The Wounded Countess
Preview
CHAPTER ONE
Come one, come all!
Yes, Readers, the Season has begun again! Ladies and gentlemen are flocking into London in their dozens, bringing with them new fashions, new gowns, and new secrets. Ah, yes, this author will be keeping a sharp eye open for this year’s scandals. Who will reach the end of the Season with a successful match? Who will leave in disgrace? We will make our predictions at the first ball of the Season, hosted by the redoubtable Lady D.
On the subject of scandals, even the greatest dullard could see trouble brewing on the horizon in the form of Lord H., having returned from a full five years abroad following a shocking scandal, one that still shakes Society to its very core…
The Whispering Miss, Society Papers
The first ball of the Season was, naturally, crowded beyond measure. One would expect no less.
Lysander was obliged to apply his elbows to get through the last squeeze of the vestibule and found himself expelled into the expanse of Lady Danton’s ballroom.
An ever-shifting throng filled the room. Nervy debutantes in white with wide, terrified eyes scuttled along behind grim-faced mothers or chaperones, while more experienced young women glided along with heads held high, gazes raking the crowd. Fashionable men travelled in packs of two and three, trying their utmost to act aloof while ogling the debutantes and avoiding their mothers.
I hate this place, Lysander thought miserably. He did not mean Lady Danton’s ballroom specifically, of course. This was the symbolic Marriage Mart, where men came looking for wives and women did their utmost to catch a suitable husband. Some failed, some succeeded.
Some, like Lysander, rather managed neatly to do both – fail and succeed.
In his search for a quiet corner, Lysander came near a young woman, a debutante, of about eighteen. She smiled nervously up at him, clearly hoping that he would seek an introduction. The woman’s mother, a dour-looking widow, followed her daughter’s gaze and locked eyes with Lysander. She gave a yelp of horror, seized her daughter’s arm, and dragged her away, whispering angrily. As they passed by, the widow threw an angry, accusing glare up at Lysander.
Lysander swallowed hard and turned away, pretending he had not noticed. At last, he spotted some space over by a Grecian-style pillar, and hurried towards it, breathing a sigh of relief.
All of London is here, by the looks of it, he thought miserably. Perhaps I should have put off my re-entry into Society for another year.
It was foolish to think that way. For one thing, he was already here, and it was too late to leave now. Every scandal sheet and gossip column – or ‘Society Papers’, as they preferred to call themselves – would mention his presence here.
As well as this, Lysander knew in his heart that every passing year he chose not to return to Society would make his eventual return even harder.
I am Lord Hollendale now. I am not just Lord Lysander, a timid, put-upon heir. I am own person and I am free.
He snatched up a glass of champagne from a passing footman and took a large mouthful to steady his nerves.
It did not work.
A pair of ladies, obviously sisters, strolled by, escorted by a man who resembled them enough to be a brother. The women goggled quite openly at Lysander.
“Is that…?” one hissed to her siblings, in a stage whisper, only to be shushed loudly by her brother.
“Indeed, that’s him,” the brother muttered, levelling a baleful glare at Lysander. “The prodigal returns, I see. Steer clear of him, both of you, unless you want to be jilted at the altar.”
“What a pity,” sighed the other sister. “He’s quite handsome.”
The trio passed by, melting into the crowd. Lysander finished his champagne and wished he had another one.
That’s hardly fair, he thought. I never jilted anyone at the altar. We never made it that far. The wedding date wasn’t even chosen yet.
Still, at least one of them thought I was handsome.
That was a hollow comfort, of course. It didn’t matter whether gentlemen were handsome or not. Even the ugliest, dullest man could secure the most beautiful woman of the Season, if he had money and a title to offer.
And, of course, no scandal attached to his name. No woman wanted to risk the shame of being jilted.
Something tightened in Lysander’s chest. It was guilt, a feeling he’d wrestled with almost daily for the past five years.
A familiar face appeared in the crowd, pushing its way towards him, and Lysander nearly sagged in relief.
“Julian,” he greeted the man, when he was close enough. “I am powerfully glad to see you.”
“I thought you’d be inundated with young ladies and ambitious mothers,” Julian remarked wryly. “I’d resigned myself to fighting through a crowd to get to you.”
Lysander snorted. “Don’t be ridiculous. So far, only Lady Danton has greeted me, and that’s because she is my host and cannot avoid it. I wish I hadn’t come. Somebody just called me a prodigal son.”
Julian did not seem to be fully listening. The was a high, wide mirror on the wall opposite, and they could occasionally snatch a glimpse of their reflections, when the crowd cleared. Focused on his reflection, Julian tweaked the frothy lace at his throat and cuffs, smoothing down the canary-yellow velvet of his jacket.
“Are you sure that’s proper evening attire, Julian?” Lysander muttered. “I feel like a blackbird standing beside a peacock at the moment.”
“Well, take heed of that feeling, and dress a little better in future. A black evening suit? Heavens, you don’t stand out a bit.”
Lysander winced. “I don’t need to attract any more attention than I already do.”
He was aware that two ladies were shooting Julian calculated glances. Both of them were eight-and-twenty years old, and Julian was rather handsome, with carefully styled blond hair, sharp dark eyes which missed nothing, and an excellent sense of style. He was a plain Mr. Croft, but his clothing and demeanour hinted at wealth. If a lady was interested in him, of course, she would ask her mamma, guardian, or a friend to make enquiries as to what sort of man he was.
Beside him, Lysander was aware that he made a pleasant contrast. He was good-looking, and while he might not dress as well as Julian, he could still…
“When is the last time you cut your hair?” Julian said, breaking into his thoughts. “It’s almost touching your collar. Good heavens, Lysander, your appearance is most dishevelled; you certainly need to be styled.”
