April and May

by Beth Elliot

  When at last Helena’s slow breathing betrayed that she slept, Rose sat up against her pillows and rested her arms on her knees. She stared at the endless succession of fast moving clouds across the sky. They flew past like her thoughts, which would not settle. It was reassuring that a sturdy man was out there to keep watch. Being followed by rogues was not a pleasant experience. And obviously Tom felt she needed protection.

  All evening she had been aware of Tom. Although she was still annoyed during dinner because he would not explain what the danger was, now she felt she understood his motives. “It’s better if you know nothing about the matter,” he had said. Well, she was not a child and could make her own decisions but sometimes it did feel good to be cared for. It occurred to her that Tom was not good at explaining why he did things, he just did the job.

  Rose frowned and dipped her face down onto her clasped hands. During that time they were in the hall alone together, she had seen Tom’s expression when he thought she was not looking. She sighed. Could she bear to sacrifice her present freedom for what might be just a brief moment of pleasure?

  Hugh had seemed handsome and agreeable before their wedding. But he had never shown any consideration for her as a person. Upon their marriage, she had just become his possession. And if Hugh was capable of loving, it was certainly not with her. She cringed at the memory of the embarrassing and humiliating sessions that were the only conjugal contact they ever had. Thankfully, they were not together for long before he was recalled to his ship.

  With Tom it would surely be different. They shared many interests and ideas, to start with. She lifted her head to stare at the clouds again. Even after all this time, the memory of Tom’s kisses was potent; she still recalled the effect on her body of being in his arms and craving every sensation he could give her. After seeing the softened look on his face this evening, Rose at last admitted to herself that she wanted to recapture that delightful sense of pleasure. Tom would not treat her like Hugh had done. She knew that. A little smile curved her lips. She slid down into the bed and almost at once fell asleep.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Early the following afternoon Rose made her way down to the library. Everyone else was out and she intended to use the time to complete some sketches for her uncle’s next public conference. Before starting on that task, she flicked through her own small sketchbook, smiling at some of the views and portraits of the past few months. A pencil profile of Sebastian, taken during the voyage home, a view of Gibraltar – not very good, she grimaced to herself, there had not been enough time there, other quick sketches of Helena and her aunt and so on. Then she turned to her latest picture and tilted her head to one side. Yes, it was a good likeness.

  The picture was of Kerim Pasha but dressed as Count Varoshenyi. He stared out from the page with his regal look, the hawklike features emphasised by the stylish clothes. Western dress suited his tall figure better than the eastern pantaloons with their loose folds. Rose turned back to a painting she had made in Constantinople, of the Pasha in his blue tunic and pantaloons, with his neat little beard and white turban on his proud head.

  A smile lit her face as she remembered his kindness and his very evident admiration. She admitted that he was a fascinating man but there was no comparison in what she felt for him and the way she felt about Tom. On an impulse she picked up the charcoal and quickly drew Tom’s head in profile. She outlined his broad forehead, his proud nose and the firm yet full lips. She shaded in the hollows beneath his high cheekbones. Then she started on the unruly hair and chuckled as she drew in the tangles. No matter what he did, it curled and twisted its own way.

  Rose was still thinking of Tom and still smiling later, while completing the painting of a mummy for Sir Philip. She did not notice the tap on the door. It was not until Billy, the new footman coughed discreetly just behind her that she jumped and came back to reality.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you, ma’am,’ he said. ‘Cor, ma’am, that looks real, that does.’ He nodded at the picture of the mummy, brightly coloured now.

  Rose wiped her fingers on a rag. ‘Thank you. But did you come in just to admire my work?’

  ‘No, ma’am, sorry, ma’am. There’s a visitor here and only you at home.’

  Rose frowned at him. ‘I am working. Could you not say there is no one at home? Where is Hudson?’

  Billy shook his head. ‘Hudson’s in the wine cellar, doing the new order. It looks like a real important gentleman, ma’am. He’s asking about the new expedition.’

  ‘Oh, very well.’ She examined her hands for any trace of paint and went out to the front drawing room.

