"There now, poppet," soothed the nurse, "your yellow ones are fine. And if you do not hasten, your dinner will be cold. 'Tis already nigh on one."
"But the yellow ones aren't new," insisted Lucina, bursting into fresh tears. "I want my red ones."
The nurse rolled her eyes at Margery. The maid heaved a sigh of defeat. Both turned to Rozalinde.
"Fetch the red ribbons, Margery. Let us sit, love." Rozalinde sat on a stool and patted her lap. The little one went into her arms and nestled close, her eyes now suspiciously dry.
"You may wear the red ribbons tonight, Luce," Roz told her, "but after they must be laid away until next month. The yellow were to last all through June and only then might you wear the red. So 'tis just this once. Do you understand?"
"Aye, sister," the little wench whispered meekly, having got her way. "But could I not wear them on Sunday as well?"
"No, you may not." Roz touched the child's nose with one fingertip in a teasing gesture, but accompanied it with a firm glance. "And tomorrow, you will do an extra figure on your sampler to earn the privilege of wearing the new ribbons tonight."
"Extra!" moaned Lucina, puckering up to cry. " 'Tis uncommon cruel."
But Rozalinde was not fooled. "It's a fair exchange," she admonished. Lucina sat docilely as the nurse came in with red ribbons and Roz tied up the child's glossy hair. "Where," she asked of Margery as she worked, "is Angel?"
"I did dress 'er earlier, as I told 'e," said Margery, who gotten Matthew into his stocks and fastened his garters, "I sent her down to see Cook. For a tidbit or two."
"Then pray she has stayed out of mischief." Rozalinde finished Lucina's ribbons and prepared to leave the room. She had to check the kitchens before she might sit down to dine. The house servants had fought unceasingly with the hired caterers ever since they'd arrived. 'Twould be a wonder if they didn't come to blows. And her mother was having a hard time keeping her father off his feet, making him rest. His color was bad these days. She would definitely have to hurry. She had just let Luce up and turned for the door when three-year-old Angelica toddled in and stood in the entry, grinning from ear to ear. The nurse let out a shriek of dismay. Margery just stood and stared, her mouth hanging wide. Angelica had a jam spoon in one hand, which she waved at everyone in greeting. And the entire front of hen best kirtle was stained the bright purple of plums.
Rozalinde let out an audible groan. Everyone in the room was eyeing her, as usual, waiting to see what she would do. Well, there was no help for it. Briskly she took her sister in hand. "Angel, you were to stay out of mischief, but here you are in trouble again. How did this come about?"
"Jam did it," insisted the diminutive lass, toddling willingly after Rozalinde. '
"But now I shall have to wash you," Roz protested, entering her own chamber and wetting a cloth at the ewer. "Did you ever stop to think of the mess? I'll never understand how you are always in trouble. Do you go looking for it?"
"It looks for me."
Roz bent over to mop her sister's hands, shielding her face to hide her smile. Her second one that day, it surprised her.
"Rosie wroth?" Angelica lisped, coaxing with the pet name she had used when younger because she could not get her mouth around Rozalinde.
Roz shivered as she heard it, instantly reminded of the stranger in the shop who had called her Rose. "No, dear," she told her, straightening up and kissing her sister's soft cheek. "I was only thinking about nicknames."
"What about them?"
Roz shook her head soberly, willing herself to forget the stranger. "Nothing," she said gently, leading her sister from the room. "Nothing at all. I was only wondering how it happened we were mad enough to nickname you Angel."
It was nigh on two of the clock before Rozalinde had cleaned up the mess and redressed Angelica, then admonished all the kitchen staff several times over about gossiping, especially on the subject of pirates.
Everyone was worse than usual, it seemed, whispering in corners about the Sea Beggars. But finally things seemed in order, and Roz entered the dining parlor to kneel before her father. Master Henry Cavandish, in his high-backed curved chair, murmured a blessing in his old-fashioned manner, then gestured for Jonathan to follow with the others, bidding them take their places at table. Roz slid into her seat on the bench and looked solemnly her trencher during the lengthy prayer, hoping to avoid discussion about the lace, but she had no luck. You were long in the shop, daughter. I trust the lace was brought from the storehouse, as required." Smoothing long gown over his paunch, her father gave her a fond look.
