Chapter 17
It took three days until Harry was well enough to sit up in bed and complain about his captivity.
“I am trapped in here,” he protested, frowning at yet another bowl of broth as though it was prison slop. “I have to get back on the horse.”
“And you will,” Rosalind said, smiling down at him and placing a spoon at his side. “You need to regain your strength—the fever weakened you. The better you eat and sleep, the more willing I will be to let you out of doors again.”
“She is right,” Dr. Ashcombe said. He and his wife had come over together to check on Harry today—Mrs. Ashcombe to teach her lessons at the school downstairs, Dr. Ashcombe to tend to the invalid.
Both were now standing at Harry’s bedside. “But I am encouraged by your improvement, lad. It shows how strong you were to begin with that you came back so quickly from such a dangerous illness.”
Mrs. Ashcombe pulled Rosalind aside, leading her out into the hall as the doctor and Harry continued to spar.
“My dear,” she said. “The Bells’ autumn assembly is tomorrow evening. Now that young Harry is better, I must encourage you to consider coming out to the event.”
Rosalind smiled weakly, putting a hand to her forehead. “I am not in a place to see village gossips,” she said quietly. “Harry is still recovering, and the last few days have been very difficult.”
“That is just it.” The doctor’s wife bit her lip, kind eyes searching Rosalind’s face.
“Gossips are already whispering about Thornefield. Word is that you were ill as well—or are still ill—and the estate has no captain at its helm. Harry is well enough to be left in the care of Mrs. Hollis. You should come out, and be seen. It is a small event, and local, and people will understand that you are as ordinary and steady as always.”
Rosalind frowned. “It is unlike you to ask such a thing of me,” she said quietly.
“It is unlike me to ask anything of you,” Mrs. Ashcombe corrected with a light laugh.
“And so you should take it more seriously, my dear. I do my best, but people know my allegiance to Thornefield and my close personal friendship with yourself. They see my protestations against the gossip to merely be loyalty, not truth.”
“I would not wish Mr. Crewe to gain any momentum,” Rosalind agreed with a sigh. “I shall attend, but only briefly. I will show that I am healthy and well, dance a few dances, and then Harry’s health can be reason enough for me to leave early.”
“Very well, my dear.” Mrs. Ashcombe patted her hand. “I am glad to hear it.”
***
The Bells’ assembly was a charming affair, Rosalind had to admit.
She may have agreed to attend for reasons of business, but she found herself enjoying the strains of cheerful music, the bunting dancing across the ceiling, and the bundles of late summer flowers tied to pillars around the dance floor.
“It has been a long time since I have attended such an event,” she said quietly to Mrs. Ashcombe as they entered together, Rosalind on one side of her friend, Dr. Ashcombe on the other. They had agreed to escort her in Mrs. Hollis’ absence.
“You look a pretty picture,” Mrs. Ashcombe said, smiling approvingly at Rosalind’s choice of wardrobe.
She had put on a filmy silver-blue gown with hardly any ornament, just a subtle draping around the arms and a small train.
She had pinned her hair up as well, with a silver ribbon winding around the crown in a spiral, and beyond that she had done little else.
To Rosalind’s own eye, she felt plain enough, but Mrs. Ashcombe assured her it struck the right note—elegant but not attention-drawing.
No, when it came to drawing attention, that task was left to the newcomers in the county.
No sooner had Rosalind arrived, but Mrs. Seraphina Vane was introduced.
She appeared in a billow of dark red silk that dipped off her shoulders, trimmed with large artificial flowers that ended in a shower of tiny pearls, the dress was as much a work of art as her green gown had been.
She had her hair up in another high fashion, with the same dark red roses pinned throughout. The room seemed to stop at the sight of her, and she sailed through like the queen she was.
When she passed Rosalind, her eyes rested only momentarily on the other woman, and she smiled tightly. The smile did not reach her eyes.
Only a few minutes later Edmund Crewe arrived with Sir Percival in tow.
The latter was as elegantly attired as Seraphina, though his color of choice for the evening was a brilliant gold and yellow ensemble, and unlike Seraphina he took a moment to kiss Rosalind’s hand and murmur a few comments about her illustrious beauty before moving on to the punch table.
Rosalind sighed and looked at Mrs. Ashcombe. “This is not the quiet country crowd that I had hoped it would be,” she said stiffly. “I am longing for home again.”
“Nonsense,” the doctor’s wife said with a quick smile. “They are only a few people, and the rest are entirely wholesome and sweet. Look! There is your neighbor—how startling to see him in attendance, I suppose his sister has dragged him here…”
Rosalind turned to see Adrian standing in the doorway, flanked by a young man she did not know, and Honoria. Unlike the more foppish guests she had already seen, he was dressed very simply in a well-tailored coat and trousers, his cravat tied neatly; his jawbones highlighted by an elevated color.
He scanned the room, and his eyes found hers so quickly she felt her heart stutter to a stop.
He crossed the room at once, the friend and Honoria just behind him. “Miss Thorne,” he said, bowing crisply in front of her. “I received word of your brother’s improved condition just this morning. I am glad to hear of it.”
She could not help remembering, even as the sophisticated gentleman now stood in front of her, how selflessly he had appeared only a few days before in his shirtsleeves with a servant’s tray balanced in his hand and his energies focused on Harry’s healing. She smiled.
“He is recovering well. He was frustrated that I would not allow him to ride today.”
Adrian laughed. “Of course he is. Tell him when he is completely recovered, we will resume our lessons.” He turned to introduce his companions. “Honoria, you know Miss Thorne, I believe?”