  The visitor did not stay long. Rose smiled and said all the correct things about his interest in the forthcoming expedition to Cairo. As soon as she had seen him off, she returned to the study. She glanced at the bureau where she had propped up her picture of Tom. It was not there. Rose shook her head. Had she become absent-minded? Where had she put it? Her irritation with herself quickly turned to alarm as it became obvious the sketchbook was missing.

  Rushing out into the hall, she called for Billy. At last another footman appeared. Billy was sent for but he could not be found anywhere. By now Rose’s heart was beating uncomfortably. The pictures in that sketchbook could be dangerous if they fell into the wrong hands. She must tell Tom at once. He had men working for him, he would know what to do. She darted into Hudson’s little cupboard and pulled down an old cloak kept there for rainy days.

  ‘I will not b-be long,’ she informed the footman, who was staring at her in shock. ‘I must just go to Bolton Street.’ She gestured to him to open the door. Even as he hesitated, there came a loud thud on the knocker. The footman gulped and turned the handle. He swung the door open and Kerim Pasha stepped inside.

  He looked towards Rose and smiled. He held up her sketchbook.

  She gaped at him. ‘Thank heavens! But how -’ Then, pulling herself together, she ushered her guest into the drawing room.

  ‘How did you find that so quickly?’ Even as she asked the question, her face flamed. He must have seen all the sketches. She found she could not meet his eyes.

  There was a pause. Then Rose heard his soft chuckle. ‘I am very flattered, Rose. Not one but two pictures of me. And both very like,’ he added in a thoughtful tone.

  ‘I should hope so,’ she said abruptly, ‘if I did them at all.’

  ‘Oh, everything is very good. But in the wrong hands it could be a problem.’

  She did look up at that. ‘However did you get it?’

  For answer, he walked over to the window and beckoned her to join him. He indicated the street. ‘Do you not think there are a lot of people out there today. I mean crossing sweepers, grooms, delivery boys, strangers passing by?’

  She nodded, comprehension dawning. ‘They are all watching this house?’

  ‘Precisely! And when your footman was seen hurrying away to a certain tavern, he was er..’ he made a slicing motion with his hand, ‘stopped before he could hand this over.’

  ‘I should have kept it hidden,’ she said, holding out her hand to take the book.

  He smiled. ‘Well, it has been very useful. And may I say, I am flattered.’ He kept hold of the book and moved back to the centre of the room. ‘This is my farewell visit, Rose. What do you say to the ceremony of tea in your fashion?’

  She had to laugh. ‘Very well. But I am so sorry we are going to lose you.’ She rang to order the tea. ‘By the way, there is a package for dear Latife. It is here, ready to be sent round to your address.’

  He looked at the large crate standing near the door. ‘But that is almost as much as my own personal luggage. Whatever is in it?’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh, porcelain, a picture, fans … some jewellery. My aunt and my sister also wanted to send gifts.’

  He shook his head. ‘As I said before, I will never understand women. But you are all very kind. I am sure Latife will write to you.’

  ‘I should like that,’ she said eag
erly, indicating to Hudson where to place the tray.

  ‘Hudson, is it not?’ said Kerim Pasha, ‘I fear you will not see the young footman again.’

  Hudson looked pained. ‘Billy, do you mean, sir? I hear as how he’s run off.’ He looked at Rose for confirmation.

  ‘It seems he is not trustworthy,’ nodded Rose.

  ‘Only took him on when you all came up from the country, ma’am. He had good references but you never can tell, these days.’ He shook his head sadly and padded out.

  They drank their tea. At last Kerim Pasha gave up the sketchbook. He stood to take his leave. ‘I thank you for your gift to my little sister,’ he said in his soft velvet voice, ‘but the best gift I could take her would be you, Rose.’ He took a deep breath as she whitened. ‘No, I know very well that you would not come – not as I wish – I am not blind. I see how you look at Hawkesleigh. I just wanted to tell you.’ He looked at her, infinite sadness in his eyes.

  Rose looked steadily back. She could feel the tears gathering in her eyes and blinked hard, willing them back.

  ‘No tears,’ he said, ‘but may I be presumptuous and steal a kiss?’

