Lady of the Rose

by Patricia Joseph

  Lady of the Rose

  Patricia Joseph

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2011 Mary Lindsley

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  Part One

  Too late, Harriet stifled the yawn and tried to cover it with a demure cough.

  Mrs. York, the Davenport's large, bustling housekeeper, huffed and expanded with ill-concealed indignation. “Well, honestly, Miss Harriet! I do not like to seem above my place, but a lady does not yawn in public.”

  Harriet refrained from mentioning that being in her own home with her own housekeeper and her own sisters hardly qualified as public. She was about to assure Mrs. York that she appreciated the advice, certainly, when movement across the room caught her eye.

  “If you haven't the inclination for going over the week's menus, Miss Harriet, perhaps I ought to take up such an important matter with the missus,” Mrs. York's pinched face brightened with self-importance.

  Harriet was watching Lillian, the youngest of the Davenport sisters, place the embroidery she was meant to be finishing on top of her head, mimicking the old-fashioned cap Mrs. York pinned upon her own locks. She scrunched up her own features, as though tasting something sour, in a perfect imitation of the Davenport's long-suffering housekeeper. Harriet bit the inside of her cheek to hold back the snort that threatened to escape. If a lady did not yawn, she certainly wouldn't do anything as common as snort.

  Not being under Mrs. York's scrutiny, Lillian doubled over in silent laughter, the embroidery floating unnoticed to the ground. Margaret Davenport, older than Lillian by only a year, frowned at both her sisters. Margaret never could appreciate a joke made at another's expense.

  Mustering her sweetest and most affected smile, Harriet assured the older woman, “Not at all, Mrs. York. You are quite right about yawning. I am blessed to have you to look out for me.”

  Mrs. York bloomed under the praise and continued her recitations with renewed vigor, while Harriet listened to her discuss the potatoes and puddings without any further slips of dignity.

  ~~~

  Having settled the menus to Mrs. York's satisfaction, if to no one else's, Harriet walked outdoors, tying her bonnet under her chin as she went. She chastised herself for being caught even slightly unawares. She had been paying scant attention to Mrs. York - she had been deciding the menus long enough to do them in her sleep – but there was no excuse for allowing herself to slip that way. Angry with herself, she rushed through the grounds, finding herself at her appointment earlier than she intended. She looked up at the small, thatched house and was thinking whether she should return later when she spotted a figure moving behind the patterned curtains.

  “Good day, Mrs. Fischer!” she called from the pathway.

  A round, good-natured face appeared in the doorway. “And a good day to you, Miss Davenport,” Mrs. Fischer waved and beckoned her into the house. The plump, gray-haired wife of her father's agent had been baking bread. The cottage smelled sweet and yeasty, and Harriet's mouth immediately began to water.

  “Tea for you, miss?” Mrs. Fischer appeared, as though by magic, balancing cups and a teapot on a worn wooden tray.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fischer. That sounds wonderful. And some of your delicious bread, if it's ready.”

  Mrs. Fischer disappeared into her kitchen once again, returning with brown bread on a board, a crock of creamy, yellow butter, and her husband in tow.

  The Davenport's manager was a slight man with wispy brown hair and slightly bulging brown eyes. He dipped in a slight bow before seating himself at the table across from Harriet.

  “How are you, Miss Davenport?” he asked in his quiet, firm voice.

  “I am quite well, Mr. Fischer. Thank you.”

  “And your father?” His eyes showed his obvious concern, though his voice did not change.

  “Better, I believe, but the doctor says there is no way to know.” Harriet shook her head slightly as though the motion would clear away the uncomfortable thoughts. “Is there anything we need to discuss?”

  Mr. Fischer gave her a slight smile. “No, miss. It has been a quiet week. The Blythe girl has a fever, but nothing much to speak of. Problems, such as there are, will come with the harvest.”

  Harriet nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Fischer. And I will see to the girl. At least, I should bring some foodstuffs to assist her mother.”

  Mrs. Fischer entered then with a large basket laden with bread, jars of jam, and a huge wedge of cheese.

  “I'll go with you, miss,” she said.

  ~~~

  By the time Harriet returned to her house, it was nearly time for supper. The Blythe girl was ill but doing well, and the family had been grateful for Mrs. Fischer's gifts and ministrations.

  Thornwood Park was quiet in the approaching evening. The large house, sprawling and freshly white, gleamed backlit by the sun. Ivy trailed over columns and across porticos, giving the house an easy, charming appearance. Late summer flowers bloomed along the paths and under windows. Harriet breathed deeply of the warm, fragrant air, relishing in the sight of her family home.

  She let herself in and walked upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Margaret. “I know I'm late,” she said, entering. “I've been to see the Blythe girl, down with fever... Margaret, what has happened?” Harriet rushed to her sister's side, kneeling beside the chair where she sat.

  Margaret was pale and shaking, staring at a note with red-rimmed eyes. “I am quite all right, Harriet,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I've had a letter from Lady Whitney. Her husband has passed away.”

  “Oh,” said Harriet. She did not especially like their neighbor; Janet Whitney was a vain, insincere woman, but still, no woman deserved to be a widow at five and twenty. “I am sorry, Margaret. I know you are friends. Will you go to her?”

