by Joan Smith
“I have a message for you, Mr. Lovelace,” she said, using the excuse of the parcel to avoid meeting his look. “Miss Fortescue is back from London and wants to see you. She will be at home this evening.”
“Will she, by God!” Dick said, fulminating.
Miss Rafferty looked up then, with some uncertainty, as if she would add to the message. But as she glanced at Dick, she sensed the smoke in the air and left, with a half-frightened glance over her shoulder at Rosalind. Sukey went hopping after her.
As soon as they were gone, Dick turned a wrathful face to his sister. “Summoning me again, as if I were a dashed lackey. All that writing for nothing,” he said, and squeezed his letter into a ball, which he tossed into the grate.
“Go and get it over with, Dick. Better to do it face-to-face.”
She let Dick talk out his anger and frustration, feeling it better he should vent his feelings at home than make a cake of himself in front of Annabelle.
“Well, I’ll go, then,” he said. “But I’ll dashed well have my dinner first.”
“Let us both go up and change now,” she suggested.
Before going to her room, she went to have a word with Miss Rafferty. Rosalind sent Sukey off to the kitchen to insure privacy.
“Mr. Lovelace didn’t seem very happy at my message,” Miss Rafferty said, peering up from the pattern book she and Sukey had been studying to choose a pattern for the new frock.
“He is a little upset,” Rosalind answered discreetly, for it would not do to become too intimate with the servants. “How did Annabelle seem?”
“Very much as usual. Oh, she was wearing a new bonnet with a great high poke, the rim all covered with flowers. It is all the crack in London, she said. Lord Sylvester helped her pick it out.”
“I see,” Rosalind said, damping down a flare of anger.
Miss Rafferty cast the magazine aside and said in an anxious voice, “Oh, Miss Lovelace, it hardly seems my place to deliver such a message. I hadn’t the nerve to say it to Mr. Lovelace, and that’s a fact. She said, ‘Pray tell Mr. Lovelace to call on me this evening. And he had better be there, or else.’ Just like that, with her nose in the air. I didn’t know which way to look. She said it as loud as can be in the drapery shop, with all the old quizzes cocking an ear.”
Rosalind gave a tsk of disgust. “Just as well you didn’t tell my brother. Was there anything else?”
Miss Rafferty bit her lips and worried her fingers. “She spoke a good deal about Lord Sylvester,” she admitted, with obvious reluctance. “He had taken her about here and there, it seems. To a play, and for tea at his papa’s mansion. Mr. Fortescue was along as well for the tea party. Oh, miss, she was so loud and brazen, I was ashamed for her. It was Lord Dunston this and Lady Dunston that, as if they were bosom bows, and she’s never even laid eyes on them. They were at Astonby. When she spoke of Lord Sylvester, she called him by just his Christian name, too. I sent Sukey off to look at the ribbons, for I didn’t want her to hear what was being said. She might tell Mr. Lovelace, you know.”
“That was well done.”
“I don’t know if I should even be telling you all this about Lord Sylvester, though I had the feeling Miss Fortescue wanted me to.”
“I’ll hear it all soon enough if it was said in the drapery shop.”
“Well, there’s one thing clear,” Miss Rafferty said, her shoulders sagging. “I’ll never be able to stay on when she marries Mr. Lovelace. She’s taken me in dislike, though I’m sure I’ve never done a thing to harm her.” Tears started in her eyes. She blinked and turned her head away in an effort to conceal them.
Rosalind felt such a pressure of frustration, she wanted to scream. Miss Rafferty’s great crime was that Dick liked her, and who could blame him for preferring a sweet, unspoiled lady over that witch of an Annabelle? It tweaked her pride, too, that Annabelle had purloined Lord Sylvester. It was mainly her pride that was stung, however. Her attraction for the poetical lord was beginning to fade to contempt. How far would he go to find backers for his magazine?