Lysander sighed, pushing his fingers through his curly black hair. His colouring, he’d been told, was unusual – black hair and eyebrows matched with pale skin and grey eyes just like the colour of a winter sky. If one wished to be poetic about it.
She was. She loved the colour of my eyes.
He roughly cut off that thought. It would do him no good, thinking of her. Not now.
“Lord Beaufort – you know him, don’t you? The incorrigible gossip – is quite fascinated with your marital state this Season,” Julian drawled. “I believe he’s rather impressed with you taking on the guardianship of little Clara. But he shall be watching you closely.”
“What luck is that!” Lysander muttered. “Julian, I can’t stand this. See how they all stare at me?”
Julian tutted. “It’s to be expected. Listen, Lysander, you’re going to have to weather this. There’ll be a period of scorn and disapproval, but it’s not as if you’re a lady with a reputation made of glass. You shall recover.”
Lysander wished he could believe it. His friend watched him narrowly, taking a sip of his own drink.
“What is it you want from this Season, Lysander?” he asked suddenly.
Lysander flinched. “What do you mean?”
“Surely you comprehend my meaning. All crave something from the Season—be it a wife, a husband, social standing, or other pursuits. Pray, what is it that you seek?”
He thought it over for a moment. The answer wasn’t immediately apparent.
“Forgiveness,” he said at last, his voice hushed and almost lost in the noise of the crowd around them. “I want to be forgiven.”
Something like pity crossed Julian’s face. “Oh, Lysander. I hope you discover what you seek; however, I fear she may be unwilling to forgive you.”
Before Lysander could answer, a ripple went through the crowd. People craned their necks, staring first at him and then at some person moving through the throng.
No need to ask who it was.
The person moving through the crowd seemed to be heading in the opposite direction to where Lysander stood, which was a relief. Just for an instant, the crowds parted, and he saw her.
Despite the lingering gazes and hushed whispers that surrounded her, she maintained her composure and stood with unwavering dignity. She had always done so, despite being deemed rather tall for a lady and bearing little resemblance to the slender, graceful belles so much admired in fashionable circles. Her hair, just as glossy and red as always, was dressed in an elaborate pile on top of her head, ringlets falling down over her neck. Her skin glinted in the candlelight, set off by a simple gown of dark blue, and when she turned her elegant neck to speak to her companion, her eyes seemed to flash green across the room.
Then the moment was gone, the crowds closed up, and she was gone.
Rosalind, Lysander thought, the words echoing in his head like a prayer. He let out a ragged breath, suddenly aware that he’d been holding it. His chest ached, and there was a lump in his throat.
She hadn’t looked at him, of course. Why would she? He was fairly sure she knew he was here and would take pains to avoid him during the night. To his horror, Lysander found that his knees had gone wobbly, and he longed to crumble pathetically to the ground.
I still love her, he thought miserably. This was not a new thought. It was one that had plagued him every single day since the day he broke off their betrothal.
Beside him, Julian cleared his throat.
“Lysander? Are you well?”
“Well?” he repeated shakily, passing a hand over his face. “Of course I’m not well. I can’t believe I thought I could meet her with tranquillity.”
“Perhaps she’s thinking the same about you.”
“Oh, no. She looks well, though. Happy. Is she happy?”
“She’s said to be so,” Julian responded, not unkindly. “She deserves it, do you not think so? Now, let us get you out of this dreadful crush. There’s a card room somewhere. Let us find it, and we can talk in peace.”
Lysander allowed his friend to tow him through the crowd. There were more stares than before, and a few brave souls tried, and failed to start up a conversation. They both breathed a sigh of relief when they reached a quiet, cool room full of empty card tables. It was too early in the evening for cards, and only a trio of elderly gentlemen sat in the corner playing a game. The men sat at a small table, and Julian began to shuffle the deck waiting there. Lysander didn’t even bother to ask what game they were playing.
“Do you think she still paints?” he asked, his voice soft. “She adored her painting. She was afraid that when she was married, she wouldn’t have time for it.”
Julian threw him a pitying look. “I imagine so, my friend. Now, do tell me about Clara. How is she faring? Is she comfortably established?”
Lysander swigged back the drink he’d picked up along the way. “Not terribly. She is quite reserved, you know. I scarcely recall much of her mother — my cousin, you understand — but I dare say she was not a bashful young lady. Still, the poor child has just lost both her parents in one fell swoop and is compelled to reside with a stranger. One cannot blame her for withdrawing into herself a trifle.”
Julian tutted, doling out cards. “Poor little creature. What have you done to make her feel more at home?”
“Everything I can think of. I endeavour to spend time with her, yet I confess I find myself at a loss in conversing with children, and I fear I may even unnerve her. She possesses toys, a governess to oversee her, a chamber of her own, and an assortment of confections, though not excessively, as Mrs. Davies observed, yet she appears uninterested in any of these possessions.”
Julian considered this, nodding slowly. “It may require patience and as you observed she has endured a great loss, and you are but a stranger. It has only been a few months; grant her the necessary time to heal.”
“Indeed, you are correct. Her governess mentioned to me that she appears ill at ease and not quite at home. I am at a loss as to what measures I might take to comfort her, to help her perceive that this situation is indeed enduring.”
Julian thought it over, tapping his fingernails on the table. At last, he stopped the tapping and played a card.
“Hearts,” he murmured. “How about a portrait?”
Lysander tilted his head. “I hadn’t thought of that. Do children like their portraits painted?”
“I have no idea, but it might do well to show her that this is to be home, and that she can grow comfortable here. A sense of permanence, if you will. And I know exactly who you ought to commission.”
