Chapter 4 #2
The gowns intended for that evening's exhibition had already been sent to Madame Fournier before the invitation had been withdrawn, requiring only their final fitting and collection.
“There is no sense allowing perfectly good alterations to go to waste,” her mother declared briskly. “You and Isabella must fetch them at once.”
Thus, scarcely half an hour after returning home, the ladies found themselves once again in the carriage.
As Bond Street drew nearer, Isabella waited until Eastmere House had disappeared from view before breaking the comfortable silence.
“You are dreading tonight.”
Rosalind gave a humorless laugh. “Is it truly so obvious?”
“To me.” Isabella tilted her head. “Though I suspect your meeting with Lord William has improved your spirits a little.”
Rosalind looked at her sharply. “It has done no such thing.”
“Has it not?”
“He merely provided another piece of evidence.”
“Of course.”
Rosalind narrowed her eyes. “You are insufferable.”
Isabella's smile only widened.
Rosalind looked away, watching rows of elegant townhouses drift past the carriage window.
“I have no heart for it, Isabella,” she said after a moment.
“The exhibition itself would once have been pleasant enough. Now all I can think of are the whispers. Every conversation that stops the moment I enter a room. Every person wondering whether Father abandoned us because he grew tired of us.”
Isabella's teasing faded. “You do not know that they will.”
“I do.” She rested her head briefly against the squabs. “I almost wish the invitation had remained withdrawn.”
Isabella regarded her steadily. “And surrender the field entirely?”
Rosalind looked back at her as she continued.
“If your father truly disappeared against his will, every gathering in London is another opportunity to hear something someone else has overlooked. Servants listen. Gentlemen talk too freely. Ladies repeat everything.”
Rosalind recalled Nelly saying much the same only yesterday. Great houses ran on servants, and servants saw far more than anyone ever credited them for.
People rarely mind their tongues around servants.
A reluctant smile touched Rosalind's lips. “You make society sound almost useful.”
“It occasionally is.”
The carriage began to slow as it turned onto Bond Street.
“Besides,” Isabella added, “if tonight proves unbearable, at least Lord William shall be there to rescue you from the conversation.”
Rosalind stared at her. “He most certainly shall not.”
“No?”
“No.”
“A pity.”
Rosalind folded her arms. “You seemed considerably more occupied with Mr. Frost than with my affairs.”
It was Isabella's turn to blink. “Mr. Frost?”
“The gentleman engaged in mortal combat with the geese.”
A flush crept into Isabella's cheeks. “He is... rather impossible.”
“And yet you were smiling.”
“I smile at many people.”
“Not like that.”
Isabella laughed, hiding her embarrassment behind an exaggerated sigh. “I have begun to regret attempting to improve your spirits.”
Rosalind laughed with her. “And I have begun to think we ought never speak of either gentleman again.”
“Agreed.”
They exchanged a knowing smile just as the carriage rolled to a halt before Madame Fournier's shop.
“Though,” Isabella murmured as the footman opened the door, “I make no promises.”
Rosalind only shook her head, still smiling as they descended into the street.
The familiar bell chimed overhead as they entered.
Madame Fournier greeted them warmly before sending her assistant to fetch the gowns. Rosalind scarcely noticed any of it.
The fitting room beyond the showroom stood separated only by heavy velvet curtains.
Voices drifted easily through the fabric.
“…never expected Lord Eastmere of all gentlemen…”
“…ran away, they say…”
“…left his wife and daughter to endure the humiliation…”
Rosalind stood very still as Isabella glanced toward the curtain.
“…poor Lady Rosalind…”
A second voice answered with unmistakable satisfaction.
“Poor?” Sophronia Marsh’s laugh was light, almost musical. “I hardly think so. She has merely discovered that breeding cannot improve bad blood.”
Rosalind felt Isabella stiffen beside her.
Another lady lowered her voice. “Surely you do not believe the earl simply abandoned them?”
“What else is there to believe?” Sophronia replied. “A gentleman does not vanish unless he has something—or someone—to escape.”
Soft laughter rippled through the showroom.
Rosalind kept her breath steady while the assistant returned with the gowns and Madame Fournier with a satisfied smile. The woman appeared blissfully unaware of the conversation unfolding beyond the curtain.
“Is there anything else you need?”
Rosalind shook her head.
She would not allow herself to cry. Not here. Not over the opinions of women who had never known her father.
Even so, every murmur beyond the curtain settled beneath her skin, each laugh pricking more sharply than the pins Madame Fournier used to expertly alter the gowns.
Mercifully, they were ready to depart.
Before they could, the cackling women pushed the velvet curtain aside and entered the showroom; the conversation ceased so abruptly that the silence itself became an accusation.
Sophronia Marsh noticed them first.
Surprise flashed across her face before disappearing beneath a smile polished enough to rival the mirrors lining the walls.
“Lady Rosalind,” she said warmly. “What a pleasant surprise.”
Rosalind met the greeting with equal composure. “Lady Sophronia.”
No one else spoke.
Sophronia's gaze drifted briefly to the gowns beside Rosalind before returning to her face. “I do hope we shall see you this evening.”
“You shall.”
“How wonderful.” She tilted her head with practiced sympathy. “I confess I had wondered whether your family might prefer a little privacy until... matters had settled.”
“My mother and I have nothing to hide.”
“No,” Sophronia agreed pleasantly. “I suppose not.”
Sophronia stepped nearer, lowering her voice just enough that everyone in the room instinctively leaned closer. “Do not concern yourself overmuch about this evening,” she said with practiced kindness. “With so many eligible ladies in attendance, I imagine you shall pass quite unnoticed.”
Her smile never faltered.
“Perhaps that will prove a mercy.”
The words were spoken so gently that anyone overhearing them might have mistaken them for sympathy.
Rosalind heard only the insult.
Sophronia inclined her head and swept toward the door, leaving a silence behind her that felt somehow louder than the gossip had been.
The bell chimed brightly overhead as she departed, and only then did the ladies around her begin speaking again, their voices little more than cautious murmurs.
Rosalind remained where she was.
She had expected whispers. She had not expected to hear them spoken to her face.
Beside her, Isabella quietly slipped her arm through hers.
“Come,” she said softly.
Rosalind drew a slow breath before allowing herself to be led toward the waiting carriage.
Hyde Park had given her hope.
Madame Fournier's had reminded her what she was up against.
If society had already condemned Lord Eastmere, then tonight would not simply be an exhibition.
It would be a battlefield.