This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
INKLING PUBLISHING, LLC
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Copyright © 2017 by Melanie Thurlow
ISBN-13: 978-0-9993190-0-0
ISBN-10: 0-9993190-0-0
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, of transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews as permitted by copyright law.
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For Annabella
Chapter 1
April 1816
The marriage had been arranged since her infancy.
Well, arranged wasn’t quite the word. Marriages were hardly ever arranged anymore. There was a stigma attached to that word, and not a good one.
No, her marriage had been decided. That’s what her parents were always fond of saying.
Well, not her parents, precisely.
Papa rarely pulled himself away from London long enough to notice his family, and even then he bore the cold forbearance of any titled aristocrat. When Lord Blythe returned to the country it was to see to the estate, not to his children’s welfare, thus he remained wholly unaffected by their unhappiness. He had neither the patience nor the resolve to listen to his children, complaints or otherwise. His daughter was to be married and that was that. He saw no need to discuss the matter.
The turn of phrase belonged to her mama.
Lady Blythe was constantly reminding her daughter, Lady Rosalyn Hayes, that she was to be a duchess and therefore must adhere to the highest standards in everything. Everything. Lady Rosalyn must be accomplished in all things, not simply adequate or proficient. She must excel. Beginning with poise and etiquette, needlepoint, painting, the pianoforte, reading and in all other achievements Society expected of a well-bred young lady.
That Rosalyn didn’t know the man she was to marry—or hardly knew him—was inconsequential. She was a lady, a woman. She had no rights. Her parents were the keepers who would be burdened with her if she remained unmarried. Their rule was law, as far as the law of the land was concerned. She would marry his Grace, Lord Robert Phillip Clarence, Duke of Brighton, because it was decided, because her parents owned her.
At least, that’s how she saw it.
The man had more rights. He had a choice. The marriage may have been decided when he was a child, but now he was Duke of Brighton. He could dismiss his family’s expectation and seek out a wife of his own choosing. The decision wasn’t technically written in stone, after all. His father was dead and could not force the marriage upon him. He had a choice. He could choose not to marry her.
A heavy sigh escaped her parted lips.
She should want to marry him. He was a duke, after all, and marriage to a duke was every lady’s dream—and the dream of her eager mama, hopeful her daughter would climb like ivy. But, oh, how she wished he would refuse the marriage! Rosalyn wished he would ride off into the sunset with some woman who had stolen his heart, and leave her free of it.
But though he had inherited the title three years ago, he hadn’t backed out of the arrangement. No, instead, he was coming here, to her home, to see her. Well, not precisely to see only her. Technically, he was to be the esteemed guest of honor at the house party being thrown by her mother, Lady Blythe, to be held two days hence. But the sentiment was clear, even if Lady Blythe would refuse to admit it in polite company. This was to be no ordinary house party.
Lord Brighton’s father died three years earlier, leaving his twenty-year-old heir to take over the dukedom. And now his wife-to-be was of age and was prepared to be made a martyr. Her first season was almost upon her, and if her mama had her way, Lady Rosalyn wouldn’t have a season at all. At least, not a proper one.
In two days she would be presented to her husband-to-be.
And in two weeks, Lady Rosalyn Hayes, eldest daughter of the Earl of Blythe, would be presented at court, beginning the season with the distinction of betrothal to a duke. According to her mama, she would be the “sensation of the ton.” The repeated exclamation was the most positive emotion Rosalyn had witnessed her mama display in seventeen years.
Lady Blythe had been abandoned by both her husband and son, left in the country with only her four daughters for company which, to Rose’s great displeasure, her mama despised.
And there was none Lady Blythe despised more than Rose herself.
From Lady Blythe there was never a kind word uttered or compliment spoken without a quick back-hand of disdain in Rose’s direction. Luckily, with three governesses—a most unnecessary amount—to watch over the four Blythe daughters, Lady Blythe’s company was rarely necessary. Though, when she was present, no one felt it more than Rose. The biting comments, the snide remarks were enough to break any child. Any adult.
But Rose was not made of porcelain, as other ladies were, even as the pale shade of her skin would cause others to believe, well, otherwise. She was made of granite. And she did not break.
Yet, despite all her harshness, Lady Blythe was beside herself in the weeks leading up to the impending party, exhibiting as much glee as such a cold, detached aristocrat could. She was acting as though she were the one marrying a duke.
But the marriage wasn’t happening to her mama.
It was happening to Rose.
Well, not to Rose, per se—she had never been Rose to anyone but herself.
It was happening to Lady Rosalyn Hayes. But neither Rose nor Rosalyn were enjoying a single second of it.
Her life was stifling. Being Lady Rosalyn Hayes was stifling. She wanted to be Rose, a plain, simple country girl whom no one had any cares or expectations for. A girl who could talk with anyone she wanted without tongues bitten in the name of propriety and reverence.
She wanted freedom. If only for a little while.
