Chapter 7
“And why exactly were the Germanic tribes so dangerous at this time?” Rosalind asked, eyeing the group of girls arrayed before her in the parlor.
Amy was still missing, but the other five were perched on two chairs and a settee, facing her, their textbooks open in their laps and their eyes on their teacher. Catherine, a dark-haired, cherub-faced milkmaid, raised her hand.
“Before, they were considered barbarians,” she said slowly, stumbling over the long word, “but they started to work together and began to be more dangerous.”
Rosalind nodded. “Yes, their unity was definitely in their favor, but there was more to the story. They underwent massive technological, social, and economic changes between their first and second contact with the Roman Empire. They understood what freedom would come if they governed themselves, and felt more keenly the brutality of the empire enslaving them.”
She looked to Emily, the pale blonde girl who cowered always in the back, afraid of questions. She said gently, “Em, do you remember the name of the tribe that was most pivotal in turning the tide?”
Emily shook her head, blushing deep red. A few giggles surrounded the room. Rosalind cleared her throat.
“Girls, that is not polite. Emily is shy about responding, but her shyness is not a crime—your mockery is. Let us try again with kindness on our side.”
The girls stopped giggling at once, and turned to Emily with expectant faces. She took a deep breath and stuttered nervously, “Visi-visi… goths.”
“The Visigoths, yes,” Rosalind could feel herself beaming in response.
Today had been a beautiful day. Ever since the riding lesson yesterday, her usual aching head had been clear and bright.
Throughout the lesson she had not had to battle pain or confusion of any sort, and though Dr. Ashcombe had already arrived for her usual checkup—to be completed after this history lesson—she was going to have to turn him away with good news.
“During the second Visigothic invasion of Italy,” she began, but was cut short by the sound of hurrying feet in the hall outside.
Dr. Ashcombe and Mrs. Hollis burst into the room as one, urgency on their faces.
“A carriage,” Mrs. Hollis said.
“Just arrived,” the doctor added. “I do not recognize it, but this—” he waved to the girls, “—must disappear at once.”
It was rare to be interrupted, but they had prepared for this.
Rosalind smiled at the girls. “We shall have to put our math practice off until next week, girls,” she said cheerfully, clapping her hands.
“You know what to do, downstairs at once, and then one at a time through the servant’s entrance, in different directions. ”
She knew that they each came with a disguise object of their own—some a basket of vegetables, others a milk pail or a bag of darning. If questioned, they could simply say they were doing business with Thornefield Hall.
The girls rose, silent and quick, gathering their things and disappearing as quickly as they had come.
Rosalind did not even have to tell the doctor what to do.
He simply moved a chair back into place and sat in it, leaning back and perusing a nearby book as though the “Fall of Rome” was of personal interest. Mrs. Hollis swept the chalkboards into a rough pile and dumped them into the piano bench before seating herself opposite the doctor and whipping embroidery out from behind her.
Rosalind sank down atop the piano bench and began a mournful sonata. The room was as ordinary and unassuming as a person could wish.
Moments after she began the song, there was a knock on the parlor door and the butler entered with two gentlemen accompanying him.
“Mr. Edmund Crewe,” he intoned. “And his companion, Mr. Garrison.”
Rosalind hit a foul note and stood up from the piano, turning to their guests with her heart in her throat.
“Mr. Crewe,” she said. “Mr. Garrison. What a surprise.”
“I hardly imagine it possible that you are surprised by my visit, as I have left multiple messages informing you of my imminent arrival,” Edmund said. His voice was smooth as satin, though his words held poison.
He was exactly as she remembered—long greasy hair pulled back in a ribbon at the base of his neck, clothes elegant and well-tailored, small but sturdy. His eyes were slow and lizard-like. “Mr. Garrison is my London solicitor. I thought he might be helpful in our little meeting today.”
A solicitor? The sick feeling of uncertainty settled on Rosalind, and her head began to ache.
“You are both welcome, of course,” she said, gesturing to the open seats. “I will ring for some tea. This is Dr. Ashcombe and Mrs. Hollis, friends of mine.”
“A pleasure, I am sure,” Edmund said, without a hint of real pleasure in his voice. “But tea will not be necessary. I shall keep this as brief as possible.”
He stepped forwards to a table in the center of the room and laid a document there.
“I have lately come into possession of a document,” he said gravely, “a will, executed by the late Mr. Thorne in London a month before his death. You are free to peruse it at your leisure, but I think you will find my words reflected in the document. In it, he names me as his son Henry’s guardian, and trustee of Thornefield until the boy’s majority. ”
The air in the room seemed to disappear. Rosalind shook her head. “That is impossible,” she said softly. “My father did not go to London in the month before his death. At least… I do not think…”
“It is easy to misplace the details of one’s experience when grief is involved,” Edmund said, stepping forward with a silky smile. “But I assure you there is no doubt about the will’s authenticity.”
He gestured to the still-silent solicitor, who stepped forwards with more documents, including two with the Thornefield seal. “As you can see, we have seals, witnesses, and other evidence that supports the truth of my story.”
“I do not believe it,” Rosalind said.
“Whether you believe it or not,” Edmund said, his pleasant tone faltering somewhat, “the truth remains. I will give you a fortnight to consider how this matter might be best resolved between family, and if you are not able to accept your late father’s obvious wishes as reality, we will turn to the courts with our appeal. ”
He smiled, and Rosalind felt she was staring into the face of a cobra. “Mr. Garrison assures me that our case is quite strong.”
