She spoke with a gentle lilt so as not to alarm the woman. “Hannah?”
Even so, Hannah whirled around, wooden spoon clenched in her hand. “Wha? Oh, Miss, you scared the tar out o’ me.”
“Sorry. A bad dream woke me, and I decided to give up on sleep.”
“Wise o’ ye. Sleep again, and mayhaps have another nightmare.”
“So true. May I please fix myself tea?”
“It dinna seem right, but ye be the mistress. Canister’s here.” She plunked down a metal container, then a small pot and cup. “Water’s hot on the hob. Let me get that.” Hannah used a thick rag to lift a sturdy kettle off its hook and poured steaming water into the teapot.
Rosanna stepped forward, and rapidly prepared the brew. She spied a smallish tray and loaded it. “Thank you so much. You’re a dear, Hannah. This is just the thing.”
She backed out of the swinging door, using her hip to push it, and made the trip back to her room. After placing the tray on a table near the east-facing window, she stirred the fire, added a bit of fuel, and then dragged a blanket off the bed, nestling with it in the chair closest to the tea tray.
“Mmmm.” She reveled in the simple pleasure of hot tea in solitude as the sky lit up with gilded apricot streaks. A play of violet gave way to mauve and by the time she’d emptied her first cup, the sun had risen on a field of vivid blue sky.
“More tea, then a list to make.” Murmuring, she acted on her words, pouring another cup. Scribbling while thoughts were fresh, she wrote for a few minutes, then reread, whispering the list. “Order Miss Barton’s dresses, visit tea shop.”
Reluctant to give up the cozy cocoon, yet eager for what lay ahead, she said a prayer. Rising from the chair, she let the blanket fall while she stretched and recited under her breath. “This is the day which the Lord hath made, we will rejoice and be glad in it.”
Flinging the blanket onto the bed, she then crossed the room to reach the wardrobe. Riffling through, she selected a blue striped round gown, one that went on over the head with a minimum of closures—all of which she could reach.
Dot poked her head through the doorway. “Good morning, Miss.”
“Oh, Dot. I shall come back up here after breakfast and have you fix my hair, but I’m too famished.” She skittered a comb over her curls, put on a lace cap and sailed down to the dining room for sustenance.
To her surprise, Miss Barton stood at the sideboard, making selections.
Rosanna joined her at the buffet and filled her own plate. “You rose early, too, Miss Barton.”
Miss Barton’s black eyes twinkled. “I’ll admit anticipation of today’s outing made my eyes pop open quite early, dear.”
Seated, Rosanna prayed, took a bite, then set her fork on the edge of her plate. “How very awkward do you think it will be tomorrow night, when we face Lord Winstead for the first time since his true, full identity was revealed?”
“Possibly, quite terribly awkward.”
“You’re blunt this morning. But I agree and share your prediction, as well. I have sympathy for him, but am piqued at him, too. Leading me to think he was a tenant—some sort of laborer.”
“I needn’t remind you that if you hadn’t been out alone—”
“Stop. I am well aware. I hereby assure you I do not need another reminder or review of your thoughts on the matter.”
“Fine. See that you remember my warnings the next time you are tempted to take one of your solo excursions.”
Silence ruled while Rosanna finished her eggs and sausage. She recalled the initial meeting on the road that Miss Barton knew nothing of—having slept through it. No reason to tell her companion about the tumble out of the coach now. Subsequent revelations supplanted any import that interaction once held.
After placing her loosely folded napkin next to her plate, Rosanna addressed a new topic. “So glad Mrs. Good follows the fashion for setting out napkins—do you believe how people would lift the tablecloth edge to wipe their mouths?”
“That’s a custom I’m glad to see gone. Hate to think of the greasy stains the servants must have had to deal with on multiple voluminous table linens.”
“I shall meet you in the hall in one hour, Miss Barton, and then our outing to the village shall commence.”
~*~
Bowling along in an open carriage, with Miss Barton beside her and the coachman on the driver’s seat in front, Rosanna kept a firm hold of her bonnet brim with one hand and gripped the side rail with the other. “Beautiful day,” she mused.
