by Sophie Dash
There was no light chit-chat she could offer, no little compliments, nothing, while Lady Mawes expected her to carry all their conversations. And Jemima, Colin’s sister, only ever looked up from her book to offer a cruel observation and could not really be blamed for it, as Ruth’s presence was a threat. It was exhausting.
For the first time, Ruth looked forward to seeing Isaac in the evenings, when he was back from his business in town, sorting out family affairs with his cousin and that ghostly figure Sebastian. They would eat, continue the polite charade at dinner, and hide up in their room to vent their frustrations with the day. Once or twice, they had even made one another laugh.
On the day before the ball, Ruth was curled up in her nightclothes against the bed’s headboard, while Isaac slumped on the chaise longue.
“And Eliza, she’s so – she’s no help at all,” said Ruth quietly, as if the walls were listening. “All she ever does is embroider silks, remark on the weather and eat. I don’t know if she lacks the intellect to hold a conversation or she’s simply rude.” These were the talks she’d had with Lottie, where they’d shared secrets in the dark after a long day training to be the women neither would be. “I – I want to snatch that needle from her and bloody well embroider her to the chair she refuses to move from.”
Isaac laughed, a melodic sound, one she hadn’t heard from him before. “I believe you just swore, Mrs Roscoe.”
Ruth put a hand to her lips and sat back. “I – no, I didn’t, did I?”
Mrs Roscoe.
It didn’t jar her as much as it used to, not when it came from him.
He laughed harder at her flustered appearance and she shook her head.
“If I did swear, then it’s your fault; it’s due to spending too much time around you. And there’s nothing humorous about it,” she scolded lightly, aiming for him with a spare cushion, which he caught effortlessly and placed behind his head. “It’s not like you have to spend all day with her, with all of them.”
“That’s true, though Lady Mawes is the one you need to be concerned about.”
“I want to go back to our house,” Ruth heard herself say, fingers trailing the bumps and grooves in the bedcovers, smoothing them down, finding the odd, impractical task comforting. She hadn’t done anything in days, had been of no use to anyone, idle. And she missed her patch in the garden, her head filled with all the tasks she’d still yet to do before October came and brought with it mist and fog and colder sea air. Her arms still bore a few scratches from her tangle with the roses, her skin warmed from the sun. Little reminders that brought a fleeting smile.
“But then you would be spending all day with me,” he said to her, an afterthought, feigning a yawn that she knew was far from casual. A way to end their conversation, if she wished it.
“I know,” said Ruth, sinking down into the covers, facing away from him. “I do not think I would mind that now, if you wouldn’t.”
Silence, a long inhalation, exhalation – each one slow and measured to her mind – and then Isaac finally answered, “I wouldn’t mind.”
And yet that night was like all the others that had fallen before it. They stayed on their own sides of the bed, straining to hear the other’s rhythmic breathing, imagining all that could take place if one dared to make the first move…
***
Trewince Manor was alive. Before, on passing slow September days, it had seemed stuffy, old and infirm; an aged relative on its last legs, unwinding, unravelling, with each mothballed breath released taking it nearer to its last. Now, with the dance approaching, it was a showman, polished to perfection, dust flayed from its insides and grime worked away from its edges. New servants, ones Ruth did not recognise from the short time she’d stayed in the house, breezed along corridors carrying trays and bundles. Each one held an important air, a busyness, either real or forced, with a hard look that willed her not to ask for anything and not to disturb their sacred tasks.
The guests would arrive soon and the Roscoe family were preparing themselves, inwardly and outwardly. Ruth had her own dress prepared. A plain, dark blue. It would do. Lady Mawes, however, had other ideas – ones she was not able to discourage.
A new gown was brought to her, held with careful fingers by a young maid, Hetty. Lady Mawes trailed after it, immaculately dressed, eyes bright and wide.
“I thought the colour would suit you,” the older woman said, as Hetty carefully draped the gown across the bed.
Ruth stayed stock still, hands clasped together in front of her, not daring to move forwards or show any emotion, any gratitude, in case it was a misunderstanding, a trick, a ruse. But the gown was not taken away. There was no deception. It truly was hers, at least for tonight.
“Don’t simply stand there,” snapped Lady Mawes. She spoke to the maid, but Ruth jumped too. “Time is running short; let’s get you in it.”
With polite fumbling on Ruth’s part, and Lady Mawes’s constant inference, the gown was put in place. Ruth dared not put her hands on herself, on the material, her body not her own – clothed in a colour she had never worn, never dreamt of.
Lottie had lent her dresses in the past. They had not fit well, the colours had never flattered her and they had never been new. And her uncle had never allowed her anything so extravagant, so extreme, had never seen a reason to spend the money.
Lady Mawes put her hands on Ruth’s shoulders and guided her to the mirror. She did not want to look, not yet, not until she could truly savour the moment that would never come again.
It was only a dress; she knew that. The practical, reasonable, logical corners in her mind would not let her forget who she was. However, the woman in the mirror was not the woman she had come to know as herself.
