“Forgive me, I should explain. My sister was once the head nursemaid at Honor’s Point. Do you remember Sarah? Sarah Clough?”
A jolt of longing struck Peter’s heart. Sarah. One of the few people who had ever taken any time with him during the long years of growing up. His mother loved him but spent most of her days in London attempting to prevent Father’s extravagances. Alas, Mother hadn’t been able to stem his sire’s gambling.
“Of course.” A loving presence in his life, especially after his mother died. He’d been ten years old when Mother passed away, and if it weren’t for the nursemaid, Sarah, he’d have been completely bereft of any love or affection. Unbidden, his hand clutched his chest in the region of his heart. “Yes, I remember her well.” The words came slow. He was reluctant, but willing to acknowledge the special relationship, because denying it would dishonor the memories and hurt even more. However much he wished to sever all connection to the past, the task proved impossible. “She was an exceptional person. So good to me.”
“Yes, Sarah is a wonderful sister. She finally married and moved away.”
The minister’s voice snapped Peter out of his poignant thoughts. He willed his face to show none of the unbidden sorrow coursing through him. “I am living here because I want to be left alone. What have you come for?”
“I see. All right then, I shall be going soon. I came here to pay a call of Christian concern. I do recall my sister telling me that you once received the gift of faith.”
Peter’s mind reeled with this confrontation. “How so?”
“She said you responded to the Gospel when she shared the good news with you. Don’t you remember?”
Peter brushed his palms together in a sweeping motion. “Vaguely. Childishness. I’ve moved on from all that. Life intervened.”
“No matter what has happened in the intervening years, God still exists, you are still his child, and there’s no reason for you to stay away from the fold. And no impediment prevents your attending Sunday services. I shall expect you there tomorrow at nine of the clock.” The clergyman bowed from the waist, backed up two steps, turned and went out the door.
Alone again with the click of the latch.
He hadn’t expected to have his childish spiritual yearnings brought up and thrown in his face. The minister’s bluntness might be considered refreshing by some, but an unwelcome emotion stirred within his heart and mind as a result of the encounter. Bitterness, so well hidden from others, welled toward himself, his father, and God.
Though unready to open his story for all to read, Peter toyed with the idea of coming out of seclusion. That would mean rejoining the society of Woodvale. His weeks of solitude convinced him he wasn’t made to be a recluse. Even though he desired to conceal his very existence, it wasn’t working. First, the beautiful new owner of Honor’s Point appeared. Then, a man of the cloth armed with personal information landed on his doorstep. He stomped around the room and kicked a stout chair leg.
Why did he ever think he could hide from the world? He’d be forced to come out of isolation eventually, if only to save his own sanity. Even though his initial response to loss made him hide away, many more months and years of loneliness weren’t a pleasant prospect after all. Living alone forever after his shameful tumble from society’s good graces didn’t seem feasible anymore. Pride wouldn’t help him learn how to live the life he had been dealt.
7
“This way.” With hushed tones, the usher guided Rosanna and Miss Barton down the stone-paved aisle to one of the front pews on Sunday—a privilege of the estate. He gave a perfunctory bow.
“Thank you.” Rosanna whispered, then genuflected before entering the pew. The familiar scents of old incense and candle wax filled the air while she settled in, arranged her reticule and prayer book, and removed her gloves.
Trained from an early age never to look behind her in church, Rosanna resisted the strong impulse to glance around the arched nave and determine whether the handsome, dark-haired cottager attended worship services. With effort, she dragged her mind back to worship. Holding her prayer book open in one hand, she slipped down onto a kneeler, and with one hand shielding her eyes from the world, she prayed through the suggested prayer before worship. The beautiful language of the Book of Common Prayer flowed.
…Deliver us when we draw near to Thee, from coldness of heart and wanderings of mind, that with steadfast thoughts and kindled affections we may worship Thee in spirit and in truth…
The phrases rolled on, one after another. Peace soon took hold of her. So blessed. Being here in the village church, with its stone-paved floor and hand carved woodwork, seemed so right. After her travails, to come out on the other side unscathed gave her a mantling sensation of God’s caring love.
