Chapter Four #2
“What else do you remember about that night?” In the years since Lady Wentworth’s death, Rose had not felt comfortable asking about her mother’s last hours.
The questions were there, stuck in the back of her throat.
But it was an unspoken command from Father that she not ask any of the staff about that night.
Now, though, facing a marriage with Baron White, Rose no longer cared about pleasing her father or abiding by his wishes.
A compulsion to know more drove her to ask Mrs. Blythe for further details.
“Did you see her right before she was killed?”
Mrs. Blythe looked down at the desk, moving a stack of correspondence from one side to the other.
“The guests all left around midnight. The carriages lined up for a mile. Prudence, Mrs. Carter, Lizzie and I were in the kitchen, having a cup of tea and a piece of the cake leftover from the party when Finch came running in.” Her voice grew husky with obvious emotion.
“He’d found her in your father’s study and had been told to go into the village to wake the constable.
We were all so shaken we didn’t know what to do.
Mary had been sent up to start the fire in your mother’s room but came running in not long after Finch left for the stables. ”
“How old was Mary then?”
“She was only thirteen at the time. We’d only hired her the month before.”
A fuzzy memory floated through Rose’s mind of a young Mary Bright, her face thin and peaked. She’d sometimes been asked to look after Rose when the governess was needed elsewhere. They’d played together in the nursery. Hadn’t they?
Now, Mary was their head maid. All grown up, tall and pretty, with a sweet but shy demeanor. Yet, there was a quality in Mary that Rose could never quite pinpoint. A lack of trust perhaps? She never quite looked in Rose’s eyes.
“Poor Finch,” Rose said. “Having to see her like that.”
“He’s never been the same, poor lad. We all loved your mother. Worshipped her. She was such a gentle, kind mistress to us. The house was never the same after we lost her.”
“Were you surprised that it was Lord Ashford who killed her?” Rose asked.
Mrs. Blythe’s lips pursed again. She picked up a glass paperweight in the shape of a bird, staring at it for a moment. “In truth, I never fully believed it was him.”
Rose stared at her in shock. “But why?”
“It never added up to me. Nothing pointed to him whatsoever. He and your mother were on friendly terms. The night of the ball, I noticed them sitting together for some time, chatting in the drawing room, clearly enjoying their conversation.”
She hadn’t heard that before.
Mrs. Blythe continued. “For another thing, Prudence and I both thought we’d seen him leave early, right after his time with Lady Wentworth in the library.
Just after the masks came off. But no one else could pinpoint exactly when.
According to Hargrave anyway. Lord Ashford was a widower and had the reputation for being devoted to his children, leaving little time for social events.
He and his wife were a great love match.
According to my friend, he was devastated by her death. ”
“How did she die?”
“Childbirth, I believe it was. Anyway, Lord Ashford was known as a benevolent, decent man. His staff respected him for his kindness and generosity. Their housekeeper was a friend of mine. She was heartbroken for the children.”
“How sad.”
“Yes, it was. I didn’t go to the hanging but I knew some who did. They said the children were beside themselves. The little girl begged them to spare his life. Lord Ashford claimed his innocence until the very end.”
“I wonder what happened to his children?”
“They were sent away to live with some distant cousin. The crown stripped the family of everything. Titles. Wealth. The manor was shuttered. Tenant farmers were left with nothing, not to mention all the people employed at Ashford Hall. It was a terrible thing.”
“But if Lord Ashford didn’t do it, then who did?”
“I’ve no idea. There were a hundred guests at the ball.
It could have been any one of them.” Mrs. Blythe paused, gazing toward the window.
“They never found her mask. We all found that odd. Lizzie scoured the lady’s quarters, but it was nowhere.
” She tilted her head, looking at Rose intently.
“Why are you asking? Has something brought it up?”
“This unexpected ball, I suppose. I cannot understand why Father wants to bring it back. It seems sudden and strange.”
“I agree, Lady Rose.” Mrs. Blythe clicked her tongue sympathetically. “Regardless, we will plan a night that will stun our guests, as we did back in your mother’s time.”
“I wish I could go back in time and see her just once more.” Rose glanced toward the window, where a robin had come to rest on the sill.
“She adored you. I believe she loved being a mother more than anything in her life. Lady Wentworth told Lizzie how much she longed for another child but it never came to pass.”
“I’d have liked a brother or sister very much.” Maybe then she wouldn’t have felt so alone. “Was my mother’s life anything but tragic?”
“You, my lady, were her joy.”
Rose nodded, afraid she might cry. To hide her emotion, she suggested they return to planning the ball. “I did have an idea for a theme, but it might be silly. What do you think about A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
Mrs. Blythe’s expression changed from sorrow to delight. “How enchanting. It’s splendid.”
Happy that Mrs. Blythe agreed, she spilled over with her ideas.
“The women could wear gossamer gowns in soft pastels or moonlit silvers, like Titania and her fairies. They might like to wear floral headpieces or crowns. Masks could be butterflies or leaves or flowers, but of course, that would be up to the guests. Maybe even some will wear subtle fairy wings.” She went on to say the gentlemen could wear sashes or cloaks inspired by Oberon and masks of satyrs or owls.
“We’ll transform the ballroom into an enchanted woodland, with hanging lanterns and floating candles.
A depiction of a night sky could be painted on the ballroom floor.
Lush floral arrangements, of course.” She suggested the music be a string quartet, a harpsichord for quieter moments, and flutes and violins for spirited dances.
“And maybe Shakespearean-inspired madrigals to perform?” She warmed, overflowing with ideas. “Is it too much?”
“Not at all, Lady Rose. We shall have to hustle, but I’m sure we can do it.”
They narrowed in on a few other details.
