Moreover, it enhanced her other concern. Every time she looked at the dratted woman something in her mind pulled at her. It felt as if a long-forgotten memory was trying to resurrect itself, but no matter how it fought, it never unearthed itself.
There was something familiar about that woman, but she just could not remember what it was. Going back to her chair she took up the book but tried to delve into her memory instead.
This Miss Hall was beautiful—and her jaw clenched when she reflected on it—but there was something about her face that she found familiar. Again, the memory tugged but she could not place it. Huffing out a frustrated breath, she recalled how the seamstress would look so attentive the few times she and Isabella had mentioned Mary.
She was attentive… a bit too attentive. It was as if she was waiting for a mere mention of the woman. Her book dropped… could it be her? Could it be the sister Mary had mentioned once or twice? Was it her?
If was a long shot in the dark, but Amanda was not going to let another of that lot ruin her life. She had gotten rid of Mary, and if needs be, she would get rid of this interloper too
Chapter 21
Four long nights and five short days had come around and she and Jane’s hard work had finally produced the golden wedding dress. Between burning the midnight oil on the dress and trying to digest that Mary had been Lord Ogbent’s paramour, Rosaline had barely slept in those days. She did not know what to think and her perception of her sister was being shaken.
Even though her soul was burning for answers, she did not have much time to ponder it. With nothing much more to do, Rosaline had to let Jane go. Jane, however, had not wanted to leave but Rosaline assured her.
“Be sure, Jane,” she said with a smile, “I will continue to tutor you even after this dress is done. You remind me of myself at that age and you have a wonderful gift.”
The young woman had departed yesterday with that comfort in her heart, but Rosaline was anxious. It was time for a fitting, but Rosaline did not know how her request would be received. Miss Fawcett had been reluctant into giving her a fitting, but this time, it was unavoidable. Lady Ogbent was out with the Duchess seeing the parish church where the marriage was to be performed.
She knocked on the lady’s door with the expectations that she would be rejected. “Come.”
Entering the shadowed room, Rosaline barely saw the outline of Miss Fawcett. “Good day, Miss Fawcett.”
“What do you want?”
Swallowing her irritation, Rosaline asked, “I will understand if you are reticent, My Lady, but I would like for you to do a fitting for me. The dress is done, but we need to make sure it fits. We need to make sure there is no tightness or loose areas.”
Bracing for rejection, she was surprised when Lady Fawcett drawled, “Very well.”
“I will send in the maid and leave you to get dressed, My Lady,” Rosaline curtsied. “I will wait outside and then escort you to the workroom.”
Stepping out of the room, Rosaline gestured for the waiting servant to enter the room. She stood at the doorway until Miss Fawcett emerged in a thin robe, and she could see the chemise underneath.
Her golden hair was still in her silk bonnet and her pale face looked tired. It is nearly eleven o’clock, how can she sleep for so long and still be tired?
“Right this way, My Lady,” Rosaline directed.
They descended to the second floor, and there Rosaline opened the door for her. After closing it behind them, she then directed Miss Fawcett to a newly-erected dressmaker’s platform with two steps leading to it. She then wheeled a large oval looking glass to the side of the platform.
“Please, get undressed,” Rosaline asked while she went to get the chemise and stays.
Miss Fawcett undid the tie of her robe and pulled it off. She then handed it over to Rosaline who, though she had her hands full, took the robe. The chemise Miss Fawcett had on was beautiful and very expensive if Rosaline knew her trade. The garment was embroidered with vines and tiny, delicate flowers. The stitching was so fine, it must have taken the maker months to make.
Schooling her gaze, Rosaline asked, “Miss Fawcett, the chemise must come off too. This is a fitting for the whole dress.”
“No,” the lady snapped. “A chemise is a chemise. If you cannot dress me in this, then you are worthless.”
Brushing off the insult, Rosaline mounted the platform and fitted the stays over her. As the garment was long, she reached around to pull it and her hand accidentally met Miss Fawcett’s stomach.
“Ouch!” the lady snarled and slapped her hand away, “Stop bruising me, you heavy-handed oaf.”
Rosaline snatched her hand back and rested it to her chest. She did not say a word but went to fit the stays in place when Miss Fawcett cried, “They are too tight. Loosen them.”
Swiftly, Rosaline added up the clues. Miss Fawcett slept for most of the day, her stomach was uneasy, and her bosom was tender. Moreover, she knew what she had felt under her hand. The lady’s lower stomach was a bit swollen. Could it be that she was increasing?
“My Lady…” Rosaline asked carefully, “Are you well?”
Miss Fawcett did not answer for a few moments but when she did, her tone was stiff, “I am near my monthly, Miss Hall, and I have a very delicate nature. I get very ill at times.”
“My sympathies,” Rosaline added while doubts plagued her mind.
On one hand, the lady could be telling the truth about her female condition, Rosaline knew many women had it hard in those times, but then…seeing how pale the lady had gotten, not in alarm but in fear.
