The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel

by Emma Linfield

  Was it all lost? Moreover, his affection for Miss Hall, what was he going to do about it? He was already furious at himself over the way he had gone about seeking after her. Norman knew he had wanted to kiss her that night, and he had done so after he had given her the chance to push him away or even slap him. But she had not.

  Instead, she had let him. She had ample time to go, but she had stayed and kissed him back. Did that mean something? Did that mean there was a spark there? Did that mean, even with his rejection, he had a chance?

  A knock was on his door and he turned to Mr. Colden, “Yes?”

  In the man’s hands were the three books he had directed the butler to give to Rosaline. “Miss Hall has asked me to return these you, Your Grace. She said she had tried to fit them in the library but there was no mark in the record book where they should go.”

  “Of course, there weren’t,” Norman sighed heavily, “because they’re from my private collection. Miss Hall has proved to be a stubborn sort, but she has not met me. Keep them, Mr. Colden, and tomorrow, send them right back.”

  The man’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline and mirth ticked at his lips. “Very well, Your Grace.”

  With him bowing out, Norman turned and refilled his glass. A smirk tugged at his lips, I can play this game for days on end Rosaline, will you break first?

  “Good God!” Rosaline exclaimed at seeing the thrice-damned books on her bed—again. This was the fifth time in six days and she could not take it anymore! Every time she had sent them back, they showed up again! Did the Duke not get the hint? What was she to do to show him they were not received? Could she throw them at his face?

  It was enough that Lord Ogbent was decided on—she did not know exactly what the older man was up to— but this! This was getting out of hand!

  She had just come from another trip to Mrs. Caddell and the peaceful Sunday that she had hoped would continue was now ruined.

  “Argh, what an infuriating, maddening, stubborn mule of a man!” Rosaline fumed. She was done with this game! Absolutely done! Yanking off her coat and bonnet, Rosaline grabbed the books and stormed to the Duke’s study.

  Coming in she had not seen any carriages in the driveway, so there was a good chance he did not have any visitors. She knew Lady Ogbent and Miss Fawcett were away in the nearby town, shopping for delicacies so they would not be there either.

  The butler came around a corner just as she breezed past him and stormed into the study with him on her heels. Marching up to the Duke Rosaline slammed the books on the desk, disrupting his paperweight and sending a few loose papers to the ground.

  “Your Grace, I—” Mr. Colden called in alarm.

  “It’s alright Mr. Colden,” the Duke’s tone was droll. “I’ll allow it, you may leave…” when the man was gone, he tiled his head to her “Well, come right in, Miss Hall. How do you do?”

  “I will not accept these,” Rosaline said tightly, “I don’t know what game you’re playing but it will not work…Your Grace.”

  “Well, if my effort was to get your attention, it is awake on every suit, don’t you think?” the man replied as he stood, braced his palms on the desk and leaned into her face. When he did Rosaline nearly bit her tongue in half. This was her second time she was seeing the Duke in his shirtsleeves, but this time his powerful body was on display,

  The thin shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, draping over his chest to fall to narrow hips. The shirt was partially unbuttoned, revealing the corded column of his throat, and a tempting glimpse of his muscled chest. He traced her eyes and smirked, “Oh, pardon me, I’m scandalizing you.”

  Doing up the last three buttons, he then sat and leaned back in his chair. “Miss Hall, do you remember me saying that you are the most stubborn person I have ever met?”

  That night on the terrace…cold wind…deep blue eyes…his warm lips.

  “Faintly,” she said.

  “Well I am more so,” he replied, “and I want you to have those books.”

  “I will not accept them,” Rosaline said stiffly.

  “Take them,” he ordered.

  “No.”

  “Where is this backbone coming from Miss Hall?” the Duke inquired.

  I cannot tell.

  “The books are a gift,” he pressed on, “Do you recall our meeting in the library? I know of your love for reading, Miss Hall, and I am only giving you them as a goodwill gift. It is very simple, you say thank you, and I move on to the others.”

  Her eyes widened, “The others? What others?”

  The Duke smile was enigmatic and maddening, “Did I say others? Excuse me, I slipped.”

  Exasperated fury was building in Rosaline’s body; she leaned in and glared at him, “I cannot believe you! You sit here, smug, laughing at my expense after twisting my head in knots, confusing my soul, aggravating my nerves, destroying my sensibilities with your—”

  He smirked and her jaw clenched even as she blushed. “—flippant attitude and now, you are pestering me to take these? Forgive me if I decline your good will, Your Grace, for you have pushed me farther than I thought I could go. Take the books back or they will be fuel for my evening fire.”

  A thick silence was in the room and the Duke’s face was still until his lips twitched and then his laugh, deep and sonorous, reverberated through the air.

  The heat of her anger flashed to the tips of Rosaline’s ears and she pulled back crossly. Looking at his continued mirth, her anger petered out in measured bouts, and when the red flame was gone, she found herself ashamed. Downright mortified. It would be a mercy for the Earth to open up its mouth and swallow her. How had she dared to just speak thus to a Duke?

