly duet, she glanced out of the long windows, across the well-tended grounds, straining to see a particular window through the trees.
What was he doing? Thinking?
Her notes clashed with her cousin’s and she hastily paid attention to the music. Not about duty, she prayed as she followed the notes. Nor payment of a debt. Please let it be more than that. She knew it was. Perilously more.
The windowpane shadows darkened and lengthened as golden evening sank into red. Soon would come night.
Night, secret night.
The prime occasion of secrets, muddle, and sin.
When dimness caused the dowager to ring for candles to be lit, Rosamunde excused herself to go to bed. Diana immediately said she would go up, too. The dowager looked at them, and it was as if fifteen years had evaporated. Rosie and Dinah up to mischief again.
All she said, however, was, “Good night, my dears.” Once they were safe in a bedroom, Rosamunde said, “I’m sure she guesses. This is terrible!”
“You thought Mrs. Yockenthwait guessed. And even your mother.”
“But this is Aunt Arradale!”
Diana rolled her eyes. “Do you, too, sometimes wonder whether she has a birch tucked away?”
Rosamunde laughed, but heard it swirl toward wildness. Rubbing clammy hands on her skirts, she tried to steady her mind. The moon was slight, and though she knew the grounds well, she wanted to cross the park before full darkness settled. “I must go.”
“Yes. This is quite extraordinary, you know.”
“Of course I know!”
“I mean, watching you go, knowing what you are going to do.” A quick frown tangled her brows. “At least you’re getting to do it!”
“I got to do it on my wedding night.”
“This clearly isn’t the same. There’s something about you now.”
“Something … ?” Rosamunde looked down at herself as if it might show. “What?”
“You’ve changed. Of course, your mind is elsewhere, but you move differently. It’s a little thing, but it’s changed you.”
“Oh, I do hope not!”
Diana whirled and picked up Rosamunde’s shawl, wrapping it tenderly around her. “Ignore me. Go! I’ll make sure no one notices your absence. And don’t forget the soporific.”
Rosamunde patted her pocket, though she hated the thought of using it. “I’m not—”
She had been about to say that she wasn’t doing this out of choice, but of course that wasn’t true.
“Yes, you are!” Diana smiled. “I’m sorry, dearest. Truth is, I’m envious. I don’t suppose he’d care to move in here for a day or two.”
It was clearly a joke, but a fierce “No!” escaped Rosamunde, leaving her brutally exposed.
“Oh love,” said Diana softly, “don’t.”
Rosamunde tightened the shawl, unable to resist a check of her appearance in the long mirror.
Because it was Arradale, she was wearing one of her finer gowns, a pale pink silk, trimmed with cream lace and pearls.
It still wasn’t how she wanted to appear tonight.
It was a young girl’s dress, the style that Digby favored for her.
“It’s just a silly infatuation,” she said, turning away. “I think we women are inclined to fancy ourselves in love with the men we do this with.” She cast a quick, wry look at the frustrated Countess of Arradale. “A warning to you, if you like.”
“That if I took a lover, I might fancy myself in love? I find that hard to believe, but I’ll bear it in mind.” She hugged Rosamunde and pushed her toward the door. “Go. Enjoy it for both of us!”
Rosamunde laughed and left the room to slip rapidly through the warren of a house she knew so well.
She left by a small side door and gravel crunched beneath her feet as she followed the path that encircled the house.
Then she struck off across springy grass toward the stand of trees that screened the dower house.
Then, even through night-dark trees, she saw a glimmering light.
He’d placed a candle in his window and it shone like a beacon to guide her.
Brand had set his candle close to the window.
He’d seen his lady leave earlier, accompanied by the fat maid who’d brought his dinner. He hadn’t seen either of them return, despite almost constant vigil. It was frustratingly possible that she’d return from another direction, and ridiculous to think that she might lose her way.
It was night, though, and not long past the new moon. He hated the thought of her out alone in the dark.
He tried to be rational and concentrate on the book, but despite the interesting subject, words passed through his mind like water.
He concentrated harder. The writer had some intriguing ideas about achieving specific improvements in stock through careful breeding. It was a chancy business, however, as everyone knew from life. A strong-featured man might marry a pretty woman and have pretty sons, and heavy-faced daughters.
What sort of children would they … ?
No.
But they could have made a child.
If so, it would be counted as her husband’s. No business of his.
Easy to think, less easy to live by.
Perhaps in nine months or so he should seek her out to make sure all was well. If it was, he’d not endanger her reputation.
He muttered a curse at his own duplicity. If he found her again, he’d be back in the morass. Perhaps he should break out of here now and run. It wouldn’t be hard to escape.
Hand marking the place on the page, he tried to summon the willpower to leave. And failed. Nothing would stop him draining the unsatisfactory cup.
The book, he reminded himself.
Planned breeding programs.