“Not as well as I would like.” Honoria reached out and seized Rosalind’s hand with a warmth that took her by surprise. “So good to see you again.”
“And this is Mr. Ferrand, my long-time friend. He is staying at Marwood for a visit,” Adrian said.
“A pleasure.” Mr. Ferrand bowed, but Rosalind could see that he was distracted. Since the moment he had entered the ballroom, his eyes had been on Honoria and Honoria alone.
A song struck up across the dance floor, and Mr. Ferrand turned to Honoria, extending his hand. “Might I have this dance?” he asked.
She smiled and nodded, following him out onto the dance floor. Adrian looked back at Rosalind, and for a moment she thought he meant to ask her to dance as well, but before he could open his mouth a vision of scarlet beauty approached.
“My dear Lord Marwood,” she said, sailing into their midst with eyes only for Adrian. “Has it been so long that you do not recognize a dear friend when you see her?”
Rosalind watched Adrian’s reaction closely. He barely moved, a statue in the face of something he had clearly been trying to avoid for some time, but she noted a muscle twitch in his jaw.
“Mrs. Seraphina Vane,” he said, turning to Rosalind. “This is Miss Thorne.”
“We have met,” Seraphina said casually, turning her attention back to Adrian and holding out her arm. “Come with me, Adrian—it has been so long, and there is nothing like an assembly for catching up on old times.”
He did not move to follow her, but she looped her arm through his lightning fast and half walked, half pulled him a few steps away, to a nearby alcove. Rosalind watched them go, her stomach turning.
She had been so relieved and delighted to see Adrian appear at the dance, but now that he was in the thrall of this magical creature, she felt as plain as a sparrow.
To make matters worse, she could still hear their conversation—whether intentionally or not, Seraphina had not pulled him far enough away for real privacy.
“You have been very coy, avoiding me for so long,” the other woman cooed, looking up into Adrian’s eyes with rapt attention. “Does our history mean so little to you that you do not even entertain a single visit from your former… friend?”
Adrian quietly detached his arm. “I do not believe we parted as friends, Mrs. Vane.”
“Oh, have you not heard?” she arched her eyebrow innocently. “I am still Mrs. Vane, but there is no longer a Mr. Vane. A terrible tragedy to lose him so early into our marriage, but I am out of mourning now, as you can see.”
“I had heard about the late Mr. Vane,” he said quietly.
“Oh, Adrian,” she breathed, pouting prettily, “why must you be so cold with me? I know that you feel something for me—” she reached out and touched his arm, forcing Rosalind to look away.
She let the voices fade into the whirl of the ballroom, blinking away sharp tears.
She could not bear to see this reunion come to fruition.
Suddenly, she felt a hand seize hers, and looked up in surprise to find Adrian at her side, pulling her out onto the dance floor without a proper request, only a firm certainty that she would follow.
She followed silently, feeling his touch through the glove like fire.
The dance was already halfway along, but it involved a long line that was easy to enter and leave, and in a few moments they were turning properly with the other guests.
Adrian looked perturbed, but when he met Rosalind’s eyes the first time his emotion shifted and concern creased his brow.
“Are you well, Miss Thorne?” he asked.
She realized that he must see some traces of her earlier tears, which she now cursed inwardly. “Quite,” she said, forcing a smile. She glanced back towards Seraphina, who was only a blur of red on her periphery. “I expected you to linger longer with Mrs. Vane, now that you are reunited.”
When she looked back at Adrian, she saw with a start that he had not followed her gaze at all, but had held his eyes on her face, as though she were the only one in the room. “I am not one for lingering,” he said.
“You lingered at Harry’s bedside,” she pointed out.
“Yes, well… that was different.” He helped her through a turn, and then linked arms for the promenade. “Do you know, these sort of events are not a very comfortable sphere for me.”
“I would never have guessed,” she said, smiling slightly.
“You tease—” he responded with an answering smile, “—but I truly find no reason, ordinarily, to consider assemblies. My sister forced me to come tonight. Had I known you were going to be in attendance…” he hesitated.
She wanted to stay in his eyes forever, just like this, with all the gaudy, foppish people on the sidelines of their dance. “I suppose I can understand, just now, why people go to assemblies,” she murmured.
“Indeed.” His hand squeezed hers gently, and then released pressure as he turned her in a small circle and brought her close again for the next steps. “Thank you for accompanying me onto the dance floor. I needed an escape.”
“You shall have to face her eventually,” Rosalind answered, her heart twisting at the thought. She tried to keep her voice light. “And she is not a Gorgon, my lord. I am certain she would go to great lengths to be in your good graces again.”
“I find, the more I live, the less I care about others’ good graces,” he responded. “There are precious few I wish to impress anymore.” His eyes fell to hers, and then, for the briefest of moments, to her lips. “But you, Miss Thorne…” his voice trailed off, and the music all around them faded.
The dance, halfway finished when they began, was over.
Rosalind pulled away, her breath coming short and shallow. She did not know what to say, and while she searched frantically for the words to match her feelings, she was interrupted by a familiar, and entirely unwelcome, voice at her elbow.
“I hope you will allow me the next dance, Miss Thorne.” It was Sir Percival, the baronet who was not a baronet, mincing and simpering at her side. “It is a waltz.”
Rosalind looked at Adrian, but he yielded the floor with cold courtesy, stepping back and nodding to Rosalind before walking back towards the Ashcombes. Rosalind caught sight of Seraphina’s face. For once, the perfect mask was curdled with distaste.
It was not until the carriage ride home when Rosalind found the note tucked into her reticule. On it was scrawled a message in an unfamiliar hand, written without a signature:
He is not what you think.