Certainty dwelt within her that she resided right where God wanted her, and gratitude welled—bringing an unexpected tear to her eye.
The service began, and she listened with rapt attention to the beautiful liturgy and sermon delivered by Mr. Clough. He preached on Psalm 87:6 – “All my fountains are in Thee,” and exhorted the congregation to look to God for their needs.
The message reminded Rosanna to rely on God alone for refuge and refreshment. Her earthly home secured, she mustn’t become complacent about God’s plan for her life. She must always reflect Christ to those around her. Invigorated by the worship and the solidity of the ancient church, she bowed her head again for one last prayer of thanks.
The dismissal music played, signaling Rosanna to gather her things and rise. She observed all appropriate traditions such as making the sign of the cross and genuflecting in the direction of the lighted tabernacle. Even though she willingly enacted them, to Rosanna these were mere outward forms, for faith dwelt not within the walls of a building, but in the heart. A heart made forever new by the indwelling of God’s Spirit. She squeezed Miss Barton’s hand and held it going down the aisle, making their way toward the rear of the nave.
“Aren’t the colors pretty?”
“Hmm?” Rosanna drew her thoughts down to earth. “The colors?”
“The windows are casting their hues down onto us mortals. Reminds me of how we can find signs of God’s goodness so easily if we look.”
“Excellent point, Miss Barton. One that I would do well to remember and meditate upon.”
The minister stood in the archway outside the door, greeting the departing worshippers. As Rosanna and Miss Barton approached, he put a staying hand on the arm of Peter, the dark-haired cottager.
“Wonderful. Miss Cabot, Miss Barton, I’d like you to meet…” His words were cut off by a high-pitched scream from halfway down the aisle.
“Jessie! Get Jessie! Someone’s fainted!”
Rosanna turned and glanced back into the sanctuary to discern the source of the shouting. She and Miss Barton reversed their steps to join a cluster of people.
A man dashed out, then re-entered with Lady Brook, who moved like a ship under full sail. She made for the center of the hubbub, a pew halfway from the pulpit.
Concern laced the air as the remaining parishioners gathered in a clump at a discreet distance from the collapsed churchgoer. Murmurs rose as seconds ticked away.
Lady Brook knelt down next to the prone woman. Withdrawing a silver vinaigrette case from her reticule, she administered the remedy by waving it under the woman’s nose for a moment or two. She stood up, extended a hand to the fallen one, and assisted her to rise. Arm around the woman’s shoulders, Lady Brook said, “Not to worry.” She patted the plump village matron whose face blushed red. “A simple fainting. Stuffy air, combined with incense, the heat from candles, and over-zealous kneeling, perhaps.” She gave a reassuring smile to the onlookers.
Rosanna followed and reached the door in time to watch Lady Brook escort the light-headed fellow-parishioner outside and guide the woman to the Brook coach for a ride home. Her glance flickered to Peter—the somber, handsome man’s presence drew her like a moth to a flame. She forced calm upon h
er features but when, with one eyebrow raised, he gave her an almost imperceptible bow, her heart sped.
Clutching Rosanna’s arm, Miss Barton gave her opinion. “Lady Brook’s a wonder.”
Rosanna turned so as to address her response to the cluster of nearby gawkers. She spoke in a clear voice. “Yes. She’s so generous and obliging. Lady Brook’s full of good works of the best sort.”
A murmur of approval rose from the crowd.
Rosanna went on. “My, she certainly has a healing touch.” She made a point to overtly commend the amicable older woman, in case there were any doubters around. “Lady Brook’s knowledge about the medical arts is vast, and a blessing to the community. Praise the Lord.”
She turned back to the minister, and disappointed but not surprised, found Peter no longer standing ready for the formal introduction. Interrupted as they were, he had departed during the commotion. Quite the elusive man.
The minister said, “I am sorry, Miss Cabot, it seems your neighbor has slipped away.”
“Oh, la. Don’t think a thing of it. Miss Barton, my dear companion and I, are very happy and found the worship to be fruitful, indeed.”