Roz lowered her eyes, thinking. It was no use upsetting him. "Your pardon, Papa. A customer came and I forgot the time. The lace has been ... taken care of. You needn't give it another thought."
"Taken care of? How's that?" Joan Cavandish spoke for first time, her chubby face distressed beneath her neatly starched coif. "Mercy on us, did those boys do as they're told? Your father pays ever so much for those 'prentices they're always shirking. If we still lived in London, it would be the worse for them ..." Her speech trailed off if she'd forgotten the apprentices. She was too busy shaking her finger at Angelica who squirmed on the bench, had just turned back to Roz when Angelica's soup spilled, staining her clothes for a second time that day. It dripped thickly over the tablecloth and floor.
Just in time, Roz thought, thankful for the diversion. While she and her mother were busy cleaning up, Jonathan kicked Matthew under the table till he shouted, Charles pulled Lucina's hair so that she threw her bread at him and their father stood up and roared. "Matthew, Jonathan enough of this. Charles! Lucina! I should banish you all back to the nursery. A man can't even sit at table and enjoy his food." He waved with irritation for the footman. "Fetch the nurse, straight."
When the youngest had been removed for yet another change of clothing and all was quiet again, the subject of the shop was replaced by other business.
"Rozalinde, dear," her mother began earnestly, "you know why we're giving tonight's revel?"
Roz instantly put on a disinterested expression and became absorbed in her soup. Usually she would look forward to such a party with food, dancing, and players. But not tonight.
"Please, daughter," her mother pleaded. "We have chosen several eligible men for you to consider. We would like you to look them over ... perhaps accept one."
"I am needed here by you and Papa." Rozalinde put down her spoon decidedly. "Surely you do not wish me to go. You've never urged me to wed."
"You're good as gold to us, child. How I would get on without you, I don't know. But, well, there are reasons you should wed. Your father can explain them." Her mother stopped, cleared her throat, and looked uncomfortably at her husband.
"Mmm. The mutton is excellent tonight." Her father wiped his chin with his linen napkin and averted his eyes, also looking uncomfortable. "Tell her, my dear."
"Oh." Her mother was suddenly crestfallen. "There's yet another prospect." She paused, biting her lower lip. "You'll never guess who it is."
"Who?" Rozalinde warily examined the orange she peeled.
"George Trenchard. The chief alderman of our town." Instantly the orange was abandoned. "Trenchard!" Her eyes widened with disbelief. "You jest, Mama. He must be nigh on thirty, and he's only just buried his wife."
"Indeed, indeed." Her mother tried to make light of the subject, though she squirmed anxiously on the bench. "But he's mourned a full year and now he thinks to seek another. A young woman, mayhap, who can give him sons."
"I don't want a husband. I prefer to stay single," Roz said decisively, shaking her head.
"My stars, my stars," her mother wrung her hands. "It's better you wed, and he is the chief alderman. Not as highly placed as your father, of course, who is a London master merchant and one of the Company of Merchant Adventurers -"
"Was a London merchant," her father insisted glumly. "Was."
"Well, 'tis naught," her mother went on with forced blitheness, "that we bide here awhile
so your father can benefit from the sea air. And you could do worse than Master Trenchard. His butcher shop is earning gold in piles, I hear, what with his supplying the London market. And he cuts a handsome figure, 'tis sure. The lasses like him well."
"There's another the lasses like well." Her father looked up, stroking his long gray beard. "Who is he? The one at the castle. What do they call him?"
"Christopher Howard?" Roz's mother frowned. "He's the new Earl of Wynford, come to inherit since his brother died. But he's not to be considered for our Rozalinde." She turned back to her daughter and shook her ever-busy finger at her. "No, indeed. He'll be high and mighty like his brother was, not mixing with us common folk because his an earl, treating us like dirt under his feet. You'll see. Best listen to your father and look to one of these other boys. If you don't fancy Trenchard," she stopped as her husband gave her a warning look, "take one of the others. Do, Rozalinde. This earl—your father only invited him out courtesy, him and the dowager countess. Everyone else is invited, so 'twas only right."
