“Sophia?”
“Yes?” she answered too quickly, turning far too hastily, her cheeks far too heated.
Thankfully, Larkin once more looked terrified. “What do we do about my mother?”
There was something rather perfect about the way he had said ‘we’ when discussing his mother.
Oh lord…
His mother.
Immediately, Sophia shook her head. “Leave it to me. I’ll let Mrs. Windermere know what we will face, and she can make arrangements. This may be her true test with your mother.”
“Trial by fire it is,” he grunted. Then, amazingly, he smiled, and did so gently at that. “Thank you, Sophia. Again.”
There was no time for that, and no time for her to feel so fluttery about it.
But it was so lovely…
“My pleasure,” she heard herself reply in spite of herself.
Why was her voice so soft?
The sound of a clattering of something or other below stairs rang through the house, and both of them jumped accordingly.
“Right, I’ll send you word of my progress!” Larkin said as he turned and hurried away.
“I’ll do the same!” Sophia answered, sprinting back to her rooms.
An uneasy truce for the day, it seemed. A greater enemy was at their door, and their only hope of survival was each other.
Heaven help them.
Well, things were about as settled as he could hope for them to be before the estate was set upon by all manner of locals, villagers, and God alone knew who else. Especially when they only had a few hours’ notice of the thing.
Mrs. Sexton had assured him numerous times that she had things well in hand, but Larkin didn’t feel quite at ease about that. Oh, he fully believed she was capable of skillfully managing an estate twice as complicated and sprawling as Rosennor, that was never in question. Mrs. Sexton was a wonder of a woman, and he was eminently grateful for her.
He simply wasn’t used to someone else managing matters.
And he was unprepared for this matter.
Entirely.
There had been no overcoming the panic that had set in from the moment he first heard Sophia screaming his name. Fear unlike anything he had known hit him at the sound, and even when he’d been assured that she was well and whole, and had seen for himself, the disquiet did not fade.
Of course, there had been a brief interlude in the madness when he’d taken her appearance into account…
He swallowed hard now and strode over to the roses, all prepared and the paths cleared for their guests. He could not be thinking about Sophia Anson in a nightgown and wrap with her hair loose and tumbling while he was fulfilling his duties as host.
Why exactly that was the case, he couldn’t recall, but he was sure he should not.
It had been several hours since their meeting on the landing, their so-called neutral meeting ground, and he had not received word from her since.
Was she all right? Did their impending event still give her anxieties? Had she been able to move past the surprise of the morning to accomplish all that she needed to? Was the interior of the house as ready as he had seen the exterior become?
He looked towards the house, scanning every window as though he expected her to appear in one of them. Like it or not, he was relying on her to see it done, and if it was lacking in any way, it would reflect badly on them both. On Rosennor as a whole.
They had done enough in their attempts to drive each other away from Rosennor, it was true, but for his part there had never been any attempt to damage Rosennor or its legacy. Its influence. Its neighbors and tenants.
Larkin wasn’t sure about Sophia, but he was more than half convinced she felt the same way. They could battle until the death in the privacy of their home.
Out and about, however…
Home.
The word caught him somewhere in the back of his throat. How could that be true? This ramshackle bit of property with its ridiculous claims, divided lands, and mentally diseased goat, complete with dragon of a woman within, could not be his home. It was his house, surely, but he hadn’t done anything significant enough to make it a home for himself, his mother, or anyone else.
Home was just a word. He lived here in this house, ergo it was home.
Not in that way, however.
Just in word.
Nodding to himself, Larkin turned and asked a nearby worker for a scrap of paper, which was soon in his hand. He scribbled a brief note, and had it sent into Sophia, though he was surprised he had not heard her screeching his name or raging about the place yet. He hadn’t heard anything at all, and for Rosennor…
Well, between his mother and Sophia, someone was always making noise, as far as he knew.
Yet he had heard from neither.
He could not tell if that was a good thing or a bad one.
There was a fair chance of both.
He returned his attention to the garden, or, more specifically, to supervising the men working in the garden. He wasn’t exactly sure what it was they were doing, as the tables had been built, a maypole erected, planks set down where the ground was too soft, and several suspicious looking barrels that sat waiting for visitors. He’d seen corrals being built, but had no idea why, as he hadn’t heard animals were part of the activities. The shrubs had all been trimmed to perfection, and the gardener, with his four undergardeners, had set up their particular stations about the roses.
Larkin was superfluous out here, and it was an uneasy feeling. Everything was in hand, and not by him. Not by Sophia either, which would have given him some strange level of comfort, despite his complicated feeling where she was concerned. She would have his same goals in mind with this, that being leaving the village with the best impression of Rosennor possible, and without having a full scope of the event, there was no way to prepare for that.
With neither of them being in charge, and neither knowing what to expect, this was all just a gamble for them both.
Larkin hated gambling, and he was not good at it.
“Mr. Roth, sir?”
He turned to see a footman with a note on and took it from him with a nod. “Thank you.”
To Larkin’s surprise, the footman did not budge.
He gave him a look. “Do you plan on standing there while I read this?”