  She nodded and turned her cheek towards him. But he pulled her to him with strong hands and planted a sweet, strong kiss on her pretty lips. There was a sudden noise at the door. Kerim Pasha raised his head just as Lady Benson marched into the room.

  ‘Upon my word!’ exclaimed that lady in a tone of outrage. She swelled with indignant wrath. Rose and Kerim Pasha exchanged a glance. Whatever embarrassment she had felt at such a kiss was lost when he winked at her. She bit her lip to hide her smile. He seized her hand and bowed over it. Rose clung onto his fingers but at length he let her go and turned to the goggling newcomer.

  ‘Madam. You see me taking my farewells. Excuse me, I must speak to Sir Philip about that footman.’ He inclined his head, reached the door and turned, raising his eyebrows expressively to Rose as he went out. She turned away from her unwelcome visitor and picked up the teacups. It was a mistake. They rattled in their saucers as she restored them to the tray.

  Lady Benson was torn between outrage and disappointment. ‘Well for you if he is going away. I never saw such conduct. It does you no credit. How long does he go for? He will miss my musicale.’ This last was almost a wail.

  Rose bit back a sharp retort. She was in no mood for Lady Benson’s impertinent questions.

  ‘Such a distinguished air,’ continued that lady, clasping her hands to her bosom, ‘even if his manners are somewhat forward.’ She eyed Rose malevolently. ‘Perhaps I should give you a hint, Mrs Charteris. A young widow cannot be too careful in today’s censorious world.’

  ‘Pray do not give yourself the trouble,’ flashed Rose. ‘My aunt is all the chaperon I need.’

  Lady Benson gave an angry titter. ‘All she sees is her ancient scripts.’

  Rose strode to the bellrope and pulled hard. To her relief, Hudson appeared speedily.

  ‘Lady Benson is just leaving,’ she stated coldly. ‘Good afternoon ma’am.’

  ‘Foolish girl,’ spluttered the angry matron, ‘do you think the matter ends like this?’

  Rose shrugged. When she heard the door close behind the older woman, she grabbed her sketchbook and raced upstairs to her room. She opened the page with the portrait of Kerim Pasha in his western clothes. She swallowed hard and turned back to look at him as an Oriental potentate. A tear spilled out. Rose blinked it away. She was only sad for him and his obvious pain.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The following morning Aunt Emily announced that she urgently required a certain lexicon but had no time to go out and buy it.

  ‘I wonder, Rose dear, if you would be willing? I know you always welcome a chance to visit the bookshops. Take Prue with you. Helena is assisting your uncle and Max and they have already gone out in the coach.’ She rustled the papers in her hand, frowned with an effort of memory and looked up again. ‘Oh - while you are in that direction perhaps you could call in at Hardings. I absolutely must have another pair of gloves. Mine are all so dirty. It must be the dust and the charcoal when I show the pictures. And now, if you will excuse me, I simply must finish my paper for the talk this afternoon.’

  So Rose set off on foot with Prue, not at all sorry for a chance to visit the magnificent drapers’ shop, as interesting to her as the hieroglyphs to her aunt and sister. In her haste, she forgot about taking one of the footmen for protection. They dealt with the lexicon first then arrived at Hardings in Pall Mall. The shop was busy but it did not take long to find the new gloves.

  ‘Is that everything, then?’ said Prue, tucking the neatly wrapped parcel under one arm. But Rose was in no hurry to leave this vast store so she made the excuse that she wanted new ribbons for her blue morning gown. On the way to find ribbons, Rose trailed from counter to counter, entranced by Indian muslins here, silks and gauzes there and exclaiming aloud over the range of attractive scarves and stoles. She looked longingly but reminded herself that she had sufficient items for the present.

  ‘Everything is very tempting, Prue,’ she coaxed the frowning maid, ‘We don’t often get the chance to come here, so please be patient. Oh, look at that beautiful lace – I could trim my evening dress with that, it would be so charming.’

  ‘Give over, Miss Rose,’ Prue objected out of habit but then she sighed and followed her mistress, who had already darted to the counter. Rose was happily debating between two delicate patterns when she heard someone speak her name. Turning to look, her heart sank. What bad luck! She had not realised the person next to her was Miss Delamere. Julia had one gloved hand on a huge tangle of ribbons strewn across the counter.