Buttering up a rich old retired solicitor who wanted a touch of class was one thing. Leading on the wealthy man’s daughter was something else. In her heart, she could not think Sylvester was doing that. He associated with a different class of people in London. Manners were freer there. Harry had said he ran with a pretty racy set, but that did not mean Sylvester was like the others. He was young, not aware of the danger inherent in fast companions. She would steer him away from that sort when she was in London.
She patted Miss Rafferty’s shoulder, but disliked to make any promises she might not be able to keep. It was entirely possible Annabelle would work her charms on Dick, when she had him there in person. Perhaps a letter would have been better after all.
“We are very happy with your work, Sylvia,” she said, using the first name on purpose, to show her support went beyond that of employer to embrace the role of friend.
“You’ll give me a good recommendation, then?”
“If it comes to that. I sincerely hope it will not.”
“Thank you, Ros—Miss Lovelace.”
“You will have no trouble finding a new position.”
“But not so close to home, where I can visit Mama often. I hate to think of leaving the neighborhood where I grew up and have known everyone forever.”
Rosalind left, to let Sylvia dry her tears in private. Her heart was heavy. No point saying it was Dick’s job to sort this out. This was her home, too, and this was her problem. Sukey was her sister, as dear to her as a daughter. Dick was her only brother. If he married Annabelle, Rosalind knew she would take Sukey and Miss Rafferty to London, but she would insist Dick pay for the additional expense. And she would not tell him of her decision unless and until he announced he was definitely marrying Annabelle.
She thought about Miss Rafferty’s words about leaving home, where she had grown up and known everyone forever. The same applied to herself. She felt a wrenching inside to think of leaving home. It would be exciting, but it would be sad, too.
She went to her room and arranged her evening toilette. The green muslin gown on which she had lowered the neckline hung crookedly on its hanger, as if ashamed of itself. She was little better than Annabelle. She, too, had made a cake of herself to gain her own ends. Dressing up and pretending she was something she was not. Letting Lord Sylvester tell her and the world her poems were something they were not. And Harry laughing his head off at her the whole time.
Why had she done it? Annabelle’s shoving her out of her home was not the whole reason. It was the dull sameness of her life, the feeling that there was something better out there, in fabled London. But the people were no better than here. Indeed it seemed some of them were a deal worse. But surely there were other more worthwhile people as well? She would make a determined effort to find them— for herself and for Sylvester. She would reform him, if he was in need of reformation.
She would go to London; she owed it to herself to give it a try, but she was beginning to think of it in terms of a visit only. If Dick managed to disentangle himself from Annabelle, she would soon return to Apple Hill.
In the bottom of her heart there rested the image of Harry, walking along the path in the sunshine, cradling Snow Drop in the crook of one arm and holding Sukey’s hand on the other side. Why had she remembered that? Why did she often think of it? It had struck some deep chord in her, shown her a side of Harry she seldom saw. The gentle, thoughtful side. “Perhaps there’s more to me than you know,” he had said. Yet she believed she knew him pretty well after twenty-odd years.
Dinner was a tense meal. Dick ate and drank without speaking. Even the servants were subdued. It was not unheard-of for the footmen to praise Cook’s work and recommend a second helping, but they moved silently that evening. The loudest sound in the room was the tinkle of cutlery on china.
Rosalind knew better than to urge Dick into speech. He would only say things he shouldn’t in front of the servants
. He didn’t bother taking port. Immediately after dinner he put on his curled beaver and went to the saloon for a word in private with his sister before leaving.
“Well, I am off,” he said. “Wish me well.”
She remembered his having said very much the same thing the evening he went to propose to Annabelle. He had looked the same, too. Tense, worried. Only the reek of lavender water was missing. He had showered himself with it on that other occasion. And he had come home smiling. Perhaps he would come home smiling tonight, as happy to be rid of his prize as he had been to win her.
“Don’t lose your temper, Dick,” was all she said. “Remember, you are a gentleman.”
“If she says one word against Miss Rafferty, I daresay I shall give her a piece of my mind.” On this curt speech, he turned on his heel and left.
