Chapter 5
The card from Mr. Crew sat untouched for days on the calling table. Every time Rosalind thought about responding, she was pulled away by estate matters or the condition of her brother, who was healing slowly and needed regular oversight.
Before leaving for her three o’clock appointment at Marwood, Rosalind stole a few moments to scribble a note to her solicitor on the matter.
Dear Mr. Pembridge,
I have recently received communication from my stepbrother, Mr. Edward Crewe. He left his calling card, and I expect him to make contact again soon. I do not recall Mr. Crewe beyond a few moments at my late stepmother’s funeral.
Has he contacted you regarding any family matters I should be aware of? Please advise.
Sincerely,
Rosalind Thorne
It was a brief message at best, but Rosalind did not have time to write more. This was the due diligence of which she was capable at present. She pulled on her gloves and checked her appearance in the mirror while waiting for Mrs. Hollis to accompany her.
She was dressed more appropriately this time, in a stiff navy gown with a structured bodice and a jacket buttoned over the top, her hair pinned back out of her face, and a hat atop the curls.
Much better. She looked, even to herself, professional and lacking in nonsense—the sort of woman a man might listen to.
Mrs. Hollis sailed into the room, pulling on her own gloves and asking in a crisp tone, “Did you get the message from Mrs. Carrington about her daughter? It came just today—poor Amy has come down with a coughing ailment and will be missing for a week from her studies.”
Rosalind nodded as the two women walked out the door side by side. They were forgoing horses today for the pleasure of a beautiful walk through the forest that was, while more direct, not suitable for hooved feet.
“I received the note, yes. I am having the cook put together a basket to send to her family. I will deliver it in person tomorrow.”
Amid Rosalind’s many responsibilities lurked something which she refused to share beyond a circle of her most trusted friends.
Twice a week, a handful of girls from the village quietly approached Thornefield Hall from the servant entrance, slipping in the door past the averted eyes of the staff, and walking upstairs to the parlor.
Here they were taught in writing, reading, and arithmetic by Mrs. Hollis, Rosalind, and Mrs. Ashcombe, the doctor’s wife, respectively.
These were not well-to-do girls, but rather a handful of willing pupils from the lower stretches of society that Rosalind had encountered during her visits to the village. She was always looking for a bright mind, and a family willing to spare their girl in exchange for a quality education.
Everyone involved was sworn to secrecy. Rosalind knew how unconventional her allegiances were. It was unheard of for a woman of the landed gentry to put her resources of time and money towards a task that was so frowned upon in society.
“Do you know,” she said quietly to her companion as she walked, “my grandmother told me once that she refused to hire a servant who was educated because she believed it was the educated mind that led peasants to revolt in the Reign of Terror. I want these girls to have the benefit of a good education, but we must impress upon them the importance of keeping their schooling a secret until they have secured sound employment.”
“Thankfully, we are no longer in your grandmother’s world,” Mrs. Hollis said, stretching her legs to keep up with Rosalind’s lanky stride. “Now, a poor girl can raise her station if she has the skills to be a good governess.”
“Only with good references, and people like my grandmother will still happily ruin a child’s chances with a bad reference if they think education has ‘ruined a girl.’” Rosalind winced at the thought. “It is our duty not just to educate, but to instill wisdom.”
“You are thinking of this because of Amy?”
Rosalind nodded. “She is a sweet little thing, but she is a little boastful. I worry that she will speak too loudly of our little experiment and ruin not only our school, but her chances at a different life.”
Mrs. Hollis sighed. “I will pull her aside when her health has allowed her to return.” She cast a sharp glance at Rosalind.
“After everything that has happened with Master Thorne this week, do you think you should take off a few days of lessons? Mrs. Ashcombe and I can pick up the reading and history content you are unable to cover.”
“I think the normalcy will bring me peace,” Rosalind assured her. “But if it all seems too much I am certain you can cover the rise of Rome without me.”
The two women made their way up the path towards Marwood Park, cresting the hill on a small trail that crossed a stone fence with small steps and then wound its way towards the stately mansion.