“Intriguing. Who?”
Julian grinned. “Lady Everleigh, of course.”
As always, there was an instant of disconnection, where Lysander forgot that Lady Everleigh was once Miss Rosalind Spencer.
He sucked in a breath, dropping his cards. “What? Are you insane?”
“No. I think it’s a fine idea. She’s the finest painter you know, you said so yourself.”
“Allow me to be unequivocal,” Lysander snapped, gathering his cards. “You expect me to write to a lady I forsook five years past, who I then abandoned to bear the burden of shame and disgrace, and request that she undertake to paint a portrait of my ward?”
Julian gestured for Lysander to play a card. It seemed a little redundant, considering that Julian had certainly seen all of his cards when he dropped them earlier. “Yes.”
Lysander chuckled, playing a card. As expected, Julian immediately countered it with one of his own.
“Well, not only would that be humiliating, it would also be ineffectual. Do you think she would agree? She would not consider it for an instant.”
Julian grinned, leaning forward. “Ah, that’s the thing. I have it on good authority that our dear Lady Everleigh’s finances are not in good order. Quite the reverse, in fact. She’s accepting commissions, very quietly, for various portraits and miniatures. She must be in need of money.”
He didn’t like that. Lysander frowned down at his cards, trying to avoid the thought of his precious Rosalind hunched over an accounting ledger, trying vainly to cut costs and make ends meet.
“I thought you said she was happy,” he mumbled.
Julian sniffed. “Yes, and she is, as far as I know. I did not say she was rich, however. Offer her a lucrative commission, and I daresay she’ll accept it, or at least give it due consideration. But it must be lucrative. Fortunately, with your new title and estate, you can afford it.”
They played a few cards in silence while Lysander thought this over.
“I don’t wish to make her uncomfortable,” he murmured at last. “Forcing her into my presence…”
“Oh, come, come. When has Rosalind done anything, she did not wish to do? She is, however, practical above all else. We know that.”
“Not in all things,” Lysander mumbled. “She possesses rather significant blind spots, especially regarding that brother of hers.”
“Quite. Let’s not talk of him, though. We should be talking of you, and little Clara, and of Lady Everleigh. You wanted forgiveness, did you not? This is how you achieve it.”
“By paying her to paint a picture of my ward?”
Julian sighed, clearly getting irritated. “Oh, heavens, it’s like you don’t want to be helped. Well, do as you like, I don’t much care. I think you should offer her the commission. At the very least, it’ll be a high-paying job, and one that might be a lifeline to her. And if she doesn’t want to speak to you, I have every confidence that she’ll make it abundantly plain to you.”
Lysander absently played a card, whereupon Julian triumphantly played another and neatly won the game.
Could I do it? Could I send such an impertinent request? Ladies aren’t meant to be paid for their paintings, or writing, or anything. They’re ladies. They’re supposed to float around and do nothing. But that never suited Rosalind.
I must not call her Rosalind anymore. It’s Lady Everleigh, although I imagine she’d prefer for me not address her at all.
He could do it. He could write a brusque, deeply professional note to her that following morning, and outline the commission in clear lines. No sentimentality, no begging for forgiveness. And if he mentioned the money, plus the possibility of bonuses if her work was exceptional… well, she was a practical person.
Already, Lysander knew that he wouldn’t dare venture out of the card room all night, except when it was time to hustle out and hurry home. He would not see Rosalind again that night.
But perhaps I might see her again sooner than I think.
CHAPTER TWO
The thing to remember at a ball – or indeed any gathering in Polite Society – is that one can never let down one’s guard. One is always being watched. Every gesture is seen and interpreted, every word is weighed and considered. To naive young women and debutantes, let me tell you this: you can never be too careful regarding what you say and do. This is Society, and nothing goes unnoticed.
- A Lady’s Guide To Etiquette And True Grace
Rosalind could not remember the last time she’d been really, truly angry. The sort of anger that lends a red tinge to one’s gaze and impels one to make the most foolish of decisions.
Edward had not approved of anger, either in himself or others. He enjoyed a calm, quiet sort of life, free of excess emotions, and Rosalind had prided herself on being able to give that to him. Together, they’d made a decent sort of life. Not exciting, precisely, but neither was it unhappy. Rosalind had even been able to convince herself that passion was not an attitude she wanted to keep for herself.
She had not painted very much, but perhaps that was because she was simply too busy. There was work to be done, and that was that. Painting was simply a pastime, and she had learned to put it in its proper place. She barely missed it, or so she told herself as often as she could.
If one told oneself something often enough, one might start to believe it.
Or so Rosalind hoped.
Regrettably, four years of existence with Edward and the consequent lack of practice had deprived her of any command over her temper. At present she was walking through the largest and most crucial ball of the Season, seething.
“I cannot believe he had the gall to be here,” Rosalind hissed. “How dare he? How dare he? Mrs. Hutchers is the fourth person to ask me how I am in that tone. I know perfectly well what she means. She thinks that I am about to start mooning over him again or weeping to myself in the corner.”
“I think you are overreacting, dear,” Eleanor responded sensibly. “I am not sure that is what she meant at all. It was five years ago. Mrs. Hutchers wasn’t even out then.”
Rosalind sighed. “I’m starting to feel faint.”
“I have smelling salts.”
“Of course you do. You are always prepared, Eleanor.”
Eleanor allowed herself a small smile at this. Eleanor Ainsworth was often spoken of as quite unremarkable in her looks by most of the gossips in the ton and the Society Papers, and despite being barely five-and-twenty – the same age as her cousin – she was already considered a spinster. She had straight brown hair which she preferred to wear in a simple style, and preferred muted colours – brown, grey, dark blue, and so on. She wore spectacles, round and a little too large for her face.