  Was she mad?

  “I must say, my Mother did me a service bringing you here,” the Duke grinned, “Miss Hall, for my sake, take the books, they are yours. And thank you for letting me see that fire in your eyes. It is always welcomed. And wipe that remorse away. I will not send you to the pillory for making your mind known. Your wrath was well deserved. Indeed, I have pushed you and pushed you hard, for that I am sorry. But the matter remains, take the books.”

  Ashamed at her rant, and thankful for not being punished, Rosaline hesitantly dipped out a curtsy and took the books. At the doorway, she turned to see his head propped up with a fist and looking at her indulgently.

  “…Thank you, Your Grace,” she said barely above a whisper. Her eyes met his and her heart gave a silly little lurch at the joy on his face.

  “You are pardoned, Miss Hall.”

  The worry she had felt clogging her throat dissipated into nothing, and she ducked out of the study with her skin tingling. Halfway down the hall, she dared smile to herself. He is much more than I thought….

  A turning point—that was what Norman knew had just happened in his study. Rosaline was not at the point where he could become her acquaintance, and then a friend, but even as those were to come, he was sure that he had broken through her shell.

  It was only a matter of time and precise planning that would get him to the point he had wanted to get to. He was also contemplating how he was going to break the news to his mother that he had no intentions of marrying Miss Fawcett, but nothing solid plan came to mind even as the day stretched.

  It was near evening when Mr. Colden knocked and entered, “Your Grace, Her Grace and the Ogbents are asking for your company.”

  He frowned, “For?”

  “The premiere of the first third of Agamemnon at the theatre, Your Grace,” Mr. Colden replied, “Mr. Dunn has already prepared your clothes, I believe.”

  Noman’s first instinct was to cringe. Why on Earth would they want to watch such a despicable play? How would seeing the unfaithful Queen Clytemnestra, mad after the sacrifice of her daughter and planning the assassination of her husband King Agamemnon just so she could be with her long-time-lover Aegisthus, be good to anyone?

  “Thank you, Mr. Colden.”

  Groaning internally, Norman stood and carefully ci
rcumventing the sitting room where he could hear his mother’s voice, he got to his quarters in record time.

  “Mr. Dunn, good day,” Norman greeted curtly, “Let’s hurry.”

  Dressing in his dark silk breeches, white shirt, and royal blue waistcoat, Norman shrugged on his greatcoat while his cravat was being tied in a cascade knot.

  With his top hat on and with a purse of money, Norman said his thanks and bade his farewell. He was not looking forward to this night at all. Knocking at the sitting room door, Norman entered to see his Mother alone.

  “I believe it was going to be a party of five?”

  “The Ogbents are getting their coats,” the Duchess replied lightly as she stood, “Miss Keats has mine readied in the foyer.”

  Clad in a becoming maroon empire dress with delicate fichu around her shoulders and a patterned turban, the Duchess embodied grace and poise. Her benign nature fooled many into thinking she could be manipulated, but they soon knew their mistake.

  “Are you sure about this play, Mother?” Norman asked, “It is a horrific tale.”

  “Horrific as it might be, the actors always find a way to make it better,” said she, “And I have heard that Mr. Firth is doing an excellent job at playing the part of both Atreus and Agamemnon. It is just magnificent how an actor can pretend to be two people without mistaking each.”

  Mr. Firth, his stand-in was going to play another duplicitous role. Norman held his composure while recognizing the irony, “It is what they are trained for, Mother.”

  “It is,” she agreed.

  “Please do not come to me when they are crying of night terrors,” Noman added nonchalantly.

  “Your Graces,” Mr. Colden said politely at the doorway after a knock, “The Ogbents are ready.”

  Smiling, his mother patted his arm and they went to the foyer where all three were in evening coats. Norman greeted them evenly, making sure to not change his tone to a harsh one when shaking hands with Lord Ogbent.

  Extending his arm to Miss Fawcett who was looking cherublike in a golden chignon and white bandeau, he led the way to the waiting carriage.

  Tonight is going to be a long one….

  Mary had been sent to prison for stealing. Even after the weeks of knowing it, something just did not feel right to Rosaline. Even if her sister had been innocent, she could bet her life that no magistrate had even considered finding out the truth.

  There was no allowance for a servant to give their side of the story. If the master found you guilty, there was no other side to be told. Servants were found in droves, and just as easily were they discarded.

  No one had cared about Mary, in fact, there was a possibility that many were glad to see her gone as the coveted space of being a lady’s maid had just opened up. What was the truth of her sister’s situation? Was there any that she could find? Was she doomed to never know what had happened?

  I probably will never know.

  Tugging the soft sheets around her, Rosaline sat up against the padded headrest and trimmed the light of the lamp higher. On her lap was the first book the Duke had given her. It was a book of Greek gods and heroes.