  Margaret straightened her shoulders. “Yes, I must leave for the Hall at once. She has asked for me specially. She has even requested that I stay with her for a time.”

  Harriet nodded. “I will help you prepare.”

  ~~~

  Harriet and Lillian sat down to a somber supper that evening with their mother. Mrs. Davenport was a tall, willowy woman with thick auburn hair, which she had passed down to all her children. Her features were usually clear, for she was not a contemplative woman by nature, but tonight she was sobbing loudly, in apparent distress for the late Sir Whitney's widow.

  “Oh, my poor, brave Margaret! She is so good to help that distressed woman!” She sniffed and dabbed at her sparkling green eyes with her lacy handkerchief.

  Lillian, like her sisters, had her mother's coloring, but she had inherited their father's stout stature and his sense of humor. Lillian exchanged a rueful glance with her older sister, “Indeed, Mother. Margaret is wonderful.”

  Mrs. Davenport sighed and clutched her hands to her breast. “All my girls are wonderful, but Margaret, she is the sweetest and best of us all.”

  “You brook no arguments from me, Mother.” Although she was the eldest, Harriet had long thought Margaret the sweeter and gentler one by far.

  Supper continued more quietly after that. Mrs. Davenport even recovered sufficiently from her distress to ask what her daughters were planning to wear to the dance at the Conners' a fortnight hence. When Harriet suggested that perhaps the Connors would cancel the event out of respect for the newly widowed Lady Whitney, her m
other scoffed, looking offended.

  “But they must have the dance, my dear. They host it every year. Life must go on, after all.”

  ~~~

  Harriet took advantage of the quiet of the evening to knock on the door of her father's study. “Father, how are you tonight?”

  Her father's still form sat in his customary favorite chair, legs wrapped in a thick blanket, although the summer evening was warm. His head had been propped against the chair by a pillow so that he remained upright facing the large window that overlooked the gardens. He didn't say anything. He hadn't said a word since the illness earlier in the spring. An apoplexy, the doctor had said.

  She sat in the chair opposite her father's shrunken and motionless figure. His mouth drooped on the right side and a strand of spittle gathered at the corner. Harriet pulled out a handkerchief and gently wiped her father's face. She smiled and began to talk to him of her day, of his tenants and lands, of anything she could think to say. It was at her request that the stable lad, being the only one strong enough, brought her father down to the study every morning, and then returned him to his bed every night. The study had always been his favorite room, the place where he had conducted business, and she had thought it the best place for him to spend his days. She made sure to visit him there at least once a day to apprise him of the running of the estate, and to visit him and keep his company. He had not yet spoken to her, nor even so much as looked in her direction, but everyday as she rose to leave, she placed her hand under his, and she was almost certain she felt a small pressure in return.

  ~~~

  Margaret had been at the Hall for several days without word to her sister beyond a note relating a safe arrival and the depth of Lady Whitney's distress, so when a note arrived for Harriet a week after Margaret's departure, Harriet assumed it was the long-awaited letter. When she opened it, however, she was greeted not by her sister's tidy lettering, but by a different hand altogether.

  August 23, 1824

  My dear Harriet,

  Let me begin by telling you how much your sister has meant to me during the difficult days following Sir Frederick's passing. She is truly a light in the darkness. You may wonder why I am penning this note, rather than your darling sister, and I must regretfully inform you that an accident has befallen her. I will assure you that she is in no danger, but she must not yet be moved. The doctor has come and gone and says that there is nothing to fear for her general well-being, but that she needs rest and quiet. She is asking for you, and so must I. At your earliest convenience, I would like you to come to stay at the Hall for the remainder of her convalescence. I remain,

  Your dear friend,

  Janet Whitney

  Harriet had barely finished the brief note before she was calling for her maid,“Sally! I'm going to the Hall, and I may be gone for several days. Tell Joseph to saddle a horse. And tell him not to bother with the carriage, I won't wait for it.”

  Hardly a half hour later, Harriet was riding as quickly as the brown mare would carry her to the Hall. It was under two miles distant, but today, knowing Margaret to be in trouble, it felt ten times that. The pins were falling loose from her thick, auburn curls, her hair streaming wildly behind her. She leapt down from the horse without awaiting a groom and rushed to the door. A thin, wiry man opened the door to her knock, and she brushed past him without waiting for an invitation, nearly colliding with another man who stood in the hall.

  He was tall and broad shouldered with large forearms and hands. She noted that his shirt-sleeves were rolled back and the hands were quite dirty. He had a thick wave of black hair combed back from his forehead, and he peered at her with startling gray eyes. The eyes widened at the sight of her pushing her way into the hall, and for the first time, Harriet realized what a sight she must make, flushed and wind-blown with wayward curls escaping undone pins.

  She stopped short at the sight of the black draping on the windows and staircases. Only the remembrance that she was in a house of mourning kept her from rushing up the stairs and opening every door until she found Margaret.

  “I'm here to see my sister, Margaret Davenport. I was told she is hurt,” she said breathlessly.

  The man nodded curtly. “Of course. Jonah will show you the way.” He jerked his head at the man who had opened the door, a butler or footman perhaps. Jonah hurried toward the large, center staircase, Harriet close on his heels.