Surely, nobody dared speak unkindly of Eleanor in Rosalind’s presence. The two cousins had lived well together for the past two years, and indeed their characters harmonized most agreeably. Edward had liked Eleanor very much, and like Rosalind, he thought that the young men of Society were fools not to pursue her.
“Can you see him anywhere?” Rosalind asked quietly. It was a foolish question to ask, since Eleanor was at least a head shorter than her cousin. If Rosalind could not see over the heads of the crowds, Eleanor certainly could not.
Eleanor shook her head. “If you’re not feeling well, let us go somewhere quiet. I can find you a seat or find a peaceful room. The atmosphere is excessively warm here, regardless.”
***
“Perhaps you’re right,” Rosalind murmured. “They shall commence the dancing shortly, and surely someone will inquire of me. I do not quite feel inclined to partake in the dance.”
“Indeed, and I shall have to stand on the sidelines and watch you dance,” Eleanor chuckled, although there was no malice in her voice. “Now, come along. You look rather pale.”
Without another word, Eleanor took charge, leading her cousin through the crowd. They made their way across the crowded ballroom, and stumbled out into the cool, gloomy hallways outside. A few people loitered in the hallways – a young woman who had torn the hem of her dress, urging a pair of her friends to sew faster, a gentleman who had clearly imbibed too much wine and was leaning against the wall groaning quietly, and an older woman who had spilled something on her dress, scrubbing at the stain and muttering to herself. None of them paid much attention to the two young women weaving their way down the hallway. Nobody who came out into the hallways during a gathering wanted to talk. There was a reason for it.
Eleanor led the way, cool and capable, seeming to know exactly where she was going – she always did – and at last they entered a dimly-lit conservatory which was attached to the house.
The conservatory was warmer than the hallways, but nowhere near as stickily hot as the ballroom. There was a sort of smell in the air, the scent of leafy plants and freshly turned earth. It was a peaceful place, and Rosalind immediately began to feel her tension dissipating.
Nobody else was in here, but the door was not locked and there was no footman posted in the hall to keep guests from wandering in. A single candelabra was placed on a narrow table, illuminating a low, raised platform amongst the green, leafy sea of plants. There were some books piled on the table, including the famous book entitled A Lady’s Guide To Etiquette And True Grace. Rosalind had read it and privately considered it the largest collection of nonsense she had ever seen in her life. Placed ironically beside the Guide – which condemned gossip of all kinds – were a few issues of The Whispering Mistress, London’s favourite Society Papers. The Whispering Mistress was a little more entertaining than the Guide. Its author was anonymous, as such authors always were, but the paper contained real facts instead of sordid whispers and rumours.
Rosalind read every issue of the paper, a little guiltily, like everybody else in Society. The latest issue was placed on top of the others, one page folded down to indicate where the previous reader had put it down.
There were wicker chairs on the platform, arranged around the table, padded with cushions, and Eleanor gestured for Rosalind to take one. The plants crowded in closely around it, and quite a few tips of leaves tickled the back of Rosalind’s neck. The smell of greenery was stronger here, pleasant and earthy. She sighed, leaning back in her chair, and closed her eyes. Outside, moths bounced against the windows, drawn in by the light, their furry bodies fluttering curiously to and fro.
The conservatory was all glass but with the light inside and the darkness of the gardens just beyond, all Rosalind could see in the windows was her own blurry reflection, the rough silhouette of a red-haired woman with a too-pale face. She pointedly turned away from it, tucking her feet underneath her. The author of the Guide would have an apoplexy if she were here to see such an attitude. It wasn’t proper to do that, of course, but nobody was here to see. Besides, she was wearing new shoes and her toes were already aching. Heaven only knew how she’d manage to dance.
“I cannot believe that he came just like that,” Rosalind murmured, almost to herself. “As if nothing happened. As if he didn’t write me that… that letter and then leave. He left me face it all alone, you know. All the whispers, all the giggles and rumours, all the pitying looks. It was insufferable.”
“I know, dear, I know,” Eleanor sighed. “It was awful, I remember. But you knew he was coming back this Season, didn’t you?”
Rosalind shrugged, picking at her cuff. The seam had required stitching earlier, but it hadn’t been done well. The thread was already beginning to unravel. It was to the new maid, that the task was given. The girl was pleasant enough but sewed terribly. Rosalind thoroughly missed Maggie, the maid who’d always done her sewing before. But Maggie had left to get married, and there was no way Rosalind could afford another maid of her calibre.
“I heard rumours,” she said quietly. “People told me that Lysander was coming back to London. I didn’t want to believe it. After all, I half expected him to come back every year for the past five years, and he didn’t. I didn’t think he would have the gall.”
“Well, he has, and now he’s here and so we shall have to deal with it,” Eleanor said firmly. She leaned forward, narrowing her eyes at Rosalind. “Are you still in love with him?”
The question somehow caught Rosalind by surprise. She flinched back, eyes wide.
“What?”
“You heard me. Are you still in love with him, Rosalind?”
She bit her lip, hard, and glanced away.
“What a question to ask. No, Eleanor, I am not. I haven’t loved Lysander for a long time. Although of course it is Lord Hollendale now, is it not? To be honest, I half expected that wretched father of his to find some way to cheat him out of his inheritance.”
Eleanor watched her carefully, dark eyes glittering in the gloom. After a while, apparently satisfied by what she saw in her cousin’s face, she sat back in her seat.
“I’m glad to hear you have your peace of mind, cousin. We’ll do our best to keep our tranquillity this Season. None shall extend an invitation to you and him to any private assemblages; thus, the only perils in encountering him shall be at entertainments such as these. Or Almack’s, if he’s granted a voucher. Either way, it shall be easy enough to avoid him, won’t it?”