Rosalind took up a book of poems to pass the time until Dick’s return. She was sitting with the book on her knee, gazing into the cold grate, when Lord Harwell was announced. She hadn’t seen him since Sukey’s birthday party, but she had often thought of him.
“You’re still at the Abbey, are you?” she said, as he strolled in and made a sort of casual, abbreviated bow.
“For the present. I came to see how the tangled love affair is going on. Where’s Dick?”
“In Croydon. He says he is going to confront Annabelle about Sylvia Rafferty. Heaven knows what will happen.”
Harwell lounged on a chair beside her and helped himself to a glass of wine. “Will you go to London if he don’t marry Annabelle?”
“Yes, I plan to go, either way.”
He just nodded and didn’t try to dissuade her, although he seemed unhappy with her answer.
“I saw Annabelle in town this afternoon, looking very well pleased with herself,” he said. “She’s having a party to celebrate her papa’s partnership with Sylvester. The thousand-pound merger, you know.”
“Any excuse will do. It will be a boon for the flower sellers and merchants.”
“And the drapery shop. I expect even Miss Lovelace may dash down to Fulton’s and snap up a few ells of silk before they are gone, eh?”
“To impress young Sylvester, you mean?”
“And old Harwell,” he added, smiling as his eyes lingered on her quaint gown.
They talked for half an hour about local doings, then Harwell rose. He didn’t seem to have come for any other reason than to check up on Dick’s romance.
“Let me know the result,” he said.
“Do you really want me to send you a note?” she asked, wondering if he was just making conversation. “It’s not like you to be so interested in romance.”
“I’m always interested in romance.”
“No, in your own flirtations. There is a difference, Harry.”
“So there is. Trust a poet to note the fine points. And incidentally, there are other ways of contacting me than by writing a note. You could call on me, you know.” The “incidentally” suggested his remark was an afterthought, but the way he gazed at her sent a different message. His dark eyes wore an air of injury. She waited to see if he made some joking comment, but he just went on looking.
“I see you want all the spicy details.”
“Perhaps I just want you to call on me, as you used to.”
Rosalind looked at him, wondering what freakish new idea he had taken into his head. “I never called on you unless you asked me to. I used to call on your mama when she was alive. What is it you want me to do for you?” she asked, instantly suspicious.
There was no ignoring his expression now. He definitely looked offended. “Is that really your opinion of me? That I only invite you to call when I want something from you? I thought we were friends.”
“We are!”
“Perhaps I deserved that swat on the wrist. I shall try to do better in future.”
He rose, bowed, and left before she could apologize, or ask why he had come. As she sat on alone, she felt she should be working on her poetry, but no inspiration came. She was too distraught, worrying about what was going forth at Croydon. It was another hour before she heard the door open, and Dick’s footsteps approaching the saloon. She tensed, waiting for the first glance at his face, which would tell the story.
Chapter Seventeen
When at last Dick entered the saloon, his appearance revealed nothing to Rosalind. He was not wearing the frown that would speak of failure, nor a smile to show success. His expression was brooding, tending toward angry.
“Well?” she asked.
He sat down, shoved his hands in his trouser pockets, stuck his long legs straight out in front of him, and scowled at his slippers. “Nothing has been settled,” he said, and drew one hand out of his pocket to reach for the wine bottle.
“But that’s impossible. What happened? What did you say? What did she say?”
“I said Miss Rafferty was an excellent governess and I was not about to turn her off on Annabelle’s say-so. She said she would have to think about that. It is a lady’s prerogative, she says.”
“How very odd!” And how very disappointing.
“Yes, I was braced to be met with tears and accusations that I didn’t love her, or even one of her dashed temper tantrums, but there was nothing of the sort. She just looked—smug. I couldn’t get her to budge an inch. I came the heavy in fine form. ‘I am the master in my own home,’ I told her. ‘Perhaps you are right, Dick,’ she said, nice as a nun, but with such a sly glint in her eyes, I could see she didn’t mean a word of it.”
“How long does she expect her thinking to take?”