  ~~~

  Margaret was settled on a bed in one of the guest bedchambers just off the main hall. Though she looked pale and strained, Harriet exhaled when she saw her sister's smile. She had not even realized she had been holding her breath.

  “Oh, thank goodness. I was so worried.” Harriet ran to Margaret's side and took her sister's hand.

  “Shh, Harriet. I am quite all right. It is a little painful to be sure, but I believe I am in no danger.”

  It was then that Harriet saw the bandages encasing Margaret's right leg. She gasped, “What has happened?”

  Margaret sighed and shifted the appendage, wincing at the movement. “It was my own fault. I am no horsewoman, as we both know.”

  Harriet nodded. Margaret was neither talented nor even very comfortable on a horse.

  “Janet wanted to go riding, and I thought I must oblige, though goodness knows I was reluctant to be astride an unknown horse. In the end, I fell when the horse tried to jump a small log. It was the smallest nothing! No doubt, you would hardly have felt the jump at all! But, the doctor says I was very lucky. No more than a broken leg.”

  “Margaret, what were you thinking of? You could have been killed!” Harriet clutched Margaret's hand, as though afraid that she would disappear if she let go. Always the smallest and daintiest of the three, she looked almost frail propped upright on the giant bed.

  “But I was not seriously harmed, sister,” she said softly, brushing Harriet's hair back with her fingertips.

  “This is all wrong, Margaret! You have a broken bone, and yet you are comforting me!” said Harriet, between sobs.

  “Oh hush, my dear. It was my fault I alarmed you. I wanted to see you, and Janet, being such a dear, said you might stay here until I can be moved. It was selfish of me, I know.”

  Harriet pulled her younger sister into her arms. “I have never known another being less selfish than you, Margaret.”

  “How silly you are,” said her sister.

  ~~~

  Harriet stayed in Margaret's room until it was time for her to go down to dinner. Her valise had arrived a short time after she did, for which she was very grateful. The dress she had worn since that morning was wrinkled and rather dirty from her travels. She changed into one of her favorite dresses, a pale green silk that paired admirably with her auburn hair. She spent a few moments re-pinning her hair and studying the effect in a mirror. Her hair was thick and curly and usually sat well when properly pinned. Her eyes, though an unremarkable middling brown, were clear and framed by thick, dark lashes. Her only adornment was a simple pearl necklace, but overall, she declared herself passable. Good enough for present company, she thought. If she had her way, she would have eaten with Margaret in the bedroom, but Margaret had quickly refused.

  “You must be there for Janet, now that I am disposed.”

  Harriet had little desire to be anywhere near the Lady Whitney in mourning. Janet Whitney was formidable under normal circumstances. She cringed to think of her while grieving, but for Margaret's sake, she agreed.

  “Of course, I will do whatever you would wish, Margaret,” she said with a sigh.

  Harriet was resigned to a rather depressing evening surrounded by the late Sir Frederick's wife, mother, and sister, but the first person she saw upon entering the room was the same large man she had nearly collided with in the entrance hall. He looked different in evening clothes, and she realized that her assumption that the man was a gardener or some other servant was wholly inappropriate. She recalled the way the butler had responded to him, and the thought occurred to Harriet that he
must be a member of the family. He wore full dinner dress and carried himself like a gentleman. He bowed stiffly to her, but she thought she saw a ghost of a smile on his full lips.

  “Miss Davenport, how is your sister?”

  Harriet curtsied to the Dowager Lady Whitney, a formidable woman in her sixties with tight, iron gray curls and a regal manner.

  “She is doing as well as can be expected. I thank you for your attentions to her, milady.”

  “Think nothing of it. I am sorry that such a thing should befall her while she was being so kind to our Janet.”

  Lady Whitney smiled thinly at her mother-in-law and nodded in Harriet's direction, the sort of nod royalty gives in recognition of a lower being. She wore a black crepe dress for mourning, but Harriet noted that the neckline was ever so slightly lower than was appropriate for a new widow, though it was very fashionable. Having always been on the tall side, being around Lady Whitney, who was elegant and petite, made Harriet feel gangly bordering on oafish. Lady Whitney did nothing to ease her discomfort, and instead, seemed to thrive on it. She preened and presented herself to the room at large, as though knowing she was its main attraction. Harriet noticed that every few seconds, Lady Whitney would cast a furtive glance in the direction of the tall stranger, and she was suddenly much more interested in finding out who he was.

  The Dowager provided the introduction. “Louisa, come say hello,” she said, indicating the third woman in the room. Louisa Whitney was a plain creature with the same curls as her mother, though Louisa's were blond, and none of the Dowager's presence. Harriet had always found Louisa to be both pleasant and unassuming. The Dowager continued, “But, I don't believe you have seen my son for many years. Miss Davenport, Sir George Whitney.”

  The man flinched slightly at the title but bowed neatly to Harriet. “We actually became reacquainted earlier, Mother,” he said, a slight curl to one side of his mouth.