Rosalind drummed her fingers on the chair arm and said nothing. As always, Eleanor was remarkably reasonable and sensible. Her feelings were probably ordered as neatly as her linen cupboards, with everything in its place. Rosalind’s head felt like a tangled box of wool, all unspooled, frayed and tangled together, forming a knot of Gordian proportions that would never be untied.
“I had thought,” she began slowly, “that he would come back last year. When I was first widowed, you know. I don’t know why. I would not have spoken to him under any circumstances, and especially not after Edward’s death. And then he didn’t come.”
Eleanor reached out and took Rosalind’s hand. “If you still harbour feelings for him,” she began, “he’s a man of wealth now, you know.”
Rosalind snatched her hand away. “Gracious, Eleanor! It’s not like you to say such foolish things. I have just told you that I do not hold feelings for him, and even if I did, well, he jilted me! By letter!”
Eleanor sighed. “Forgive me, it was only a suggestion.”
“Well, I didn’t mean to speak sharply, only… oh, I wish we could go home.”
Eleanor smiled wryly. “Now you know how I feel, when I want to go home and read my book and you want to dance until dawn. Besides, we can’t leave. Lady Danton would be quite offended. She…”
She cut off abruptly at the sound of unsteady, thumping footsteps. A tall figure appeared in the doorway, silhouetted by candlelight.
“Rosie!” the figure cried out. “There you are! I was looking for you everywhere. I should have known you’d be hiding away somewhere strange.”
Rosalind’s heart plummeted into her stomach. The tall figure came stumbling towards her, tripping over his own feet and at one point tipping sideways into a bush of ferns. At last, he disentangled himself and then came limping onto the platform, collapsing onto the seat beside Rosalind with a thump that nearly sent her flying into the air.
He grinned. “Hello, Eleanor. Might I have a word with my sister, please?”
Eleanor glanced at Rosalind questioningly.
“No need for that,” Rosalind said hastily. “Whatever you want to say to me, you can say to Eleanor. You know that, Thomas.”
Thomas pouted, as if he were a sulking child instead of a man of one-and-twenty years old.
“Indeed, I suppose- though it is exceedingly trying for a gentleman not to be able to converse privately with his own sister.”
It was eminently clear that Rosalind and Thomas were siblings. They were tall, red-haired, and both possessed pale skin and green eyes. However, Rosalind’s figure was sturdy and womanly, where Thomas’ was painfully thin and seemed to grow thinner by the month. At that moment, his hair was lank and unbrushed, his skin sallow, and there were dark rings around his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept. His cravat hung limply, half undone. When he breathed out, Rosalind could clearly smell alcohol of some kind on his breath. Wine, perhaps, or brandy.
She pressed her lips together. “Thomas, are you in your cups?”
“So what if I am?” he responded defensively.
“It’s not proper to appear in front of ladies in that state.”
Thomas gave a hoot of laughter. “Ladies? It’s just Eleanor and you. Oh, don’t scowl at me like that, Rosie, I’m not being unkind. You’re my sister, and she’s my cousin. Can’t I be myself with you?”
This was a pointless argument. Rosalind had had it before.
“What do you want, then?” she said at last. It felt like a cruel thing to say to one’s own sibling but she had no other choice.
However, there was a real possibility that Thomas might fall asleep leaning against her and begin drooling on her shoulder. It had happened before.
He shifted, pulling himself into a more upright position.
“Indeed, Rosie,” he commenced, his voice adopting a wheedling tone, “I have met with most unfortunate fortune at the gaming tables. Truly, you would scarcely credit how grievously my luck has forsaken me. It is so dire that I am convinced it must mend forthwith. I dare say, at the very next engagement, I anticipate a turn of luck most favourable.”
“I seem to recall you telling me this before,” Rosalind muttered. She didn’t quite dare look at Eleanor. Certainly, they both knew exactly how this discourse was destined to unfold.
Thomas sniffed. “Indeed, indeed. However, I dare say my fortunes are about to change. The matter is, I must settle with one of the gentlemen presently before I am permitted to partake again—most unchivalrous of them, I grant you—but such is the case. I shall require a modest sum to advance, and I was hoping you might be inclined to lend me a penny or two.”
“Which is it, Thomas?” Rosalind asked sharply. “One penny, or two?”
He blinked. “Don’t be so unkind about it. I don’t actually mean a penny. I wanted a bit more than that, but not to worry, as I shall pay you back promptly. By the end of the night, I imagine. I’ll double your money, just have faith. Don’t think of it as a loan, but as an investment.”
Rosalind closed her eyes, a dull throb was beginning to form in her temples—a circumstance hardly surprising under the circumstances. Beside her, Thomas edged nearer, the strong aroma of spirits and body odour emanating from him with each movement.
I can’t even leave, because with my luck, I shall run straight into Lysander. And I can’t bear that. Not tonight.
“Thomas,” Eleanor spoke up gently, “perhaps now isn’t the best time to speak to your sister about this.”
Thomas scowled at her. “I shall not be told how to speak to my own sister.”
“She’s right, Thomas,” Rosalind muttered. “I haven’t brought any money with me, in any case.”
Thomas’ face fell. “Not a shilling?”
“No.”
He leaned away, taking the odour of unwashed body and alcohol with him but Rosalind wasn’t foolish enough to hope that it was the end of the conversation.
“You’ll never guess who I saw out in the ballroom, Rosie,” he said at last, somewhat abruptly.
“Guess? I couldn’t possibly,” she responded, more sharply than she would have liked. Thomas didn’t seem to notice. Rosalind imagined that he noticed very little at that stage of his inebriation.
