Chapter 17
Rosamunde finally arrived at her home late the next day. She ached with forbidden loss, but also with joy to be back at Wenscote, back in safety, back where her role and duty were clear. The sight of the clustered village, and the solid stone fortified house brought tears to her eyes.
The high wall dated back to the days of the Scottish raiders, and had been one of the things she’d loved about Wenscote when she married.
It had shielded her. Behind it, she had worked in the gardens out of sight of the world.
The wall was her friend. Even without her special feelings for it, it was not forbidding, for it was softened by waves of ivy, soapwort, and phlox, and the iron gates always stood open in welcome.
As the coach turned through them and stopped, she sat still for a moment, savoring the music of Wenscote—the Ure flowing swiftly by, chuckling over rocks; the soft cooing from the dovecote; the hum of bees; and birdsong and crow-croak.
All this was sweetly misted by perfume of lavender, honeysuckle, and rose. All spoke to her of security and home.
Digby came to the door, beaming his delight, and she dashed out of the coach and ran over, laughing, into his arms.
Sir Digby Overton was a big, hearty man and his arms enveloped her. “Ah, Rosie, I’ve missed you sorely and that’s the truth. Welcome home.”
She smiled up at him, but had to force the smile to stay when she saw his high color. And he was wheezing just from the effort of coming out to greet her.
All Edward’s doing, she had no doubt.
“Come in,” she said, linking arms with him. “I’m dying for a cup of tea, and I want to tell you all my adventures!”
He chuckled, and pinched her cheek. “Gallivanting in Harrogate, eh, pet?”
There was a question in his eyes—a shamefaced, not-to-be-spoken question that she answered with a smile. She wasn’t sure she could tell him directly what she had done. She hoped he’d guess it had happened. And approve.
She poured his tea just as he liked it, and passed it to him, then sipped her own. “Ah, that is so good. I’ve traveled hard today to get home. I hope you didn’t mind my staying at Arradale for a few days?”
“Not a bit of it, pet. So, tell me about the masquerade. It’s past time you had such fun. Exciting, was it?”
“Immensely.” Rosamunde grasped her courage and nodded firmly for him. Only then did she realize that he’d assume it had happened at the masquerade. Better so.
He closed his eyes, and to her horror, tears leaked. She leaped to her feet. “Digby … !”
He opened his eyes and waved her back. “I’m fine, love, fine. Very fine.” He pulled out his handkerchief and dabbed at his flushed cheeks. “Oh, Rosie. Such a brave girl you are. Such a good, true wife.”
Rosamunde had to swallow tears then. He meant it, and it soothed her conscience and her soul. If only she could tell him the whole truth—how it had really happened, how she’d felt, how she’d loved. It wouldn’t be fair to put that burden on him. It was hers to bear alone.
“There were hundreds at the masquerade,” she said with determined good cheer, “and the costumes were truly marvelous. Knights, pirates, nymphs, monsters. And the masks! You should have seen them, Digby. Animal faces. Birds. Hawks and eagles, even. Some made me shudder, and it was completely impossible to guess who anyone was!” She chattered on, falling eagerly into truth, and also giving him what he wanted to hear.
He smiled and nodded. “You must go to such things again, Rosie, now you’ve come around to it. It’s no good you being stuck here all the time.”
“I like being stuck here. But perhaps we can both go about more. I know you’ve often stayed home because I didn’t like to meet strangers.”
“I’m content at Wenscote, too, pet. Especially these days. Did you see your family at Arradale?”
“Mother and Sukey. And Aunt Arradale, of course. She sends her regards….” News of her dinner there, including the promising romance between Mr. Turcott and Mrs. Lampwick, passed a bit more time.
Rosamunde began to feel the effort however.
Surely it hadn’t been so hard to find things to say, before… .
Then she knew what she was contrasting this with.
She firmly closed that door, and concentrated on her husband. Oh, please God, let there be a child. It will be the child of his heart, and will be so loved and wanted.
And of Brand’s body.
A little bit of Brand.
She closed the door again. Locked it. Barred it.
“Widows ought to marry,” Digby was saying of Mrs. Lampwick. “Not right to be alone. Especially young widows.”
Rosamunde just smiled. “Widows with children have enough to fill a life.” It was a promise of sorts, and one she meant, though not one she wanted to have to fulfill. She desperately wanted to have Digby with her for decades.
It was a reminder, however, that even if Digby died, Brand Malloren had no place in her life. Her life was quiet, isolated Wenscote. His was in grand estates, court, and nobility.
Stop it, Rosa!