"True." Her father nodded gloomily in agreement. "You must listen to your mother, Rozalinde. I have applied for my coat of arms, and if it's granted we'll be gentry—"
"Even so we'll be upstart merchants in his eyes, like as not," her mother cut in. "His brother was ever high and mighty, him and his lady." She sniffed at the thought of past slights from the Howards. "Why, it's said the new earl spoils her, buying her all manner of gifts."
Rozalinde had been listening carefully to all this. "This new earl, he buys the dowager countess presents?"
"Indeed," snorted her mother. "So I hear."
"He must be the one who bought the lace," Roz said without thinking, "even though it was ruined—"
"Ruined?" Her father sat up in his chair. "The lace was ruined? How's that?"
"Oh, 'twas n-nothing, Papa," Rozalinde stammered. "Just a little water."
But her father's countenance had darkened. "The whole crate of Flemish lace, that expensive stuff from Antwerp? Ruined you say? The whole thing?"
"Do not concern yourself, Papa." Desperately she strove to placate him. "It has been sold—"
But her father leaped from his chair and slammed his fist on the table.
"That no-good, cony-catching, puling whoreson of a sea captain. He's ruined another cargo, hasn't he? I knew he would. Knew even before I saw the goods. Irresponsible devil, destroying one load after another, no matter how many times I tell him it's got to stop. What does he do? Drill holes and let the water in? Toss 'em off the longboat on the way from the quay?"
Roz jumped to her feet and rushed to her father's side. If he got angry, he might have one of his spells. "Please, Papa, sit down. You must not let this upset you. I'll speak to the captain. I'll see to the lace. A whole crate's been sold, and he promised to see about a buyer for the other crates."
The rest of the family sat staring at both of them. No one save Roz dared approach the master when he was angry. And there was no question he was getting angrier still.
"You'll not speak to him!" he roared, flinging down his napkin and trampling it underfoot. "It's my place and I'll speak to him. In fact, I'll do more than speak. I'll have his head, that's what. I won't put up with this another moment. Nine shipments he's ruined. I've never had losses like this. It's getting so bad, there's only so much a man can take—"
Roz jumped as her father stopped in midsentence, waved, and reached out to grip his chair. His face, previously red from his anger, now turned an unnatural shade of gray.
"Henry, Henry, are you ill?" Joan ran to his side, caught his one arm while Rozalinde grasped the other. Together they supported his sagging form to his chair. Margery hurried in from the passage and herded the younger children out.
Bending over him, Joan loosened his collar button, fanning him with her handkerchief. He leaned back his head, eyes closed. "Speak to me, Henry, speak. Can you get your breath, dear? Are you all right?"
"Aye," he managed to pant, opening his eyes, giving them a wan nod. "A moment of dizziness overcame me. I could do with some water, please, my dear."
Joan rushed away.
"Come here, my child." Her father motioned weakly to Rozalinde, as if he'd only been waiting for his wife to be gone. She hurriedly knelt by his chair. "Help me, daughter. You must help." His voice was barely a whisper.
"I shall, Papa, I promise I'll not leave you." Taking his hand, she held it against her cheek as she struggled against the tears.
"No." He shook his head, able to manage only the barest movement. "It's not what you think. I've asked too much of you these last years. Ever since we moved from London, I've let you manage too much. It was my mistake, but I trust you so. Now my time grows short. Promise me you will consider Master Trenchard ..." His voice tapered off.
Rozalinde couldn't believe her ears. "You can't want me to marry him," she cried, aghast. "He's much older than I -"
"I am much older than your mother," her father said firmly in something like his normal tone. "Twenty years older, and we have suited well. Love can take a while to come."
She looked at him in anguish, realizing he meant what he said. "But why, Papa? Why? You've been ever happy to have me at home. You've never pressed me to wed. What has made you change your mind?"