“She says she will tell me on Saturday evening, after the party. Did I mention she is having another party?”
“Harry was here. He told me.”
“I got one concession out of her at least. She says Miss Rafferty will be invited to the do, as I am so exceedingly fond of her. That is the way she put it. It was all I could do to keep my tongue between my teeth.”
“As if Miss Rafferty would go with that sort of invitation!”
“What is she up to, Roz? You’re a woman. You must know.”
“I haven’t the faintest notion. That mention of your being so fond of Miss Rafferty is hardly conciliating, yet it seems she isn’t ready to give you up yet.”
Even as she spoke, Annabelle’s scheme began to reveal itself. She was paving the way for a jilting, but waiting until after the party to do it. She actually thought she had a chance of nabbing Sylvester! “Will Lord Sylvester be at the party?” she asked.
“Oh, certainly. It is another do in his honor, to judge by the way she speaks. She was invited to tea at his papa’s house and could scarcely speak of anything but Lord Dunston, though he wasn’t even there. If her papa had not been along, I would have used the tea party for an excuse to turn her off.”
“She’s trying to weasel a proposal out of Sylvester, Dick. That’s what she is about.”
“He’s welcome to her, but I don’t count on her success. He is only after her papa’s blunt to waste on his magazine. Fortescue is too hardheaded to throw it away when he worked so hard for every penny of it. The vicar had trouble squeezing ten guineas out of him to help with repairing the stained-glass windows in the church. So we are no farther ahead than when I left.” He set down his glass and said, “I say! You ain’t cut up about her dangling after Lord Sylvester, are you?”
Rosalind was too frustrated to reply. She just made a batting motion of denial with her fingers.
“She’ll catch cold at that. Anyhow, we have wasted enough time thinking about it,” Dick said. “If you are going up to London, you had best go over the accounts with me, and tell me what I must do in future. Annabelle would be a help there at least. She always had a head for figures.”
They went to his study and worked for an hour, but were both so distracted they felt it a waste of time. Dick went out to the stable to admire the foal—it was a filly—and Rosalind went up to her room to try to lose her worries in poetry. She found her thoughts tur
ning to Harwell’s odd visit and wondered if she should let him know the outcome of Dick’s talk with Annabelle. Was he serious that she should call on him?
It was an odd feature of their friendship that, although he ran quite tame at Apple Hill, she never went to the Abbey without an invitation. This was usually to a large party, but occasionally he wanted her help to entertain some demanding relative, or give some pushing lady the notion he was taken.
The cards to Annabelle’s party arrived the next morning, including one for Miss Rafferty, who, with frightened eyes, held it in her hand as if it were a loaded pistol.
“I could never face her, Miss Lovelace,” she said. “Not after the way she spoke to me.” A noble look was on her face when she announced, “I shall send in a refusal.”
“Do what you think best,” Rosalind said, knowing Miss Rafferty was dying to go, but fearing the price to be paid. Annabelle wouldn’t think twice of airing her dirty laundry in public.
Rosalind went for a ride in the afternoon to escape the house and to take out her frustrations in physical exertion. Some years ago she had dispensed with a groom for rides around her brother’s property and the fields of the neighboring Abbey. It was only when she rode into town that she bothered with the proprieties. It would not do for Miss Lovelace, of Apple Hill, to enter town unescorted.
The day was fine. Billows of soft white clouds, too lazy to move, lolled in the blue heavens. The sweet aromas of summer rose from the wildflowers as she passed. Rooks nagged at her from treetops. A crystal stream gurgled by, with flashes of silver where a school of tiny fish, hardly an inch long, were rushed along with the current.
She was undecided whether to call on Harwell. In the distance the stone walls of the Abbey rose in ancient glory, the brick warmed by the sun. Gothic windows, their colored splendor replaced by ordinary glass centuries ago, reflected the sun’s gold. On an impulse, she decided to call on Harry, but when she reached the stable, the groom told her his lordship had called for his curricle an hour before and had not returned. She was half-relieved. In her present mood, she would not be good company.