Forget him.
To change the subject, she said, “I understand Edward came here with another Cotterite while I was away. I wish you wouldn’t let him bother you.”
Digby sighed and shook his head. “He’s my heir, Rosie. Now, at least. And we’re far enough from other resting places. I can hardly turn him and a companion from the door as the light’s going, can I?”
“Doubtless why he turns up as the light’s going.”
“Aye, you have the right of that. I grant, it does fair fret me to see him in that stupid getup, mincing and praying at every little thing, making a to-do about eating plain food. Pulling a face at the sight of drink or a maid’s full bosom.
” He winked. “I told Polly to ease down her shift another inch and to be particularly particular in her attentions to him.”
“Digby!” Rosamunde burst out laughing. “You wicked man!” Polly was a house maid with the most generous of endowments, made more so by a tiny waist. She was not a wicked girl, but she had no reluctance to flaunt her pride and glory.
Digby chuckled, too, dabbing his eyes again. “I swear to you, pet, he turned purple at one point! Mind you, to give him credit, George Cotter didn’t turn a hair.”
Rosamunde stopped laughing. “Who?”
“Aye, pet. Edward’s companion was none other than George Cotter himself, start of all the trouble. And Edward making a damn fool of himself, as if he had the King by his side.”
“George Cotter!” With sick certainty, Rosamunde asked, “An ordinary-looking man in rather threadworn clothes?”
“That hardly singles him out, love, though I know what you mean. I was surprised by him. Do you mean you’ve met?”
Rosamunde suddenly felt icy. “He passed by the dower house while I was taking the air. He didn’t give his name, but he did say that he was staying here with Edward for the night. I would have rushed home if they hadn’t been leaving the next morning.”
George Cotter. She tried desperately to remember what she had said in that idle chat, whether she might have raised suspicions.
“Aye, well, I’ll not deny Edward upset me as usual, but Cotter was no trouble. Truth is, he seemed a reasonable man, and his honest talk about God and justice strikes home in any rational mind.” After a moment, he added, “Dangerous, that.”
“Very.”
“Clever, too,” Digby added. “Very clever.”
Rosamunde heard the question in his words, a question echoing her own concerns. “We just shared commonplace courtesies.”
He nodded. “And where’ve you been since then, pet? Your note said you were off to Richmond with Diana.”
More lies. “You don’t mind, do you? Diana had some errands there. One of them was to visit a friend of hers who used to be in the theater. We discussed face paint.”
“Aye?”
“This lady showed me ways to cover my scars so they aren’t so noticeable. Diana thinks I should do that when I want to go abroad.”
“She might be right, love. Not that I think you need to cover up anything, of course,” he gallantly lied. She noted that he was sitting to her good side as usual. “But I know it frets you, and you can’t spend the rest of your life hiding up here.”
“I feel so strange all painted up. Not like me at all.”
“Well, you’ll have to put on the paint and let me be the judge, eh?”
Rosamunde ran her finger down the long scar. “I will, then. In truth, Digby, I do feel a little less afraid of showing myself after this adventure. Everyone has been right all along, that my scars aren’t so bad. George Cotter acted as if there was nothing wrong with me at all.”
“Good of him,” said Digby, gruffly. “As I said, in his own way, he’s a good man. Come, give me a kiss, love, and then I’ll take a nap. Knowing you, you’ll want to be off checking everything. Hera dropped her foal while you were away.”
“What?” Rosamunde leaped up, then obeyed the first instruction and kissed his too-red cheek. “The thoughtless jade. She wasn’t due yet.”
“Women,” he teased. “No relying on them at all.”
She cheekily stuck her tongue out at him and hurried off to the stables to check on the offspring of her best mare and Lord Fencott’s Friesian stallion.
On the path to the stables, however, she paused in the herb garden to collect herself. That had gone well. Digby really was happy at what she’d done, and eased by hope. Despite common morality, perhaps she had done the right thing.
If only she hadn’t let the worm of forbidden love into this blossom. It was for her to prise it out and crush it. Her situation would only be truly honorable if she put Brand Malloren out of her mind forever.
Weeks later, with her mind largely under control, and harvest keeping her too busy for folly, Rosamunde received an unexpected visit from Diana. Rosamunde was helping Mrs. Monkton and a maid lay apples on racks in the cool room, but a glance at Diana’s face was enough to have her abandon the job.
Trouble.
She’d thought all safe by now.
She hurried out into the privacy of the garden. “What?”
“The Marquess of Rothgar has virtually invited himself to Arradale.”