Her father evaded her gaze. "I know you don't want to marry, Rozalinde. You're so independent, so good at
managing things. And I've let you - nay, I've encouraged you to take over the business in my stead." He gave a dismal groan. "Blast, but it's my fault really, treating you the way I have. Now you're too willful ever to obey a husband—not the way most men would expect. I delayed making a decision for this very reason."
Tears gathered in her eyes at his words. Roz couldn't stop them. Angrily she wiped them away before they could run down her cheeks. "I couldn't obey some strange man, Papa. I wouldn't! Not if he had such foolish ideas as all those ... those buffoons who offered for me in London. Not one of them knew a thing about the business, and when I quizzed them about it, they gave answers that were, all wrong. Please, Papa," she pleaded, "I would far rather stay here."
A shadow of anguish flickered across his face as she spoke. She knew her words pained him. She had always been his favorite child; she had adored him from the time she could toddle. A sob gathered in her throat, but she refused to let it out. Its pressure tightened like a cramp. If only she could throw herself into his arms as she had when she was small and had been frightened. But it wouldn't solve the terrible troubles of their business. As if guessing her thoughts, he reached out, gently smoothed her hair with his big, wrinkled hand.
"I know you will hate leaving home, Rozalinde. I confess I hate to let you go." His gaze was tender and full of pain. "If I thought you loved him, it would be easier for me."
"I don't love him, Papa."
"I know, I know." He stroked her hair again, his voice gruff. "But we have to face facts. The problems of the business grow too great for even you to handle. Nay." He shook his head, dropped his hand away as she began a protest. "I mean it as no criticism. But we need a strong man to take over—someone who can stop this ruin." His head drooped wearily. "Then there are the practical problems of my will. I can't pass the business to you, you're not yet one and twenty. Even if you were, only widows are expected to own things in their own right. Either way, it would be difficult. Men would try to cheat you. You would be so vulnerable. No, I've made up my mind. I must appoint a man in my will and I'm going to do it—someone who can be legal guardian to your brothers and sisters and can manage our interests until Jon comes of age. I've considered the possibilities, and Trenchard seems right. He'll lake care of you and put the business back together."
"He might not have me," Rozalinde began hopefully.
But her father cut her off, shifting in his seat, a tired expression on his pale face. "I have every reason to expect he would. Despite your strong will. And your temper," he added, shooting her a stern gaze. "I've appraised him carefully and
he seems to have the qualities we require. He's strong, capable, he's rising quickly in the town and holds a great deal of power. Everyone turns to him for advice and information. You do yourself. And he has shown you marked attention since we moved to West Lulworth. If we can't find a man you care for, at least let us take one who cares for you."
"But will he care for our business, Papa. Never mind me. I cannot think—"
"As your husband, it would be in his best interest to do well by the business. Come now, Rozalinde, you must think of your mother. If I died tomorrow, she would have no one to care for her. A woman alone with six children, not to mention another on the way—"
Roz's mother came back into the room. Overhearing, she put down her jug of water and set up a wail. "Oh, do not talk of dying, Henry! Aren't things bad enough? Rozalinde, Rozalinde, you put me beside myself, always wanting to do things your way. This time you must obey us and set our minds at ease." She burst into tears.
Roz looked at her father in anguish. The words he said were sensible. But, oh, it hurt to hear them. Yet inside she'd known this was coming. Every day, as his health worsened, she was haunted by the specter of the troubles he described. He could die at any moment, leaving them unprotected. The idea was so frightening, it didn't bear thinking. Much worse than marrying, although marrying meant letting some strange man relegate her to the kitchens and the nursery.
Gently she helped her father drink the water, then sponged his face with a wet napkin, unable to chase the painful thoughts from her mind. She must do something to solve the problem before the family's living disintegrated.
These people in her life, father and mother, younger siblings who depended on her—they were so dear to her. She would lay down her life for them if necessary.
But of course it wasn't. All she had to do was marry her father's choice. And repellent as the idea was to her, she gritted her teeth and steeled herself for the evening ahead.
Pirate's Rose Page 3