Rosalind climbed over easily, her long legs making the steps seem superfluous, and then turned and helped hand Mrs. Hollis over.
As they neared Marwood, Mrs. Hollis cleared her throat and ventured, “do you know what you are going to say to the viscount?”
“What I told you earlier, or some version of it,” Rosalind said dismissively.
“Surely the contents of your refusal could have been relegated to a letter,” Mrs. Hollis said with a shrug. “Why was a personal visit required?”
Rosalind smiled drily. “It is my opinion that gentlemen in general do not hear me until I speak with direct eye contact that borders on rudeness. I do not wish to send him a few lines and have him broach the subject later on or, worse, with Harry directly. I shall be clear and he will see from my manner that I am serious.”
“What if he disagrees?”
Rosalind resisted the urge to roll her eyes at her companion. “He will not,” she said. “I doubt he cares enough one way or the other to truly argue with me, and even if he did he will have met his match. I always get my man.”
They knocked on the heavy oaken door and were shown at once into a drawing room with Mrs. Hollis just a pace behind Rosalind.
At first, blinking from the loss of bright sunlight, Rosalind thought they were alone.
Then she saw the tall figure of the viscount unfold himself from a chair by the fireplace to greet them.
“Good day, ladies,” he said, walking over and bowing to each in turn. “Miss Thorne. And your companion…?”
“Mrs. Hollis,” Rosalind said. She had forgotten—or perhaps, in the trauma of their earlier meeting, not noticed—just how tall he was.
For a woman who had spent most of her girlhood towering over suitors and fashionable gentlemen, it was strangely comforting to be in the presence of a man for whom her head only reached his shoulder.
“Please, have a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair. “I have called for tea, and it will be here presently.”
“Tea will not be necessary,” Rosalind said, standing. “I do not think this interview will take much of your valuable time, my lord.”
“I would take a spot of tea,” Mrs. Hollis said brightly. Rosalind shot a look at her companion, but maintained the high ground.
“Lord Marwood,” she said, squaring off against the disarmingly handsome man, “I understand that you meant kindness in your recent offer of assistance for my brother. You did us a service in the wood, and I will forever be grateful for the way you rescued Harry from his own foolishness.”
He raised his eyebrows and waited in silence, clearly sensing the caveat she had in store.
“However,” she said firmly, “I will not have my brother taught to ride by anyone. I am unbending on this matter. I came to you in person today so you could see how sober-minded I am about Harry’s safety. I will thank you not to broach the subject with him at any time. It would be most unwise.”
She bestowed a benevolent smile to ease the strength of her statement and then inclined her head in preparation of her own departure. To her surprise, he did not simply bow and withdraw as she expected. Offense, she expected. Cold indifference, she expected.
What she had not planned for was the arch of an eyebrow, a twinge of a smile on the corner of his lips, and the single word he posed good-naturedly in response.
“Why?”
She hesitated. “I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Miss Thorne,” he countered.
“If you are going to come in here and dismiss my kindness so handily, I think you at least owe me an explanation… Why are you so set on forbidding your brother the saddle?” A servant entered with a tray, and the viscount added suavely, “Pour Miss Hollis a cup, Mary.”
Rosalind saw her companion and former governess sink into a settee with a happy smile, tea rising to her lips, and felt as though she was losing ranks. “I… I have very good reasons—”
“Which I look forward to hearing.” He crossed his arms.
Very well, she thought drily. The truth might make you a bit uncomfortable, my lord. “You will remember, my lord, that my own father died in a horseback riding accident.”
“I recall, although the details escape me.”
“The details were never fully released to the public, so I imagine you never heard them in the first place.” She could feel anger and grief flushing her cheeks crimson.
“Allow me to educate you. The late Mr. Thorne was a man who kept his seat on a horse better than anyone in the county. He was a proficient hunter, you may recall, and had never suffered injury before. Harry was not yet ten years of age when my father’s horse broke its leg trying to leap a gully with him astride, and tossed my father to his death. ”
She felt the tears threatening, and pushed them back. This was not the time for weakness, but for calm eye contact.