He grinned widely. “Lord Hollendale. You remember him, don’t you? Of course you do! You were once betrothed to him!”
Rosalind went quite cold and still. “What are you talking about, Thomas?”
“I’m only saying that he looks rather prosperous these days. His papa had quite the estate, you know, so he isn’t one of those impoverished lords, living in debt. I couldn’t help thinking that, with the right motivation, he might be inclined to generosity. It’s a good plan, is it not?”
She felt sick. “I don’t understand.”
Thomas gave an irritated sigh. “It’s quite simple. There’s a good deal of history between the two of you, and it might convince him to open the hand of friendship to me, as it were.”
“Thomas…”
“In other words, he might lend me money,” Thomas added, so vulgarly that Rosalind sucked in a breath. Eleanor did not react in any way, she was far too composed, but Rosalind found herself battling the rush of anger all over again.
“He might not care much about retrieving it, either,” Thomas continued, quite unconcerned. “The fellows I have borrowed from in the past, now did chide me most dreadfully. It isn’t true generosity if you care about getting it back, is it? I was but a child when he departed, but I thought of introducing myself again to him tonight, maybe laying the groundwork a little…”
Rosalind leapt to her feet, so suddenly that Thomas flinched, blinking up at her.
“Why, Rosie, what’s the matter?”
“You are not to approach Lord Hollendale,” she snapped, voice cold and sharp. “You are certainly not to speak to him about money, or any sort of financial matters. You are not even to hint. You are not to ask anybody else to do so on your behalf.”
“Now, wait a minute…”
“I forbid it, Thomas! I absolutely forbid it! What’s more, I’m horrified that you would even consider such a thing. Have you no shame?”
Thomas blinked up at her, his mouth hanging slackly.
“There’s no need to shout,” he managed at last, a little lamely.
Rosalind passed a hand over her face. Her head ached worse than ever. They would have to make their excuses to Lady Danton. She could claim a headache and probably looked pale and ill enough for it to be believed.
“I don’t mean to shout,” she said at last, carefully modulating her voice. “But Thomas, I must know that you have heard me in this matter. You must never approach Lord Hollendale. Do you comprehend? Should I discover that you have, I shall be exceedingly displeased.”
Thomas stared up at her. His shock was rapidly turning to resentment. She could see it written in his eyes.
“So, you shall not let me have any money,” he said at last, “but you shall not let me ask anyone else.”
“I won’t let you ask Lord Hollendale.”
Thomas sprang to his feet. “Nobody else will lend me any! You are quite selfish, Rosalind. Honestly, I believe you ought to consider the needs of others besides yourself for once, what say you to that?”
“Thomas,” Eleanor said evenly, “that is unkind and unfair. Apologise to your sister.”
“I shall not! You really don’t care about my predicament, do you, Rosalind? You’re entirely selfish, that is the problem. Since I can’t win back my money, I might as well go home, should I not? Especially since my ungrateful sister has entirely forgotten her family duty.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned and stamped back along the narrow pathway, disappearing into the hall beyond.
Suddenly, Rosalind’s legs felt rather weak, and she sat down abruptly on the seat. Eleanor reached out, taking her hand.
“Are you quite all right?” she asked softly. “He won’t stay angry for long. You know how angry he gets when he’s in his cups.”
Rosalind closed her eyes. “Indeed, I do. I just… I just can’t bear it, sometimes. How can he have no scruples at all? No sense of propriety? And bringing up Lysander like that, so callously…” she trailed off, shaking her head.
Eleanor bit her lip. “He was barely sixteen when things ended between you, and he was at school. I think perhaps he does not understand the pain of heartbreak.”
“It’s entirely my fault,” Rosalind muttered. “I shielded him. Perhaps I should not have done so. But I am his older sister, and I can’t help but feel as though I have failed. He… He truly would stoop to anything, wouldn’t he?”
Eleanor didn’t answer. Somehow, no answer was the worst reply she could have received.
“Let us return home,” Eleanor murmured softly after a brief pause. “I shall have the carriage summoned, and I will excuse you to Lady Danton. Then we may be on our way.”
Home. That was a nice thought. But somehow Rosalind had a feeling that thoughts of Lysander and fears for her brother were going to follow her even there.
CHAPTER THREE
Now that the first ball of the Season is over, it is time for the games to begin in earnest. Reports are already circulating regarding a few interesting matches – Captain A. and Miss B., for example, although of course time will tell. The infamous Lord H., having made his appearance at Lady D.’s ball, was remarkably uninteresting. However, there are rumours regarding a ward who has recently entered his guardianship. Can a man as heartless as Lord H. serve to raise a small child? This author thinks not.
- The Whispering Miss, Society Papers
Rosalind left her bedchamber hastily and raced down the hall in her nightdress. Skidding to a halt outside of a yellow-painted door, she banged on it.
“Eleanor! Eleanor, wake up! It’s important!”
Somebody groaned inside the room. She was awake, then. Or at least, she was awake now.
“When you’re up and ready,” Rosalind called through the door, “meet me in my room. It is urgent.”
Not waiting for a reply, Rosalind hurried back to her chamber. It was barely breakfast-time, and neither she nor her cousin took breakfast downstairs on the morning after a ball. Eleanor was not married, and therefore technically should not be having breakfast in bed, but Rosalind thought that was ridiculous.
Their house was really not a large one. It formed a portion of Rosalind’s widow’s jointure, yet she and Edward had never taken residence therein. As the estate had remained uninhabited for some time, it stood in considerable need of repairs, refurbishments, and a touch of modernisation.