Miss Barton linked arms with Rosanna before adding her two cents. “That was a fine sermon, sir.” She drew out the word ‘fine’, and beamed approval.
Arm and arm with Miss Barton, Rosanna walked down the church steps. She reflected that a formal introduction would provide much more conventional footing between herself and her nearest neighbor. Their interactions so far not only stood on awkward ground but teetered on the edge of outright impropriety. First falling into his arms and then their bumbling encounter at his cottage, she couldn’t decide if she was more embarrassed or humiliated.
Such a risk must not happen again. Even though her solitary walks did her spirit much good, she reluctantly accepted the wisdom of keeping Miss Barton close at hand. If not on every single walk, at least at most other times. Being an unmarried female landowner, she must guard her reputation in this small town. She admitted, however, that if society’s class strictures had no influence on her, she would like to see him again. Just to satisfy her curiosity.
8
Rosanna sang as she puttered around her bedroom. “The earth and its fullness with which it is stored. The world and its dwellers belong to the Lord.” She splashed warm water on her face and hurried through morning ablutions. The day dawned bright—Monday mornings, always so full of promise. Life and vigor hovered within her, pulsing to be unleashed.
Maybe this day her guest would arrive. She patted her face with a linen towel and gave thought as to how to refer to Miss Mordant. “Refugee” didn’t have a nice ring to it, but “guest” was the best term for the situation. After all, not all guests were invited, some came of their own accord.
Grasping the hem of her voluminous white nightgown, she yanked it over her head. She got into her shift and pantalettes. Getting her dress fastened, however, would require some assistance.
Expecting Dot, who’d been chosen as Rosanna’s new maid, to appear soon with hot chocolate as per her orders, she approached the wardrobe to select what to wear for the morning. She decided on a butter yellow gown with ivory lace trim around the modest neckline. Something about the country made her want to wear yellow, a color she never wore in town.
A warning tap preceded the entrance of the maid, who entered, bobbed her head, set down the cup of chocolate, and stood silent, visibly nervous.
Rosanna added extra gentleness to her request. “Dot, please do up my stays and gown.”
The girl did well enough with the complicated closures, and before long, Rosanna went downstairs to the dining room. She selected a plateful of food off the sideboard. Eggs, bacon, and coffee—enough to hold her until lunchtime, since she planned to be busy with Mrs. Good.
After eating, she made her way to the kitchens, soon arriving at the door to the housekeeper’s adjacent rooms. The housekeeper had her proper due in that she, of all the servants, laid claim to a sleeping room and an adjoining alcove for sitting.
“Mrs. Good, are you there?” Rosanna rapped on the door in the hallway near the kitchen and pressed her ear toward the wooden door. “It’s me, Rosanna.”
The door opened, and the rotund housekeeper tried to curtsey, but it came out as a bow with one leg to the side. “My stars, Miss. How may I be of service?”
“I’d like to discuss the preparation of a guest room for a young lady. She will be here at least a fortnight, possibly much longer. What room do you suggest?”
“Something on the first floor, supposing she’s quality?” Mrs. Good gestured to a map of the manor, which hung tacked on the wall near a makeshift desk in her sitting room. She leaned close to it, hunched over, and perused the diagram for a moment.
“Yes, our guest is of the finest quality. In fact, an exemplary young lady of sterling reputation.” There. That should stanch any doubts or questions.
Mrs. Good stood erect again, tapped the map with her index finger, and then gave a suggestion. “I suggest the Lilac Room, Miss. Please come in.”
Rosanna stepped further into the tiny alcove to peer at the floor plan. “The Lilac Room—I recall that lovely chamber from our tour. Is it prepared for company?” Rosanna hoped it was, on the chance the guest arrived soon.
“Yes, it’s mainly ready, Miss Cabot, but needs airing. I’ll see to it straightaway.”
“That would be most excellent, Mrs. Good. I will come along with you so that I may learn even more about my new home. The Lilac Room.” Rosanna allowed the words to resonate. “Such a pretty name.”