“Lovely day, indeed. You’re sure Miss Moore didn’t want to accompany us?” The companion’s bonnet had no brim to catch the wind, so she clung to a strap with both hands.
“She planned to write all morning—she’s working on a novel.”
“A novel? Such ambition for a young lady.”
“It does keep her mind off her straits, and she enjoys it.”
“She can write one happy ending after another.”
“I’m not sure she’s writing fairy tales—something tells me her stories might be darker than that.”
The outskirts of Woodvale came in sight.
“Oh, good, the village. I like the speed of this light carriage, but oh, the bumps.” Miss Barton made a face.
Rosanna glanced over to respond, in time to spot Lord Winstead in the small cemetery next to the church. One glance provided enough to observe the posture of sorrow. Poor man. He did trick her, but had lost so much. She was snapped out of her reverie as the carriage rocked when the coachman stopped in front of a livery.
He hopped down, opened the door, and lowered the steps. After handing the ladies down he asked, “When be ye ladies to return to Honor’s Point, Miss Cabot?”
“We plan to conclude at the tea shop after our shopping.” She nodded toward a shop with a cup-shaped sign. It read ‘Pekoe Shoppe’ and looked inviting enough. “In approximately two hours or so, after we visit that tea shop, we will wander over to the livery.”
Rosanna linked arms with Miss Barton and strolled down the cobblestoned sidewalk. “Happy I wore half boots with these pesky cobbles.”
“Indeed. Here’s a mercantile, ‘Beaumont’s’, shall we start here?” Miss Barton deferred to Rosanna’s wishes.
“Yes, and don’t let me forget to obtain some yardage for Dot’s new uniform dresses. She says she can sew.”
“Excellent. Then I won’t be the only one whose wardrobe benefits from the shuffled positions.”
Entering the shop caused a bell to chime, and an apron-clad man, clearly the proprietor, stood up from behind the counter. Chafing his hands together, he appeared to take their measure, and then a smile wreathed his face. “Good day and welcome to my humble establishment milady, ma’am.” He nodded to each in turn.
“To be sure, ‘tis a fine day. I am Miss Cabot from Honor’s Point, and this is Miss Barton.”
“Honored.” The man creaked a bow. “I’m Beaumont, the owner of this fine establishment. How may I be of service?”
“We’ve come to purchase dress goods. It appears you carry an adequate selection.”
The man stepped aside and swung his arm in an expansive gesture at a wall of fabric bolts. “The best in three counties, miss. The dress fabrics are over here.” He bustled over to one side of his display and made another sweeping wave.
“Miss Barton dear, you point out what you’d like to see. I’ll refer to my list—to keep us on track, of course—with such vast choices. First, we shall select materials for five day gowns.” Rosanna stood back to allow Barton the full pleasure of choosing, careful not to take over with her own opinions.
“So many selections for such a small-town shop,” almost overwhelmed, Miss Barton stage-whispered behind her hand. She pointed out the bolts she wanted to examine and, swift to comply, the merchant yanked them from the shelves to form a large pile.
Fingering the weights of Miss Barton’s choices, Rosanna inquired of Mr. Beaumont. “Is there a seamstress in this village
?”
“My wife—trained in France.” As if on cue, a petite woman wearing a modest, yet beautiful dress appeared through a curtained opening. She curtsied prettily.
After introductions were made, Mrs. Beaumont produced the latest Ackerman’s edition, and she and Barton consulted it for styles.
While they were occupied, Rosanna made quick work of selecting fabrics for Dot. A drab stripe and a medium brown, thick linsey-woolsey would be both easy to work with, as well as serviceable and appropriate for a maid. Four yards of each, plus four yards of white for aprons went onto a growing pile. She wrote notes and meandered over to a display of wool shawls. One of these for Dot, too, since she would need the warmth.
Turning her attention back to her companion, Rosanna exclaimed over the five choices for day dresses. “Miss Barton, those are perfect. Now for two evening gowns.”
Miss Barton’s eyebrows flew up. “Two evening gowns? For me?”
Rosanna gently forestalled her quibbles. “You must be dressed according to my requests, my dear, as you will be accompanying me to many a party in time. Already, you’ve modified one dress for Lady Brook’s party. So choose what you like—sparing no expense.”