That’s why she was in a village nearly an hour’s carriage ride away, wearing a dress borrowed from her maid.
The stagecoach jerked to a stop, the one-hour journey in the poorly sprung carriage with thin cushions and strangers having proved to be a tedious affair.
Rose sighed again. This was her one and only opportunity to live. Marriage was a trap one could escape only through death. Her already strict life would only become more so when she married. Especially marriage to a duke.
Dukes were known for their cold demeanors, and Rose liked joy, even if her mama had sucked nearly all of it from her life. She had been forced to act the part of a cold, conceited duchess since she was a child—even though Rose didn’t yet bear the title and was not convinced there was any requirement for a duchess to be cold or conceited.
Over the years, Rose had hidden herself so deep from her mother’s dissatisfaction that she hardly knew where her façade ended and her true self began. She didn’t want to marry a man who would drive out what little of herself remained. She wished for someone with whom she could smile and laugh, who brought comfort and happiness, someone against whom she wouldn’t have to guard her true identity from.
The Duke of Brighton was not that person. She hadn’t seen him in years, and she didn’t know the man that the boy had grown into. But her memories of him were painfully clear.
Rose’s dress seemed to tighten around her chest, as thoug
h the thoughts alone were constricting her. She found it more and more difficult to find her breath. She tugged at the neckline, hoping to find purchase in the slight easing of the tension there, taking deep breaths to ward off the attack of panic threatening to wash over her.
Really, she shouldn’t complain. She had a far grander life than most dared to even dream about. She was the daughter of one of the wealthiest earls in Britain. Yet, she wasn’t happy. And she desperately wanted to find happiness, or at least contentment, before the noose was completely tightened around her neck and she was choking for air within her impending forced marriage.
The carriage jostled as the coachman climbed down from his block, and Rose craned her neck to see out the window, but there were no indicators as to where the coach had finally stopped. Though, it was of no matter. This would be her stop. Who knew when the coach would come to another posting inn? Unwilling to take the gamble, Rose picked up her basket from the floor at her feet and shuffled past the shifting bodies toward the door. As she stepped down out of the stagecoach, resisting the urge to stretch her tender muscles, a new wave of anxiety washed over her as though the clouds above had opened up a storm of destruction on her solitary day of freedom.
Chapter 2
The threadbare frock was the itchiest outfit that Rose had ever worn, and she forced herself not to pull further at the rough wool neckline where it rubbed uncomfortably against her chest. She reminded herself that the frock was far more comfortable than the silk concoctions with yards of fabric and corsets that sucked the air out of her. It was far more comfortable than her future, which she currently seemed to be staring at.
If ever there was a time to swoon, it was now. Instead, Rose straightened her spine, pulled back her shoulders, and breezed into the nearby inn.
Rose took a seat at a table and forced air into her lungs, hiding her distress by raising the cup of proffered tea up to her unchaperoned lips. If Helen, her young maid, were here as she ought to be, she would be stealing all the fun from the moment. Which was precisely why Rose had insisted she stay behind and keep her cover, telling anyone who asked that, Lady Rosalyn is asleep in bed with a headache and wishes not to be disturbed. And, No, Lady Rosalyn does not wish to worry anyone or trouble having the doctor sent for; ‘tis only nerves and, with the smelling salts, the headache will pass.
Now she almost wished Helen were here, to be the voice of reason that Rose seemed to be lacking at present. Of course, it wasn’t as though she were doing anything scandalous. She was merely having a cup of tea at an inn. And she wasn’t unchaperoned, really. The woman who had greeted her upon her arrival and served her the tea, had immediately sat down across from her and begun to babble.
But today wasn’t about chaperones or feeling guilty or hesitant. Today was about jumping into the unknown abyss that awaited, to find out whether or not the grass really was greener on the other side. She didn’t require a babysitter. Rose required air and space. She desired to throw her head back and laugh absurdly, blowing tea through her nose.
The thought made her bite the corner of her lip to suppress the forming smile.
She drifted back to the conversation at hand with the lady at the inn. There was something about a village fair that had just slipped her attention. The plump woman with kind eyes spoke so animatedly Rose found it difficult to follow her train of thought. With the woman’s hands fluttering through the air as though she were about to grow wings and fly away, Rose struggled not to drift off on a dream. She hardly heard a word the woman spoke, having been ferried away in her mind as the woman’s soothing voice and hypnotizing hands replenished her soul.
Rose stared, finally allowing a wide smile to transform her features as the woman spoke. It was her first real smile in a long time, complete with dimples and squinted eyes. Entirely un-ladylike. For once she allowed her guard to come down, removed her firmly affixed mask, and was able to just be. For the first time, she felt free of her shackling constraints, like she could spontaneously sprout wings and fly away, too.
The cup of tea and pleasant conversation would only be the beginning of her journey. She was prepared for an adventure, a privilege she had never been allowed. Rose wanted to be like any other girl in the country. She wanted to stroll along the lanes without people stopping to bow or bob a curtsy as she passed. She wanted to be normal.