Could it be...could it be that Miss Fawcett is pregnant?
Norman was getting agitated. Where was the report he had requested on the Ogbents? He had put off Lord Ogbent’s request to discuss their business dealings twice already and he did not know if he could do it a third time without the man becoming suspicious.
Pressure was mounting and as the days drew closer to his wedding day, instead of an increase in happiness, he felt as if a noose was tightening itself around his neck. He felt no connection with Miss Fawcett, no matter how he tried. He had to break the engagement, but he knew that doing so would destroy his mother.
In all other matters that did not profit him, he would have already walked away with no remorse but this one hamstrung him. He felt obligated to do his mother’s bidding like a child in leading strings. But he was not going to tolerate it much longer. He was loyal, yes but he was not about to sacrifice his life for the sake of fulfilling his ‘obligation’ to the higher class by marrying a blue blood if she did not interest him.
The disintegration of his and Evan’s relationship was another sticking point for him. The rift had eventually affected Radcliffe who was a mutual friend of the two, and Norman had not been surprised when the lord of Belthyne suddenly took a trip to the Scottish Isles. It was the Scotsman way of saying, ‘Get your act together and stop acting like children.’
Thirdly, Rosaline’s absence chafed him. He knew he was playing a dangerous game with the young woman who he had forced into walking on the edge of a precipice. If she was found to have any other dealings with him than the given one, she would be made a pariah.
Just thinking of Rosaline’s lovely face prodded a curious thought. That morning when he had taken her back from the sweet-shop and had uttered the name Mary, she had gone undeservedly pale. Why had that been? It was a look of horror, one given for a person that was familiar. Did Rosaline know Mary?
How could she? Mary was the Ogbents’ maid, in a town far away from here.
Still, the idea nagged at him and he called his steward in. “Mr. Dodge, excellent. I need you to send an investigator to find if Miss Rosaline Hall was related to or had any connection with a woman named Mary.”
“Do you have a last name for this Mary, Your Grace?” the man asked.
Norman’s lips thinned, “No, I do not, but apparently, she was in the Ogbent household. Which I still have not seen the report on.”
“With all due respect, Your Grace,” the steward replied, “the territory controlled by that family is almost half a country away. I understand that the report was requested almost a month ago, but it will be completed and given to you as soon as I have it.”
Another problem…Norman sighed and turned the conversation elsewhere, “How are we on the budget for the seed buying and farming tools allotment for the farmers?”
“Please,” Mr. Dodge said, “let me get my ledger and I will be right with you.”
Waving him off, Norman again contemplated on his problem with Miss Fawcett. Marriage might be a main measuring stick of society’s norms, but no one was going to rule his destiny but him. Tonight was going to be her last chance of the three he had originally given Miss Fawcett and he both anticipated and dreaded it.
Closing the book on Greek Gods, Rosaline set it aside and stood. The manor was quiet, and the subtle chirps of birds were the only sounds that broke up the still air. Yesterday had bombarded her senses with battering irons. She had learned that Mary had been Lord Ogbent’s mistress, and that there was a possibility that Miss Fawcett was increasing.
She did not know which one was more troubling—that her sister had been a mistress or that Miss Fawcett could have had pre-material relations with a man. The lady was engaged to the Duke for mercy’s sake!
Virtue was the key to any marriage, and it was much more so for those of the upper-tier. Miss Fawcett was probably right in telling her about her encroaching days of her monthly. There was not the slightest possibility that she was with child, and how preposterous was it for Rosaline to even suspect something as outrageous as that!
It was evening and her work on the stays and chemise had been finished hours ago. There was still a little more to be done on the dress itself, but that could be done tomorrow.
Craving some fresh air, Rosaline sought the solace of the garden but somehow, she was drawn further, towards the stables. The Duke was slated to be with Miss Fawcett that evening so, probably, she wouldn’t see him. But she did want to see the horses.
The stable boy with unruly brown hair, she didn’t know his name, who was shucking hay, greeted her. “Good mornin’ Miss. I’m Henry.”
“Good morning Henry,” she returned, “Could you allow me inside? I just wanted to see some of the horses.”
He brushed his hands off. “Sure, Miss. Righto’.”
She stood still, enjoying the calm balmy evening while the boy did away with his shovel. “Right this way, Miss. We have twelve horses here Miss, mostly some hardy thoroughbreds, but we have three Clydesdales, four Hackneys, and two Welsh ponies.”
“Forgive me,” Rosaline admitted, “I don’t know horses as well as you. What is the difference between each?”
“Er, it’s mostly, how they look. For example, the Clydesdale’s feet have long white or black hairs there. I call ‘em Old Men in my head ‘cause they remind me of my grandfather. The Hackneys though, they’re generally shorter than most but have broad chests an’ sloping shoulders.”