“Only if you insist.” Barton selected two lustrings, one dark claret red, and one of a greenish brown.
Rosanna lifted her eyebrows. “Are you sure, Miss Barton, about this brown?”
“I’ve ever been praised for how well I look in brown.” Barton held the swatch to her chin to prove it flattering. “I do know my own mind, Miss Cabot, and you told me to make my choices.”
“So I did. Beg pardon, dear friend. I’m sure you’re right. I look so poorly in brown myself. Now come and choose shawls.” She patted Barton’s hand, soothing her ruffled feathers. “One for day, and one for evening wear.”
Selection made, Rosanna concluded with instructions. “Please take my parcels over to the livery. My carriage and coachman are there.” She turned to the proprietor’s wife. “Mrs. Beaumont, may I send a carriage for you tomorrow at eight? You may bring Miss Barton’s yardage then. I trust you to cut the appropriate amount for the gowns.”
Mrs. Beaumont bobbed a curtsey. “I’ll be there. Merci.”
“Please do send my bill along at that time. I’ll send payment home with Mrs. Beaumont tomorrow. We shall see you at Honor’s Point tomorrow to begin Miss Barton’s fittings.”
The proprietor followed them to the door and held it open. “Thank you for your custom, Miss Cabot. We are happy to serve you.”
“’Tis happy I am, Mr. Beaumont, for your excellent fabrics and your talented wife. We shall return for more in autumn, if not sooner, to purchase pelisses, capes, and boots for the colder weather.”
Over an hour had passed. Gaining the cobbled sidewalk again, Rosanna linked arms with Miss Barton. “So, dear companion, did you enjoy that?”
“Very much. I haven’t ever had the pleasure of selecting seven gowns in a single day—nay, a single year.”
“And what about Mrs. Beaumont—is she satisfactory?”
“The woman is a gem. So much insight and such good suggestions. She’ll be a pleasure to work with.”
Rosanna patted Miss Barton’s arm. “Don’t let me forget evening slippers for you. Mrs. Beaumont can measure your feet tomorrow and her husband can order some—just for you. Make sure to tell her what you’d like.”
“You’re too good to me, dear.” Barton dragged a knuckle under each eye.
“You deserve it. Let’s step in here for tea. I am ready for refreshment.”
Another belled door, another proprietor clearly happy to see new customers. Ushered over to a bow window, Rosanna accepted assistance to be seated and placed her reticule on a spare chair. “We’d like tea and scones.”
The hot brew arrived in a trice, and Rosanna took her first sip as the door’s bell clanged again. Lord Winstead halted just inside the door and glanced around, gaze landing on Rosanna’s face, which promptly heated.
“Good morning, ladies.” He performed a stiff bow, aimed first in Rosanna’s direction, then toward Miss Barton.
An alarming splotch of anger clustered in her breast—he’d made a fool of her. As if from a distance, Rosanna heard herself respond with a dull pleasantry. “Hello.” This man threw her into confusion, but why?
“I thought I saw an Honor’s Point carriage pass by. Couldn’t miss the chance to pay my respects to two such fine ladies, since I was nearby.”
Baffled by his flirtatious words, she sat mute.
Miss Barton filled the gap, batting her eyes. “Charmed.”
“Miss Cabot?” His gaze skewered her. “I especially wanted to speak with you.”
Rosanna opened her mouth to respond with grace, anger fading, when the bell sounded again. Oh, no. That most annoying man, Lord Halburt. Now she wouldn’t hear what her mysterious neighbor was about to say. He’d surely not speak it in front of this—intruder. Where did that word come from?
“My fine neighbors! So many friends gathered in one place. No doubt there are a few scones left?” Halburt’s weak jest fell flat.
“Perhaps you’d like to look in the case. Over there.” Peter moved his hand in a dismissive flap.
But Halburt ignored the hint. He stood, as if waiting.
For what? She’d bark before she’d invite the popinjay to join them. Especially since he’d encroached just when Peter was about to say something—surely something more intriguing than what Halburt would spew.