Well, all of that cost money. Money that Rosalind did not have. A great deal of Edward’s money had been entailed to his estate, and so passed on to a distant cousin, the new Lord Everleigh, and he did not particularly like or approve of his cousin’s young widow. There would be no help from there. Rosalind would simply have to make do with the money she received.
Eleanor had offered, once or twice, to try and take up some work of her own, perhaps a governess post but Rosalind had flatly refused. If it became known that a lady had worked, she would be heartily disapproved of, perhaps even shunned entirely. It would surely destroy her marriage prospects, and Rosalind still entertained hopes of her cousin securing a good marriage. Eleanor wanted a husband and family, even if she did not speak much about it.
Selfless to a fault, that is her problem, Rosalind thought, closing the bedroom door behind her.
The air was still and cold inside the house, a chill creeping up from the floorboards and biting at Rosalind’s bare feet. The fires weren’t lit until they were actually in a room, since firewood was expensive and the servants all had a good deal of work to be getting on with. Taking breakfast in bed was one way of saving them the trouble of laying the breakfast table and clearing it again.
Rosalind climbed up onto her bed, hugging the rumpled sheets to her chest. She stared down at the letter – a white, accusing square resting on the bedsheets near the bottom. She hadn’t been able to bring herself to touch it again after reading it.
How dare he? She thought, with a rush of the same fury she had felt the night before. How could he do this to me?
The door creaked open, and Eleanor popped her head round, smothering a yawn.
“What is it, Rosalind? I already told the housekeeper not to wake me with breakfast this morning. I am exhausted.”
“Well, you need to hear this,” Rosalind shot back. “Pray, enter, and shut the door behind you. Take a seat upon the bed and peruse this. It was delivered with my morning repast today.”
Eleanor came closer, frowning. “That seal…”
“Read it out,” Rosalind instructed, burying her face in her hands. “I find myself questioning whether I have misapprehended it, that I’m just a fool. Read it out, I want to hear it again.”
Drawing her frilled shawl closer around herself, Eleanor curled up on the end of the bed, picked up the letter, and began to read.
“To Lady Rosalind Everleigh,”, she began. “You may be surprised to receive a letter from me, considering that the last time I wrote you a letter was to break off our betrothal. I ought to have written to you to congratulate you on your marriage, as I hear that he was a fine, decent man. I am sorry that I did not. You may choose to put this letter aside and never think of me again, and I should deserve no less. I can assure you, however, that this letter contains no repetition of unpleasant sentiments.”
Eleanor paused, glancing up at Rosalind. “Not a proposal, then.”
Rosalind’s face heated. “Why should it be a proposal? Heavens, Eleanor, I did not think that it would be a proposal.”
Now that was not entirely true, which Rosalind knew in her heart. What woman would not think that a letter from a man she once had loved so much might not contain something like that? It had occurred to her, as she broke the seal bearing the Hollendale crest, that perhaps the letter was an explanation.
After all, she’d thought, opening it with a beating heart, he broke things off so suddenly, and the explanation he did give was…
Enough of that. “Read on,” Rosalind ordered brusquely.
Sighing, Eleanor obeyed.
“I shall get straight to the point, assuming that you are still reading. You may have heard that I have a ward, a Miss Clara Holloway. She is a child of eight, still reeling from the abrupt death of her parents, my cousins. I would like to have a portrait painted of her, as I am not sure that such a thing has been done before. I have heard, on good authority, that you are taking commissions. If I am wrong, of course I heartily beg your pardon. However, in my mind you were and remain the greatest artist of my acquaintance.
I would like you to accept this commission, if you are willing. I can offer the sum of £100 for this portrait, including as many sittings are necessary. If this price is too low, I apologise heartily and I am open to negotiation.
Should you accept the commission, I would kindly require you to wait upon us at Holloway Manor. I have canvases and paints, although I imagine you may wish to bring your own paints and brushes in any case. I would wish for you to stay in the room where the portrait is taken, for as long as you need in order to support my ward, but I can promise you that I will not bother you unduly.
I look forward to your reply, and hope that this offer is amenable to you.
Regards, Lysander Holloway, Lord Hollendale.”
There was a long silence after Eleanor had finished reading. She carefully put down the letter, hand shaking a little, and glanced at her cousin.
“One hundred pounds, Rosalind!” Eleanor breathed. “We could do a good deal with that.”
“I know,” Rosalind murmured, thinking of her other commission, a miniature of Captain Adams for a mysterious lady-friend. She’d been paid ten pounds for that, and he kept bothering her to deliver the commission early. “We might also settle some debts and at last procure a new gown for you.”
Eleanor shot a reproving glance at her cousin. “I do not need a new gown.”
“You do if you want to secure a husband this Season, Eleanor.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes expressively. “Indeed, how preposterous. Pray, what course of action do you propose in this matter? A mere portrait ought to be a task well within your capabilities.”
“It’s not about the difficulty of the commission,” Rosalind pointed out sharply. “It’s the fact that it is him.”
Eleanor sighed. “I know and I understand. But perhaps this is his way of apologising?”
“I don’t care about his apologies,” Rosalind snapped, louder than even she had intended. “He is five years too late, in any case. If he intends to apologise, I shall tell him in no uncertain terms that the apologies are not accepted and I would not like the continue the subject.”
Eleanor was silent for a moment. “I doubt he would discuss the subject,” she said at last. “It would be too bold.”
She snorted. “Bolder than writing to the woman he jilted and asking her to paint his ward for him? Lysander is a bold man, Eleanor.”
“Not as bold as you remember, Rosalind. You always looked at him as if he were some kind of hero. But the fact is that he was not as brave as he would have liked you to believe. Not that I hold it against him, of course. He was only three-and-twenty, after all. But I recall especially how frightened he was around his father. That man terrified him to the core.”