The shimmering, sunset colours made Ruth’s light brown eyes seem warmer, brought a red sheen to her hair, complemented her complexion. And the garment showed off skin, more than she’d ever revealed in all her life. The gown plunged, dangerously. In the past, all that Ruth possessed had been hidden, battened down under thick layers and cold colours. It was a time for a change.
Never before had she felt so beautiful.
Two sparkling red earrings were pushed into her palm, pulling her from her stunned shock.
“If you are part of this family, you will wear our jewels too,” said Lady Mawes, as Ruth obediently put them on. “I tried to force them on Jemima, but she hates all that, would rather run around in breeches. She even tried to cut her hair when she was younger, that funny girl. And they’d be wasted on Eliza; she won’t even talk to anyone for long enough to let them be seen.”
“Thank you,” whispered Ruth, staring at a reflection she did not recognise.
“Don’t thank me, girl,” she said. “I am not doing this for you. I am doing this for my own sake.”
For the family.
The dress came at a price. Lady Mawes had words for her. Ones she would heed and obey.
“You need to be firmer with him,” she said, while Ruth’s hair was put in place.
“He won’t listen to me.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. There is influence there and you’re his wife; you can make him listen.” Before she could argue, Lady Mawes added, “I know all about you. I had my man Sebastian find out all I could. I had enquiries made into your reputation. I even wrote to Miss Lamont, for you attended her academy, did you not? The woman’s an old friend.”
“What did she say?”
“She said you thought yourself superior, aloof and meddled in everything.”
“I did not mean to…”
“That’s the highest compliment you will ever get from Miss Lamont,” interrupted Lady Mawes. “I have no doubt that the place fell apart when you left, with how vehemently she swore me off you.” Her gaze turned critical as she motioned for Ruth to turn. “Yes, that will do,” she said, though her half-smile said much more. It dropped, almost instantly, as she addressed the maid. “Leave us, Hetty.”
The young girl obeyed, leavin
g the room as silently as she had entered it, giving Ruth one last pleased glance – a job well done.
The door was closed. The quiet did not last.
“If you do not consummate the marriage between yourself and my great-nephew, then you put yourself at risk.”
The wind was promptly taken from Ruth’s sails, for the same thoughts had occurred to her – more so than ever – waiting, expecting, willing all that should take place. Isaac had kept to their boundaries, had not returned the minor brushes she gave him, had done his best to stay far away from her – as though she was, well, undesirable.
Ruth met her own reflection once more and smoothed her hands down her elaborate bodice.
Wouldn’t he want her now?
Surely she was as beautiful, as stunning, as captivating as all the others he had been with?
“I can tell when another of our sex is unplucked and I shall not have further scandal fall upon our shoulders,” said Lady Mawes. “Do what must be done, for your own sake if for no one else’s.”
“He does not think of me in that – in that way,” she said, mouth dry, stomach fluttering.
“Then make him,” came the reply. “He will not be able to resist you tonight.”
A stiff nod and the talk was done. Ruth was left alone. But those parting words stayed with her.
Chapter Thirteen
Isaac
Isaac felt himself a curiosity, a spectacle, an exhibit.
But he was used to it.
All eyes were on him as he passed by the assembled guests, hearing the whispered rustle of conversation. Men and women from across Wessex had accepted Lady Mawes’s invitation to the ball and each one knew about Isaac’s reputation. Or they knew what he had permitted to be known. The rest, his worst deeds, stayed within the low-born circles, the crooked magistrates, the bodies for hire.
All that could be discussed about Isaac Roscoe in polite circles was discussed, though few eyes looked upon him with judgement. That was the trouble with high society. They liked a story to tell, they liked what seemed interesting, so long as it stayed a safe distance away. Isaac, now married, reined in and back in his family home, was seen as safe.
He hated it.
“Will you not go to your wife?”
Lady Mawes was at his elbow, in funereal colours with a smile far too cunning to set him at ease.
The question escaped Isaac before he could stop it: “What have you done now?”
His great-aunt waved towards the high arch that separated the ballroom from the hallway, to where a staircase lolled against the floorboards.
He did not recognise her at first, the woman who descended the steps.
“That’s not…?”
But Lady Mawes was gone, already absorbed in new conversations with old acquaintances, doling out backhanded compliments and feigning interest.
Isaac brought his gaze back to her, the amber rose.
Red sky at night, he thought.
A sign that the skies would be clear, the rain would not gather, the worst would be kept at bay.
A silence, a stillness, consumed the ballroom, interrupted only by hissing mutters and light talk. The other people around Isaac had seen her too, the young woman on the stairs, his wife, who he approached with a quizzical expression.
It was the nerves that gave her away, that had him truly recognise her – Ruth – behind the fire that clothed her skin. It was the half-smile, the way she stood – back too straight – though he did not recognise the glance she gave him.
“You look…” He trailed off.
“Thank you,” she replied without meeting his eyes.
Isaac offered her his arm because it was expected and he asked her to dance before he realised he had. And she accepted, no refusals, no delay, no thought. The last time he had asked her such a question, they had been worlds away from where they were now, different people, with different lives and expectations.