  Opening the cover, her cheeks instantly warmed. The memory of that day—oh good God! She had acted like a termagant with the Duke and her attitude! Lord’s mercy! What had she been thinking? Who in their right mind screams at a Duke—one of the most powerful men on the continent—and then to hammer in the last nail, give him an ultimatum?

  She had been lucky to leave unscathed.

  The look he had given when she had departed though….it was so warm. Her eyes slipped to half-mast while she slipped off into a world of fantasy. That warm blue would meet me every morning when I wake up…that warm blue would smile at me when we walk through the garden. That warm blue would take on a mischievous light when he challenges me at being stubborn… that warm blue would go dark when he kisses me…a warmth that I could feel for the rest of my life…

  She sighed and shook her head. There she went again, imagining the impossible. But, did she have any base for thinking that way?

  The kiss? The way he looks at me? The way he held me so tenderly? The way his eyes light up when he sees me? The way he is not afraid to be candid with me? Are those any reasons at all?

  Shifting the book from her lap, Rosaline tugged out her bedside drawer and took out the first unfinished handkerchief. The edges were embroidered delicately, but the Kinsley seal nor the Duke’s initials were not done yet.

  Taking out her pencil, she softly sketched the outline of the shield, surrounded by stag horns and topped with the handle of a sword in a center. She then slipped out of bed to get her needles and thread. Perhaps this will tell him how sorry she was for her outburst.

  The play had ended at eight, at the very point where the chorus enigmatically declared of pending deaths. Norman had sat stone-faced when they saw the gruesome act of Atreus, Agamemnon's father, feeding the flesh of his brother Thyestes’ sons to him after discovering his sibling’s adultery with his wife Aerope. The scene was done with tastefully, but it was still horrific to see.

  As he had predicted, by the end of the play, Miss Fawcett was pale-faced and in tears. She had sniffed all through the ride home. Rolling his eyes, he bade the ladies a good night and went to his quarters to disrobe. It was too early for him to retire, so he went to his study and stoked the fire to a warm heat. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he sat and contemplated his next move with Rosaline.

  “Horenwall?”

  Norman broke his reverie to see Lord Ogbent standing there. Damnation! “I’m sorry to disturb you but I need to wind down after seeing that atrocity.”

  “I did warm my mother about the after effects,” Norman said while gesturing him in, “It is not a tale for the fainthearted. Wine, Ogbent?”

  “Something stronger if you have it, Horenwall,” the man murmured.

  “Whiskey it is,” Norman said with arched eyebrows, and after liberating a decanter, poured the man a glass.

  Taking his place, Norman strangely felt that the man had more on his mind than forgetting the gruesome images of the play, but he did not touch on it. Instead, he began a casual discussion, about trade agreements to the West Indies and the other colonies.

  Ogbent parried his statements with ease while he kept reaching for the whiskey, Norman had no mind to stop him. Perhaps when he was three sheets to the wind, he would say what was actually on his mind. While Ogbent drowned himself in whiskey, Norman casually sipped his wine and eventually stopped talking to listen instead.

  “My wife neva’ forgave me Norman…she neva’ understood that I loved the girl more than her. She didn’t see her beauty as I did…I see beauty in many people, Horenwall, just like your seamstress but…I cannot, will not, try anythin’ wi’ her.”

  Norman’s jaw clenched hard, it was a miracle that he did not throw the man out of his study just for admitting his dastardly intention for Rosaline.

  “…But she…she was wonderful. I loved her with all my heart…she was so kind an’ generous. She saw me an’ attended to me when my own wife didn’t give a fig. I loved her…”

  The Duke’s eyebrow arched. You had an affair right under the nose of your harpy wife? How much of an idiot are you?

  “… I loved Mary, so much…so bloody much…but then she died, and I could only buy her a coffin,” the man mourned while looking into the bottom of his glass.

  Settling his half-full glass on the table, Norman reached over and gently pried the man’s glass away, “That’s enough for you, Ogbent.”

  The man’s fingers were lax while he let go, “And the worst part…she begged me to tell her sister goodbye but…I did not know who she was…”

  Absently, Norman recorded the information, but he was mostly occupied with maneuvering the lord to his chaise-lounge. Propping a pillow under his head, Norman shook his head and left to get a few footmen. Having an affair with his eagle-eye wife under the same roof? Good God, what a buffoon.

 
On summoning the footmen, Norman felt that his suspicions about the Ogbents were true. They had secrets but how far did they go?

  Chapter 19

  This time, Rosaline was not afraid to go to the garden in the early hours of the morning. She was hoping the Duke would be there, but after wandering through it to the time the mist had risen and the sun began shining in earnest, she gave up.

  The handkerchief, now adorned with Kinsley family’s seal and the Duke’s initials written in gold thread, was in her pocket and was ready to be handed over, but there was no one to hand it over to.

  Sadly, she returned to the house and in her quarters and laid the handkerchief in a drawer.