Was that so much to ask?
That was the adventure she sought. Normality.
She had this one day to do all the things that any normal girl would do, to live the life she had always dreamed of.
Already her dream was coming true.
She would have preferred to be normal in another village—any other village than that which she had been deposited in—but she didn’t have a choice, or so she told herself.
Cup emptied, Rose reached into her basket and pulled out payment for the tea while the plump woman Rose came to know as Edna—a fitting name for the buxom woman—gave her a general layout of the town. One that Rose unfortunately barely heard as her attention wandered to the noisy racket shaping up in the street outside as villagers passed by, hauling wagons of supplies. Rose tilted her head and watched the procession pass.
The lesson of never apologizing was so well engrained that, instead of begging the woman’s pardon and admitting that she had been so rude as to not hear a word, Rose instead thanked the woman and set off in the first direction her feet carried her, searching for an adventure. She would create a memory to stay with her for a lifetime, that would get her through all the hard times that she would face in the future. A memory that would carry her through.
Oh, she doubted she would find that sort of adventure in one day—or even in several—but knowing she’d tried would be satisfactory.
Rose avoided the crowd developing in the village center. Turning on her heel, putting her back towards the developing crowd, she pulled her hat low and headed to the back of a small park and slipped into the forest on a walking path bordering the village. This town churned something inside of Rose, and she was thankful to find relief along the secluded path. The forest blocked her from the view of watchful eyes.
The last thing she needed was to be was noticed—or worse, recognized. She wanted an adventure, not a public shaming.
The trailhead was nothing more than a small, inconspicuous mouth leading out of the park and onto a narrow path through the forest. The overgrown grass suggested the path saw little use, and the challenge strengthened her resolve.
This was the perfect place for an adventure.
The trail could lead anywhere. It held the secrets she would carry into her future, and she would treasure every sight and scent of it, though the scenery was nothing to be admired, only dense trees on either side. And since she hadn’t heard the woman’s account of where this path led, Rose was not concerned when it forked. She merely pressed on without pausing to decide which direction to take. She saw only one choice, for one side continued on in its slightly unruly way, with trees pressing in on both sides, and circled back around toward town, while the other side was breathtaking. The grass had been trimmed and the trees tamed, and along the edges of the still-narrow walk grew flowers in every shade and type.
Rose walked slowly, stopping often to admire a certain bud or to turn her face up to the sky. A canopy of leaves blocked her view, but she could feel the warmth of the sun beginning to move aside the dreary grey clouds that had plagued the morning.
It was nearly noon by the time one side of the trail opened, revealing an expansive, manicured lawn. Her anxiety over her location trebled immediately.
The rise and fall of her chest accelerated with the beat of her heart hammering against the walls of her chest.
This was not where she had planned to end up. At least, that’s what she told herself. Yet, she had bought a seat on the coach heading in this direction. Her own will had lowered her from said coach, and her footsteps had brought her along this path. And there she was. She stood before Brighton land which, even at
this distance, was an impressive estate.
The park had wide lawns and rolling hills, spectacular gardens, a lake to the east, and a forest to the west. And in the center of it all stood the majestic Brighton Castle.
The great stone structure was enormous but appeared rather plain. The main portion of the structure looked to be nothing more than a massive block, four stories tall, with two similarly massive wings jutting out of the east and west sides of the main building. But the castle was so much more.
The original construction consisted of four wings set together to form a square. And instead of a simple courtyard in the center, the four wings enclosed one of the most spectacular gardens in England.
The two large wings that cut out from the east and west sides of the main structure were additions, Rose knew, built one-hundred and seven years after the original building’s construction, commissioned by the fifth Duke of Brighton, designed by the renowned English architect Sir Thomas Edmunds.
Not only that, but Rose could recite the exact number of years the construction took, the contractor who brought Sir Edmunds’s design to life, and the layout and function of each room within those wings—within the entire house, for that matter. It had all been etched into her brain at her mama’s insistence. Lady Blythe had never spared a cool breath to remind Rose that one day she would be the duchess of the estate and therefore must be knowledgeable of its history in full.
Rose frowned at the thought, and the sight, as every muscle tensed.
It wasn’t often that Rose ventured off like this on her own. Actually, the truth was, she never had. The risk hadn’t been worth it until now. If she were caught sneaking out, she would be ruined and her sisters would be taken down with her fall.
That was a terrifying thought.
However, so was remaining stuffed up, like a duck heading for roast, inside.
She needed the escape, the freedom, the air. She needed to breathe, to move, without the hindrance of her mother’s rules, Society’s expectations for a proper lady, or her tight dresses and tighter stays. She was always locked away inside, only allowed out under the cover of a bonnet, parasol and chaperone, and never permitted to turn her face up towards the sun.
Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1) Page 1