“Miss Anson told me to wait for instructions, sir,” came the quick reply.
Larkin’s mouth curved wryly. “She did, did she? Hmm.” He flipped open the note with some amusement, and, he would admit, anticipation.
All prepared inside. Rooms returned to previous state with moderate improvement. Mrs. W has Mrs. R ready, and I have retired to change for the occasion. Might I suggest you do the same? Just a thought.
It was signed simply with a large and flourishing S. Not superfluously so, but enough that it made him smile. There was an easy, casual edge to the flourishes that spoke of habit, not intention, and somehow that seemed to fit Sophia Anson to a tee.
Who would have thought flourishes on a single letter could tell him so much?
“Sir?” the footman pressed, no doubt confused by his master smiling over a note from his mistress.
That made two of them.
Sophia’s words suddenly replayed in his mind, and the smile faded.
Change. He should change.
Good heavens, he needed to change. He had been running about the estate and helping the men with various tasks, and at this moment, he looked like one of them. Not at all like the master of Rosennor Hall.
Without a word to the footman waiting beside him, or to anyone else, Larkin turned and bolted for the house, bellowing for some sort of valet.
There was a show to put on for the Cutting of the Roses, and everyone, himself included, must look the part.
CHAPTER 10
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Jones, Mrs. Jones. Please, do enjoy yourselves.”
“We shall, Mr. Roth, and we are pleased as punch that you have let the tradition re
main.”
Larkin’s smile became strained, and Sophia felt the same tension rippling through her frame. “Of course,” Larkin said through almost clenched teeth. “Tradition is ever so important to Miss Anson and myself.”
“Ever so,” Sophia added with a fervent nod.
The butcher and his wife moved on, followed by their seven children, and Sophia let her smile lapse just enough that it took no effort to maintain it.
“If we had any idea of the traditions,” Larkin muttered to her, “we might have a care for them. At the moment, I feel more like a prisoner.”
“I have already scheduled a meeting with Mrs. Sexton for tomorrow,” Sophia replied, dipping her chin as one of the villagers held up a glass to her. “I can assure you, if there is anything else Rosennor is responsible for at any point of the year, we will know it.”
Larkin nodded in approval and exhaled slowly. “What do you think? Are we free to depart our positions in this awkward greeting space or is more required of us here?”
It felt as though they had been standing here for ages, doing nothing in particular except greeting those who arrived, learning more names than they could possibly remember at one time, and smiling until their faces ached. Despite being the hosts for the event, neither of them knew what the order of activities would be, how many to expect, or what to do next. Larkin had done very well being the lord of the estate, greeting everyone with warmth and generosity, and had even included Sophia in such a fashion that she did not have to interject herself into any of the conversations to prove her status here.
He treated her as the lady of the house without minimizing her role as subservient to his.
If she had not seen and heard it with her own eyes, she would not have believed such a thing possible.
Larkin Roth was full of surprises, it seemed.
He was also mightily handsome in his pristine clothing, though none of it was overly fine. He looked as comfortable and natural as any country gentleman while still possessing the air one might expect of master of a great estate.
And if Sophia was any judge, several of the eligible girls of the village were taking note of the new master of Rosennor.
She could not blame them.
Of course, once Larkin ceased playing this part, however, he would return to the infuriating man she knew and resided with. Handsome, but impossible.
That was Larkin Roth to a tee.
“Well?” Larkin asked with a raised brow.
Sophia jerked to meet his eyes, so lost in her thoughts of him that she belatedly realized that she had forgotten to answer him.
How mortifying!
She shook her head. “I believe another wagon just arrived with a family or two. After them, we should be free enough to move about.”
Larkin groaned, but it was a good-natured sound. “I saw children scurrying towards the house, and no one of mature years minding them. Lord only knows what they could be up to.”
Sophia smiled to herself at his worry. “We have a fleet of footmen and maids, Lark. Someone will keep them from true damage, I’m sure of it.”
“I’m not so sure,” he retorted. He gestured faintly with one hand to the surrounding. “You see our staff out and about here, carrying out Mrs. Sexton’s work? Who remains indoors if so many are out of it?”
That made Sophia frown a touch as she considered their view of those gathered. There were a great deal of their staff serving and doing whatever tasks Mrs. Sexton and Shaw suggested, and quite a few bearing various foodstuffs from the kitchens out to the constructed long tables for the feast. But there were others doing tasks as well that were not liveried by Rosennor.
“Not all of them are ours,” she pointed out lamely, allowing a wince for effect. “I believe some of the girls work in the tavern in town.”
“I wouldn’t know,” came Larkin’s bland reply. “I have yet to frequent the establishment, though I may have to in recovery after this fiasco.”
Sophia elbowed him in the side. “Don’t call it a fiasco! It has only just begun, and you will curse us with your negativity.”
“Oh, I do love a spring fete!” an all-too familiar voice trilled on the air.
They both turned to see Larkin’s mother on the arm of her new companion, Mrs. Windermere, and both were dressed perfectly for the occasion. No one would doubt Mrs. Roth was a dowager lady of the estate, and the walking stick that had been fashioned for her was a near-perfect miniature of the maypole that stood not a hundred yards from their present position. Mrs. Roth fairly glided with Mrs. Windermere beside her, the plainer dressed woman keeping a polite smile on her face as she guided her mistress to a chair.