  ‘Are you in hopes of receiving an invitation to another ball, Mrs Charteris?’ said Julia Delamere with a titter. ‘It is so hard, is it not, when one must strive to disguise the fact that the dress is the same one yet again.’ She glanced at the lace patterns and sniffed, raising her sharp little nose in the air.

  Rose did not trouble to reply to this spite. She turned her attention back to the lace in her hands, deciding on which one would go best with the jonquil silk.

  ‘We are here to select trimmings for my new gowns,’ continued Julia, with emphasis on the new. ‘Mama wishes me to look my very best.’ She waited hopefully but Rose merely inclined her head and tried to catch the salesman’s eye to make her purchase.

  ‘It is very important, you see,’ went on Julia in a confidential tone. ‘Mama is certain that I can expect a proposal from Mr Hawkesleigh very shortly.’

  This had the desired effect. Rose opened her eyes very wide and looked her interest.

  Julia nodded. ‘Mr Hawkesleigh is very much the prodigal son. There was some quarrel in the family a few years back and he was sent abroad. His grandmother left him a snug estate but while Mr Hawkesleigh’s father was alive, he would not allow his son to have the property. Luckily, Sir Frederick is more generous.’

  Rose could not help wanting to know more. ‘You seem very well informed on this matter,’ she ventured.

  Julia gave a shrill laugh. ‘Oh, we have known the Hawkesleighs for ever. Now he has come into his inheritance, he will be looking to settle down, Mama says. And of course, we are neighbours down at Southercombe. She says if I look my best, he cannot fail to be attracted.’ She gave another irritating titter and indicated the handful of ribbons in front of her. ‘So here I am, buying a few fripperies.’ She cast Rose a sidelong glance. ‘Mama is planning a party to welcome him back to England.’

  ‘But he has been back for some time,’ observed Rose in a sharper tone than she meant to use.

  Julia waved her hand, setting her bangles jingling. ‘Of course, it would not have been proper while he was still in disgrace with his family. Everything is different now he is established in his property, Mama says.’ She plucked a roll of red ribbon from the pile and thrust it at the shop assistant. ‘This one! Be quick, man.’

  Prue muttered something uncomplimentary but Rose merely d
ug an elbow in her ribs to silence her. Let Julia pay and go. She did not want any more of her confidences. It definitely felt that she was being warned off. She glanced at Julia. How much did she know of Tom’s old links with herself? If they really were neighbours at Southercombe, Julia could have heard something from Rose’s old school friend.

  She decided to try. ‘Is Lady Hawkesleigh well?’ she asked Julia, who was drumming her fingers on the counter while the assistant painstakingly rolled the length of ribbon and wrapped it in tissue paper.

  Julia opened her pale eyes wide. ‘I was not aware you knew the Dowager Lady Hawkesleigh?’

  Rose shook her head. ‘No, I have never met her. I am asking about Jane. She was at school with me.’

  It was obvious Julia did not know that. Rose felt relief. So Julia was just warning her not to get in the way of her planned conquest of Tom. But as she watched Julia saunter away, Rose was dismayed by how much venom she felt towards this girl. She paid for her purchase, scarcely aware of what she was doing. Tom must not marry Julia, in fact he must not marry anyone. She stopped short, her mind in a whirl. Surely she was not seriously contemplating giving up her freedom?

  ‘Come on, Miss Rose. We haven’t got all day.’ Prue’s impatient tones penetrated the tumult in her mind. Rose followed the maid out into the street, her head bent down as she accepted the inevitable conclusion. Was that why she had felt nothing more than admiration for Kerim Pasha? Was that why she had taken pleasure in donning her best dresses for evening dinners and outings? Surely, she, Rose Charteris had learned the lesson that no man was to be allowed close again!

  And yet…

  They were walking along Piccadilly by the edge of the Park, when a man approached Rose. He was dressed in clothes that marked him as a foreigner, probably a seaman. He had a bonnet pulled down over his ears. His thin face was swarthy and his eyes were as dark as olives.