The floor was lined with expectant couples, many of whom sent curious glances Ruth’s way. Even sour-faced Colin had cajoled his wife into dancing, a rare occurrence to start the evening. The music began, a country dance, and the woman who faced Isaac could have been a stranger for all he knew. It was not only the way she looked that seemed unfamiliar, it was her entire self. Gone was the woman he’d come to know, who he felt was almost a – no, they weren’t friends, they were – there wasn’t a word.
When they were close enough, when the dance had barely begun, he claimed her hand and asked her, “What’s wrong?”
The sudden question had disarmed her, concerned her, judging by the small crease between her brows. The movements she made, in time with all the others around them, spared her from answering. A switch in partners had them separated, a brief reprieve until finally Isaac was before her once again, searching for an explanation.
Ruth replied with her own question: “Do you not like the dress?”
“It’s not that, I – it’s—”
“Nothing is the matter,” she said simply, firmly, with a smile that held no truth.
No sooner had the dance ended than a tall man, around Isaac’s age, managed to grasp his attention. A fellow he’d known from town as a boy, a clergyman now, who held a conversation for as long as it took to be introduced to Ruth and ask her to dance.
She hesitated, before Isaac gave her a nod, permission she never needed to ask for, not from him. Not when he had taken so much from her. He did not wish to encourage her, to send her away – he only did what he thought she wanted, and regretted it afterwards.
Just like that, she was taken from him.
Throughout the evening she was occupied by the wills of others, lost in conversations, dances, games, a shining beacon who drew everyone’s eye and charmed all with her calm and collected manner.
People spoke to Isaac, told him how lovely she was, as though he didn’t know it already. The rumours concerning their odd union were banished, for how could such talk be true of dear Mrs Roscoe? Lady Mawes was working in the background, spinning tales and adorning the girl with traits she did not possess, nor did she need.
It infuriated him.
This phoenix-coloured creature wore Ruth’s body, used her words and adopted her mannerisms, and yet seemed closer to that Lottie girl he’d met – Griswell’s insipid offspring. And Isaac noticed, as Ruth grew looser during the night, more unlike herself, that a glass was often at her lips.
No, that wasn’t his Ruth.
One man, a local earl with too much oil in his hair, tempted him with another boxing match. There’d be higher stakes and greater danger. He’d earn a lot, if he accepted. Isaac did, because the last time he’d risked his life like that, Ruth had been a little concerned, mad, upset with him – and anything was better than the usual cold indifference or the awkward silences. It was churlish, foolish, but he would not go back on his word now. And this way Ruth would spend time with him again, and he had liked having her near him, even if her touches were clinical and her company from duty, not affection.
The stars had long since come out when he finally cornered her, cheeks rosy, stood by the punch bowl with her various new friends. She laughed, carefree, though they were anything but.
“I thought you had sworn off wine?”
Ruth jumped at his approach and quickly cast her eyes downwards. “I do not believe I ever said that.”
“You didn’t have to say it; you haven’t touched it since…” He bit off his words and took her by the wrist, stopping her movement towards a new glass. “Not since the night that damn merchant tampered with you and now you’re – you’re drunk – and of your own volition.”
“I am not drunk yet and I know what I am doing,” she assured him, twisting her hand to grasp his.
“What is that exactly?”
“Let’s get a little air. I would like to go outside.”
Isaac’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “You want me to go with you?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
The
re was an odd tilt to her voice as she led him outside, into the garden. The statues were pristine and phantom-like in the gloom. Their all-seeing eyes watched the couple’s progress.
“Where are we going?”
“Nowhere,” she assured him, taking in deep breaths, a tension in her small shoulders. “It’s pleasant out here, isn’t it?”
“Ruth,” said Isaac, dropping her hand, no longer able to hear the dim conversations from those inside the ballroom. Alone. A normal occurrence for any other husband and wife, yet unnatural to them. The music still found them, soft, muffled strains, as if heard from under water. “What is all this about?”
Of all she could have done in that moment, all Isaac could have expected, it was not what took place.
Ruth took a step towards him, a soft noise, her footfall light on the path, dress flowing like autumn leaves. Cautiously, she placed her gloved hands on Isaac’s chest, anchoring herself to him, before she angled her chin up to kiss him.
A small, quiet, hesitant action.
Isaac did not move. Stunned, taken aback, he kept his arms by his sides, as unwavering as the silent sculptures around them. When he did not pull back, she seemed to take it as encouragement, testing her mouth against his once more. He could taste the wine on her tongue and when he brought his hands up to take hers, he felt them shake.
She had her eyes closed, as though she did not wish to see him, to know him.
She wishes I were someone else, he guessed.
With firm, unkind actions, Isaac pulled her fingers from him. “What are you doing?”
“I thought you – you are – we should have done this a long time ago.”
“Done what, Ruth?”
He studied her, unwavering, and not a little cruel.
“What a man and wife ought to do,” she countered, swallowing thickly, intoxication making her more candid, less abashed. “Isn’t that what you – what you want? Lady Mawes said—”
“You are working with her, now?” He should have known. It made sense. This was another plan to manipulate him and push him into a corner. “Is that what you think of me – what you both think of me?”