He propped his hand upon his walking stick—clearly a practiced pose—with one ankle crossed in front of the other. “Ladies? Oh, and you too, Winstead. I finally heard from Purdie—that’s Walter Scott’s aide. The great man will be travelling to see the Regent and has acquiesced to honor Halburt Arms with a visit to break their travel.”
“Walter Scott? Oh, my,” Miss Barton breathed out the words on a swell of awe. “I’ve been reading his Lady of the Lake. Will we meet him?”
The man preened as he spoke. “That is entirely possible. He’s not asked to be shielded from his public.”
“Well, thank you for informing us of your news.” Rosanna tried to infuse her tone with a hint of farewell, but he didn’t get the message.
“Miss Cabot?”
Please go away. “Yes, Lord Halburt?”
“I was hoping, Miss Cabot…”
Oh, how he blabbered.
“…you would consent to holding one of those famously entertaining treasure hunts your home, Honor’s Point,” he nodded at Peter, “is famous for.”
“I believe I told you I know nothing of treasure hunts, and little of the past owners’ practices regarding hospitality in my home. I’m afraid I possess no real interest nor obligation to continue what may very well have been a delightful diversion.” She fiddled with her teacup handle, pinky raised.
“Winstead, tell her.” He nudged Peter with his elbow, and Peter sidled away, out of reach. “Tell her the fun we used to have.”
“Halburt, I shall not join you in pressuring Miss Cabot, but yes, the hunts were amusing. Why do you think it so important to offer one while Scott bides with you?”
“The man is a treasure hunter extraordinaire. He’s not only a genius as a writer, but he possesses a serious avocation of locating and collecting historical troves. They say he’s on the trail of the missing Scottish regalia.”
Rosanna rattled her cup in its saucer, hoping the shop woman would appear to break up this annoying intrusion. “Any treasure hunt I could concoct would not have a worthy treasure at its end—not worthy enough for your guest, I fear.”
“Are you sure, Miss Cabot?”
“I’m hardly going to put up one of Honor’s Point’s historically significant items as a prize for an evening’s diversion.”
“Even so, perhaps he’ll find the Honor’s Point treasure I’ve heard whispers of these long years.”
She gasped at the insensitivity of mentioning this in front of Peter. “My Lord Halburt, cease with your plaint
s. I’ll hear no more of this. Mayhap I shall consider it, but not another word to spoil two ladies’ outing.” With a decisive turn of her shoulder, she ended the conversation.
Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Winstead hustling a protesting Halburt toward the door with a firm grip on the fop’s forearm.
After shoving Halburt out through the door, Winstead called over his shoulder. “We gents bid you ladies adieu. We must get to the inn because Halburt has to check for a message from his guest. Perhaps the inn holds a treasure.” And with that, they were out the door, and the bell clanged.
“My, oh my, how time flies, I fear two hours are almost gone.” Barton repositioned her shawl and checked her bonnet ties.
With a pained sigh, Rosanna snatched up her reticule. “At least those two aren’t dogging our steps.” She rose, left ample coin on the table, and led the way out, thanking the tea woman for the service.
Ensconced in the carriage and leaving the village, Rosanna spied the graveyard again, and her thoughts flew. Having come away from his grieving, and about to broach something, Winstead stopped when Halburt intruded. What was it he was about to say? An apology? Perhaps—anything to allay the stiff, cool air resting between them like a gray cloud. But should forgiveness come so easily, in light of his trickery?
19
“Oh, no.” Rosanna spotted a carriage parked near the front door of the Honor’s Point manor house. “Don’t let it be Halburt.”
From the direction of the stables, two small grooms appeared to open the carriage door and let down the steps.
Rosanna hastened down the carriage steps and moved toward the house, reticule strings twined through tense fingers.
Perkins emerged. The disgruntled butler held the door open. He stiffly leaned forward as she passed, voice just above a whisper, “Miss, you have a caller.”
“I see. I presume by the crest on the coach, it’s our neighbor, Lord Halburt?”
“Yes, Miss. It’s him.”
She whispered back, “Could you not tell him that I wasn’t home?”
A Refuge for Rosanna Page 9