Larkin swallowed and looked up to the clouds in the sky. “Lord, I know I am not a frequent caller, nor the most obedient of subjects, but I beg of you… Keep my mother well-behaved.”
“Tush,” Sophia told him half-heartedly. “We needn’t keep her confined in a madhouse, surely being out and about today will not do her any harm.”
Larkin looked at her with some derision. “Remind me to tell you about the day I completed my studies at Cambridge, Sophia, and how my mother acted. It is not her coming to harm that I fear, I can assure you.”
A rush of cold entered Sophia’s cheeks at the implication, followed quickly by the heat of shame.
It felt wrong to judge Mrs. Roth before anything had occurred, but knowing what potential lurked did give her a bit of pause.
“This is why we have Mrs. Windermere,” Sophia reminded herself, and Larkin as well. “We should not have to worry about her while she is at hand.”
“One can only hope,” Larkin replied in a very low voice as he fixed another perfect smile on his face while new arrivals approached.
The two of them greeted all with the same manners and hospitality they had employed previously, then made their way to the roses afterwards to avoid being trapped there for the duration of the day.
“Gads,” Larkin hissed through a smile. “We’re surrounded, aren’t we? Don’t disturb them, or they may turn on us.”
Sophia looked at him in horror. “Why would you even consider such an outcome?”
“I’m brimming with pessimism at any given time,” he shot back. “And it rears its head most when I am uncomfortable.”
Unprompted, she slid her hand through his arm. “Don’t be uncomfortable,” she suggested softly. “We are the masters here. We can turn them all out at any given time, and they won’t be able to do a thing about it. Many of them live on our lands and benefit from our crops. They should impress us, not the other way around.”
“You think that if you like, Sophia.” He gave her a rueful smile, raising a brow. “And pray, give my regards to the revival of the French Revolution when it comes.”
She grimaced, but laughed a little. “Never mind. We’re doomed.”
“Hopelessly,” he agreed.
It had been a stupid thought, her suggestion of implementing tyranny, but it had made him smile, and, she thought, relax a little.
Somehow that was worth the stupidity.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a burly man in a worn coat bellowed, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Mr. Roth, Miss Anson, citizens of Rosenthal…”
“Oh, good,” Larkin muttered. “I was hoping this would all have more grandeur.”
“Shh!” Sophia hissed with a nudge.
“It is now time,” the man continued, his bellowing only increasing in volume, “to begin the Cutting of the Roses!”
The people cheered with such enthusiasm that Sophia leaned into Larkin a little to say, “Are we in possession of magical roses, Lark?”
“Not that I know of, Soph,” he said back with a smile. “But perhaps we are both mistaken.”
“What sort of people get so energized over a flower?” she wondered aloud.
Larkin shook his head as if to say he did not know.
“As per longstanding tradition,” the event’s announcer went on, “the first cutting will be performed by
the master of Rosennor.” He turned to face Larkin and Sophia, and his face froze.
Along with the air and energy of all gathered.
There were two masters of Rosennor now, and no precedent for such a thing.
Sophia smiled with as much warmth as she could muster in a moment of awkward attention, and nudged at Larkin. “Go on, Mr. Roth. You heard the man.”
Larkin looked at her at once, no hint of humor or teasing in his look. “You sure?”
She waved a dismissive hand. “Positive. Go and do your duty.”
He nodded, still looking unconvinced, but turned a remarkably composed and confident expression to their guests, waving as he moved away from her to the roses and the master gardener, who was beaming and extending gold encrusted clippers to him.
Why in the world would he need such an ornate version of the things to clip a rose?
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the loudest man in creation shouted again, raising his hands. “In keeping with tradition, and just as Sir Chauncy DeLancy first did in thirteen forty-six with Lady Ann Beamon, Mr. Roth will cut his choice of rose and present it to one of the ladies present, bestowing upon her the honors and good fortune for the coming year, naming her Mistress of the Rose.”
Sophia raised her brows, her eyes widening. What in the world did all of that mean? Clearly, she would need to discuss more than just the events of Rosenthal and Rosennor with Mrs. Sexton on the morrow.
Thirteen forty-six? If her memory served, that was close to the year Rosennor Hall was built. Had Sir Chauncy DeLancy been the first master of Rosennor? Had he built the place and begun the proud traditions these people clung to so well?
Larkin suddenly looked as though a weight had been set upon his shoulders, and Sophia felt an echoing one in the pit of her stomach. The blind was truly leading the blind on this occasion, and neither of them enjoyed the experience of being sightless.
Sophia watched as Larkin took a few steps away from the master gardener, his attention on the roses. Then he paused and reached for a bright red rose, not fully opened yet, but destined to be full and perfect in its beauty. With surprisingly firm motions, he clipped the flower and turned, handing the shears to the master gardener without a word.
The Rivals of Rosennor Hall (Entangled Inheritance Book 3) Page 12