“Think what this will do to my brother,” she said. “Think how the uncertainty of your management and control will—”
“Henry will not care,” Edmund snapped. “He is a child. That is why my leadership will be of such assistance. It cannot have been easy for a woman like yourself to manage the estate this entire time.”
“He prefers ‘Harry,’” Rosalind said, holding Edmund’s gaze. “Those that know him know that.”
Edmund put his top hat back on and bowed.
“I think it best I withdraw, and give you time to look over the will and the evidence. I am sure a woman of your intellect will see the truth staring her in the face. And how relieved you will be to find yourself without the heavy responsibility of the estate, which was never meant to be borne by such slender shoulders.”
He took his leave, Mr. Garrison following him like a loyal dog.
When he had gone, Rosalind turned slowly to her friends. “I should have said something,” Dr. Ashcombe said, standing and walking to the table to retrieve the will himself. “He had no right to speak to you in that fashion—I was just so taken aback…”
“Defending me would only have given him more reason to see me as a damsel in distress,” Rosalind said drily, shuffling through the other papers on the table. “What do you make of the will? Does it look legitimate?”
The doctor scanned it, nodding at intervals.
“It certainly has the makings of a professional matter, but I would be very surprised if your father had arranged for this in the month before his death. He had no idea he was dying, and therefore would have had no impetus to change his will. Did he give you any idea of trusting Mr. Crewe more than other men?”
“On the contrary,” Rosalind said, eyeing the witness list with distress. She did not recognize any of the names. “He despised Edmund. On more than one occasion they argued. I cannot think of a reason he would put Harry’s fate in the hands of a man he found morally decrepit.”
“For that reason alone, I would consider this will a forgery,” Dr. Ashcombe said. “But whether or not it is real is not your first concern. I think there may be more at play here.”
“I don’t understand what could be worse than an illegitimate will,” Rosalind replied too sharply.
Dr. Ashcombe looked up from the paperwork to meet her gaze, “I fear Mr. Crewe believes you will fight him, and, in fact, wants you to take the matter to court.”
“You think he wishes to bankrupt Thornefield with the legal battle,” Mrs. Hollis said, joining the conversation.
“I know Thornefield is worth more en large,” Dr. Ashcombe agreed, “but when it comes to ready money he will have you strung out for years in the courts. They will not look kindly on a woman, either. It is a sad injustice.”
He sighed. “But that is not the most immediate issue. It is my guess that he hopes to invoke a particular clause wherein, while the matter is pending, he has standing to petition for an inspection of the household as Harry’s nearest male kin.”
Rosalind frowned. “To see if we dust properly?”
Mrs. Hollis put a hand over her mouth, clearly understanding before Rosalind did. “The school,” she murmured. “What if he discovers the truth about the school?”
“Nobody knows about the school,” Rosalind said quickly. “Mr. Crewe will not think to look.”
“Not now,” Mrs. Hollis explained. “But he may attempt to poke around in your financial books and scrutinize your management of the estate. If he spoke to the wrong servant or saw the wrong slip of paper, he would learn of the school and the consequences would be dire.”
“It could discredit you in the eyes of the court,” Dr. Ashcombe said gravely. Rosalind knew he had more on his mind than simply her reputation. Once a week, his own wife came to teach the girls, in secret. She would be as targeted as Rosalind if the truth about the school got out.
“Why I should be discredited by doing a public service to humanity is beyond me,” Rosalind snapped.
“My dear, we have talked about this—” Mrs. Hollis began.
“Yes, again and again!” Rosalind winced as her headache deepened.
“And yet I still do not understand. These girls are bright. They are creative. They are an asset to society as they stand, without any education, and yet when you open their mind with the truth of their own history and the larger world they absolutely blossom into forces of nature. The prejudice leveled against them is abhorrent.”
“We do not disagree with you,” Mrs. Hollis said quietly. “But we cannot change society. We can only do our small part, and unfortunately, if Mr. Crewe discovers your involvement he will make it difficult—if not impossible—for you to do that small part.”
“I agree with Mrs. Hollis,” Dr. Ashcombe said. “You must control your temper, Miss Thorne. It may be unfair that the cards are stacked against you, but they are stacked against you nonetheless.”
“I know,” Rosalind said, raising her hands. “I know all this, I am just hurt and frustrated. I do not need to be handled by either of you.” She sighed. “I am going to walk outside and take a moment to myself, and when I return I will be resolved and forbearing again, I assure you.”
She rushed from the room before they could see the hot tears pricking her eyes, escaping into the gardens behind the house and then, as if her feet were carrying her of their own accord, to the Thornefield stable yard. For once, her brother was not there. It was empty.
She leaned on the paddock gate, and looked towards the lane, the hedge, and beyond it at Marwood Park.
She found herself wishing that the viscount was standing beside her with his hair-thin scar and his sober eyes. He was the only man in her life who had avoided managing her in any fashion. They had argued, but only because he spoke the truth without artifice.
She found herself wondering what he would say if he was here.
Doubtless, he would have the same wisdom as Dr. Ashcombe, although whether or not he would entertain the idea of a school for girls was beyond her.
Rosalind guessed, based upon likelihood alone, that Lord Marwood was as averse to the education of poor women as anyone else in the county.
Still, she could not help but wonder. And the more she wondered, the more an idea grew in her mind. It is mad, she thought to herself. But I am facing a madness of Edmund’s making, and a risk may be necessary to respond in kind.