Mrs. Blythe suggested glazed fruits and berries served in golden goblets.
Roasted pheasant, honeyed ham, and stuffed quail.
Herb-infused breads, cheeses, and fresh honeycombs.
Sugared violets, candied roses, and lavender shortbread biscuits.
“We’ll have to discuss it with Mrs. Carter, of course, but I’m quite certain she can come up with a delectable menu.
Perhaps for drinks, we can serve a light, floral elderflower and champagne cocktail—a fairy nectar?
” Mrs. Blythe’s eyes twinkled at the idea. “Won’t that be fun?”
“Yes, wonderful,” Rose said.
Mrs. Blythe picked up a piece of paper from a neat stack. “Here’s your father’s guest list for both the summer house party and masquerade ball.”
Rose took them in hand. The first two made her inwardly sigh. Two weeks of trying to avoid Baron White while managing Honoria Blackwell’s conniving ways made her want to curl up in her bed and never come out.
Rose scanned the rest of the list, fingers tracing over each name.
The gathering would be an eclectic one, and possibly very entertaining.
Some were familiar acquaintances from the Season.
Lady Daphne Merriweather, sweet and naive, had befriended Rose during the previous Season.
Lady Arabella Kingsley, the fashionable and wealthy widow, would be there as well, along with Miss Lydia Norbury, a woman of quiet strength who had inherited a fortune but never sought a husband.
Among the gentlemen, Viscount Edmund Gresham was expected—a man of intelligence and reserve, known for his impeccable manners and reticent nature.
Then there was Sir Philip Easton, a charming baronet with a rakish reputation and a precarious financial situation, though he remained one of the most entertaining men of the ton.
And, of course, Lord Jonathan Ellsworth, the talented musician whose love of gambling had landed him in dire straits.
Rose suspected he had only accepted the invitation out of necessity.
The only name on the list she did not recognize was that of Lady Violet Stratton. “Do you know this young woman?” Rose asked Mrs. Blythe.
“I believe she is the young cousin of Mrs. Blackwell. From what I know, she’s been sent from up north to live with Mrs. Blackwell, perhaps in the hopes of a good match.”
“I certainly hope she has a more pleasant personality than that of Mrs. Blackwell,” Rose said before she could stop herself.
Mrs. Blythe didn’t respond, but Rose caught a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth.
A firm knock sounded at the door, followed by the quiet creak of its hinges. Tobias Hale appeared, dipping into a shallow bow. “My lady, Mrs. Blythe. My apologies for interrupting.”
“Mr. Hale, I didn’t expect you back so soon. What can I do for you?” Mrs. Blythe asked, smiling at him. The two were old friends and frequently collaborated.
Tobias Hale had been a presence in Wentworth Manor for years.
He was lean and well-built, his frame hinting at a life spent in action rather than idleness.
A strong jaw and slightly crooked nose made him rugged rather than classically handsome.
His salt-and-pepper hair, more brown than gray, was kept neatly trimmed. His eyes were a deep, warm brown.
As their loyal steward, he handled estate business with efficiency, overseeing the tenants, managing accounts, and ensuring debts were paid.
From what Rose had observed, he was a patient and soft-spoken man.
A man one could rely on to behave with integrity.
Rose often had the impression that he and her father had a somewhat distant relationship.
Hargrave was her father’s confidant. Hale was simply a man who worked for him.
“Business was settled sooner than expected,” Hale said. “I figured I’d best return as soon as I could, given all that’s coming our way in the next few weeks.”
Mrs. Blythe gave a knowing nod. “I suspect things will be lively indeed.”
“Please do not hesitate to ask for whatever you need,” Hale said. “I’ve hired additional hands from some of the lads in the village. Whatever Lady Rose decides to do for the ball, we are at your service.”
“Thank you, Hale. That’s reassuring,” Rose said.
“And now, I must be off. Mr. Thorncroft has asked me to meet the new gardener. He wants my opinion. He seems to think there’s something the lad’s hiding.”
“Really?” Rose’s eyebrows raised. “Is it because he seems educated?”
“I believe so. Thorncroft said something about how he talked real pretty.” Hale smiled.
“I too have noticed it,” Rose said. The handsome gardener had made an impression on her. Too much so.
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about,” Mrs. Blythe said. “His circumstances changed, and now he needs to work for a living. That’s what Thorncroft told me anyway.”
Rose wished to know more but knew better than to ask and give herself away. “I shall feel relieved to know your opinion,” Rose said to Mr. Hale. “You have excellent judgment.”
“You’re too kind, my lady. I shall report in if I discover anything untoward.”
As Hale left, Rose observed Mrs. Blythe’s gaze following him out the door with an expression in her eyes that, if pressed, Rose would have to describe as lovelorn.
How strange. They’d known each other for a long time.
Hale had been engaged to Lizzie at the time of Rose’s mother’s death.
Lizzie, who had been her mother’s loyal lady’s maid, had died just days after Lady Wentworth.
Her horse had been spooked by something—no one knew what.
From what Mrs. Blythe had told Rose, Hale had been devastated by the loss.
In her words, “He’s never been the same. ”
But that was a long time ago. Twelve years had passed. Was that enough time to heal a heart? Could he fall in love again?
“He’s a good man,” Rose said to Mrs. Blythe. “Handsome too.”
“I suppose one could say so. Lizzie was my dear friend. The love of his life, that she was.”
Rose wanted to pry further but didn’t want to offend Mrs. Blythe. “I must be off. Thank you.”
“Anything for you, my lady.”
The women exchanged loving smiles before Rose got up and hustled out of the office before poor Mrs. Blythe saw the emotion brewing in Rose’s chest. She had a sinking feeling that the ball might be the last fun she ever had.
Honoria Blackwell would be happy. Rose would not.