Moving slowly down the line, he pointed out which was which and she dared to touch a few, mostly the large Clydesdales as, despite their intimidating sizes, they had very gentle eyes. While patting one she asked over her shoulder, “And what of His Grace’s horse, Goliath, I believe?”
“Oh, he’s an Arabian bred, English thoroughbred mare and an Arabian stallion,” Henry added, “That is one massive horse, I must say. Temperamental, too. He can glare like any old codger. You’d think there’s a spirit of a man in him.”
“That would be my grandfather, Cyrus.”
Instantly, her heart leaped into her throat. Turning around, she followed through with a curtsy, “Good evening, Your Grace.”
His hands were clasped behind his back and his gaze cool and level, but Rosaline could feel his eyes burning her skin. “My grandfather, Cyrus, was aptly named for his namesake, who was a warrior, could subdue any with a mere look. So, Henry, I must give you credit for your fitting observation.”
The boy’s shoulders, tense in knowing that he had spoken out of place, sank in relief, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Henry,” the Duke said to the stable-boy without taking his eyes off Rosaline, “will you go fetch a few apples from the storehouse for me?”
It was dangerous for her to be left with him alone, and all three knew it, but the boy couldn’t object to his master’s wishes and ran off. Thankfully, the Duke stood in his place while she maintained hers.
“I believed you would be with Miss Fawcett this evening,” Rosaline said quietly.
“As did I,” he shrugged, “but she is under the weather. Stomach pains I believe.”
Her instinct was to blurt out that probably it was not only stomach pains but the onset of early pregnancy, but she stopped herself. Not only could her accusation, if found false, destroy her, but it would also paint the Duke in a terrible light.
“I should go,” she said.
“Please, stay,” he replied quietly, “only for a moment.”
Henry came back panting with his bunched-up shirttail as a makeshift basket for the apples which he uncovered and handed over, “Here you go, Your Grace.”
“Miss Hall,” the Duke said while handing one to her.
Admittedly, she hesitated before taking it, and when she did, she tried to ignore the feeling of his touch, “Which horse, Your Grace?”
“Whichever you choose,” he added.
She turned and her first instinct was to feed the large bay-colored Clydesdales, but she found herself before Goliath. The animal’s dark eyes did glare, and his nose released a contemptuous snort, but she offered the apple to him anyway.
His nose nudged her hand away, but she put it back. Goliath nudged her hand again, and once more, she offered the apple. He tossed his head and stepped back with more harsh snorts, but she stayed there. Slowly, he came forward, nosed at her hand, and then bit the apple.
“Watch your fingers,” the Duke warned.
The deep voice barely resonated in her ears as she was transfixed with observing the horse. The beast was smart, it seemed, as not once had she felt his teeth or tongue. With half the apple gone, he gently plucked up the other half with his lips and crunched through the core. Then he nosed at her hand, searching for more.
It felt as if feathers were flitting away from his eyes and his mind was crystal clear.
This…Norman realized as he drank in the sight of Rosaline feeding Goliath, This is what I need in my life. A woman who is not afraid to get physical or dirty. Someone who appreciates the simplest things in life. I doubt Miss Fawcett would deign to walk inside here much less touch a horse.
Henry handed her another apple which she also fed to the mammoth steed and after her third offering, she stopped. Goliath, clearly unfulfilled and wanting more, nosed at her for more and then, to his surprise, she softly slapped his jaw, “Stop being greedy. You’re big enough as it is.”
“You dare to abuse my horse, Miss Hall?” He teased.
“Abuse is an ugly word, Your Grace, and I prefer discipline,” she said while fondling his ears, “and I think it’s overdue for your giant. What do you feed him anyway, magic potions?”
“Nay,” Norman replied, “But he eats enough hay to build a thatched house.”
“Perhaps you can mix it with straw to cut down his intake,” Rosaline added while stepping away.
Good idea.
“…and mix his water with molasses,” she ended.
His eyebrows lifted. “Have you suddenly become a savant on horses, Miss Hall?”
“Your library has a lot of books on many subjects, Your Grace. I happened to read one about horses in my free time.” she turned to him and smiled, “If you will excuse me, I think I need to leave now, Your Grace.”
He did not want to let her go, but there was no reasonable excuse he could make to have her stay.
“You may, and good day, Miss Hall.” He nodded and forced himself to not watch her wa
lk away. “Henry, get Goliath’s saddle for me.”
She felt strange walking away. She usually would feel the Duke’s eyes following her but this time…they were absent. She felt bereft. Entering the house, she bumped into Miss Keats.
“Miss Keats, my apologies,” she said while stepping back.
“Miss Hall, I am so glad I ran into you,” she laughed at the play on words, “I was just about to come and find you. Lord and Lady Ogbent need to speak with you.”
This time her heart leaped for another reason. She had hoped to avoid the Ogbents for the next few days while she finished the dress, but her hope was now dashed.
The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 21