“Yes, Miss, follow me.” Mrs. Good picked up her key ring and held it up. “In case the door’s locked.” She preceded Rosanna through several halls and up a flight of stairs.
“Here we are.” Mrs. Good tried the knob and pushed the door open. She stood back out of the way and gestured for Rosanna to go first.
Rosanna stepped in and stopped, drinking in the exquisite room. Struck afresh that she owned such a treasure of a house, she took a deep breath before whirling slowly right where she stood. Stunning shades of lavender and green were arrayed everywhere in tasteful display. She noted a delicate marquetry-inlaid escritoire placed between two windows that framed views of the surrounding hills.
Even though she’d seen the room briefly on her first tour of the house, it still awed her. “Oh, this is perfect—so special.” Hushed in the face of such beauty, she gently stepped further into the room onto a lavender carpet edged in cream. “Any London guest will be more than satisfied here. Who decorated this room?”
The housekeeper’s smile vanished. “Lady Winstead, who once was mistress here, Miss.”
Rosanna vaguely remembered that as the family name of the former owner. “Lady Winstead? Is she living?”
“No, she’s been gone these past twelve years.” Mrs. Good stepped over to the bed and removed the spread and the pillows. Next, she opened each of the three windows. Fresh air flowed in on a cool breeze, its clean scent welcome in the stuffy room.
Rosanna moved around the room checking for dust. Finding none, she turned back to Mrs. Good. “The room is clean, that tells me the house is well run.”
Mrs. Good beamed with satisfaction. “Lady Winstead was sickly at the end, but in the past, she put her all into the house. Even when she bided in London, she’d send back things for Honor’s Point. She loved to decorate the rooms, several more have a floral theme.”
“More?”
“More guest rooms she decorated.”
“Remind me, what others are there?” Rosanna found this bit of history fascinating. She’d only peeked into the rooms on her earlier tour.
“The Camellia Room, mostly in white with pale green—that’s the next room down the hall.” Mrs. Good tilted her head to the right. “After that you have the Cornflower Room, all in blue with touches of gold. They say there’s some mystery about the rooms.”
“A mystery? How fascinating. What is the story? Is
it true?”
“Can’t recall what’s been said.” Mrs. Good’s lips clamped shut.
Rosanna suspected the woman knew more. “Tell me whatever you remember of it, no matter how small a scrap.”
Mrs. Good folded her arms. She cast her eyes to the ceiling and twisted her lips into a pucker before speaking. “I can’t say true or nay, but I remember something about Lady Winstead ordering a small chest built. The estate’s carpenter was so proud of his work, he showed it to all the servants one day.”
“And what makes this chest part of a mystery, Mrs. Good?”
“Let me think. Perkins told him to remove the box from the kitchen, so’s it didn’t get greasy. And the box—so very pretty—we never saw it displayed again after he gave it to the mistress.”
“I understand. Your story is an example of how mysterious rumors may start. If such a box were still here, someone would have seen it.”
“Yes, Miss, and I never did see it in the house again.”
Servants’ gossip ran rampant, whether in town or country, so Rosanna changed the subject. “Thank you for sharing the history of this tale of mystery. Let us talk about the house and its beauty. Since you’ve told me the background, I shall want to see all the guest rooms again. Do you have time to show me today, what with getting this room ready?”
“I shan’t be a minute.” Mrs. Good shot out of the room, and Rosanna heard her instructing a housemaid on further preparations of the Lilac Room.
While she waited, Rosanna strolled to the window. The views from this hilltop manor never ceased to dazzle her senses. She admired the patchwork of fields arrayed over the rolling hills, and came to rest on a certain roofline which showed through the trees of the woods to the northeast.
The cottage owned by the dark-haired man named Peter. Something about him captivated her. For comparison’s sake, Lord Halburt, the exceedingly handsome neighbor, never crossed her mind. But the cottager named Peter popped into her thoughts often. Attraction landed where it would and fell hard. However, she didn’t need to act on it.
A Refuge for Rosanna Page 4