Rosalind frowned. “I know the old Lord Hollendale did not like me, but Lysander always said that he was not afraid of his father.”
“Well, of course he said that to you, and of course you believed it. But I was not blinded by love, was I? There were things he was not telling you, Rosalind. I can promise you that.”
Rosalind turned away abruptly, climbing off the bed and swinging a robe around her shoulders.
“It hardly matters,” she responded brusquely. “The issue is still the same. Shall I accept the commission, or not?”
Eleanor mused on the question for a moment, biting her lower lip.
“I think you should,” she said at last. “It is your decision, of course, but frankly, we could do with the money. Cook has been complaining about things we are running out of down in the pantry, and our credit at the butcher’s will not stretch much further. We had better pay our debt, and soon. You could complete the commission as quickly as possible, take the money, and then we can spend the rest of the Season avoiding him. What do you think?”
Rosalind moved over to the window, pulling back the curtains. It was a grey, rainy sort of day, unpleasant and cold. Not at all the sort of weather people hoped to find during the Season. Even so, ladies and gentlemen would take to the Park for promenading at the fashionable hour, regardless of the weather.
She was growing sick of it. The Seasons were nothing but falseness, desperate people trying to get the best bargain they could in matrimony, either for themselves or for their loved ones.
“I didn’t know that Lysander had a ward,” Rosalind heard herself saying aloud. “It’s odd to think of him raising a child.”
Eleanor said nothing, and Rosalind continued, almost to herself.
“I imagine he feels the same, too. I wonder if he’s found it difficult, raising a little girl?”
Eleanor stayed silent, and Rosalind gave herself a little shake, turning back to smile wryly at her cousin.
“Pay no attention to me. I’m just a little shaken, that’s all.”
“I understand,” Eleanor murmured.
“I shall take the commission. It’s the sensible thing to do. We need the money, and I love painting, so it is hardly a hardship. I shall avoid him as much as I can, and that would be for the best. What do you think?”
Eleanor got up from the bed, coming over to stand next to her cousin, taking both of her hands in hers.
“I’m glad, Rosalind,” she said softly. “That money will help us a great deal. Thank you.”
She gave a decisive nod. “I shall ask to call on him tomorrow morning. You’ll come with me, won’t you?”
“Of course. You don’t even have to ask.”
Rosalind swallowed thickly, forcing a smile. “Well, then, I’d better write a response quickly and get this all arranged. I’ll get dressed first, and you can go back to bed.”
Eleanor chuckled. “As if I could sleep now.”
She gave Rosalind’s hands one last squeeze and began to walk over to the door.
“Do you hope to find a husband this Season, Eleanor?” Rosalind heard herself saying. She wished she had kept her mouth closed, because Eleanor flinched visibly, pausing at the doorway. She took a moment before she turned around, smiling faintly.
“Oh, don’t worry about me, Rosalind. I don’t think much of matrimony these days. I possess no money, no title, and little in the way of looks. I can hardly compete with all the rich and beautiful young debutantes this year, is that not true? I’d look foolish if I were to try.”
“I was only thinking that perhaps… perhaps if we were to host a few events here, with the money from my commission, we could invite a few gentlemen. It might give you an opportunity to meet them properly, not in a crowded ballroom.”
“No, I don’t think so,” Eleanor responded firmly, looking Rosalind full in the eye. “I appreciate that you are trying to help me, cousin, but the fact is that we do not have money to waste on entertaining. Our house is not in good condition, the garden is overgrown. We could not host a ball without taking care of those problems, which would cost more money. It would simply be a waste of money and I cannot allow it, Rosalind. I’m sorry.”
Rosalind said nothing, only nodding in agreement. Eleanor shot her a wry smile.
“Compose that letter, Rosalind. Before your courage falters. That, I believe, would be sound counsel.”
She slipped out of the room without waiting for a reply, leaving Rosalind alone.
***
Before she could give herself the opportunity to change her mind, Rosalind sat down heavily at the writing-desk that she and Eleanor shared in the morning room. She took out a sheet of good paper – they didn’t have much left, that was another thing she would have to buy soon – and began to write. She already had a message dictated out in her head. It was simple, straightforward, and left no room for misinterpretation.
To Lord Hollendale
I would like to thank you for your kind offer. I would require the sum of £150 for this commission, as well as the reimbursement of any paints, brushes, and other supplies which I may see fit to buy over the course of the commission.
Additionally, while I cannot deny you the right to stay in the same room as your ward, I must insist that no subject is discussed between us except that regarding the portrait itself, or Miss Holloway.
If these terms are acceptable, then I see no reason why we cannot begin at once. I shall wait upon you tomorrow morning, at nine o’clock sharp.
Regards…
Rosalind paused, the quill pen hovering above the paper. She had very nearly signed the letter Rosalind, as she always had when they were in love and writing letters to each other every single day. A drop of ink gathered on the nib, and she hastily removed it from the paper, lest it blot and ruin the letter. But to her horror, she found that she was shaking.
Come, Rosalind, don’t be a fool. You need this money. It’s just a portrait. It isn’t as if Miss Holloway is his child.
Breathing in deeply, she closed her eyes, composing herself. Eleanor wasn’t in the morning-room where they wrote letters, thankfully. Eleanor’s sharp eyes missed nothing, and sometimes it could be exhausting.
Rosalind dipped the pen in the inkwell again. Best to get the letter written and sent off as soon as possible, before she could lose her nerve.
She signed the letter with a flourish. Lady Everleigh. Hopefully that would have the desired effect – reminding him that she was not longer Rosalind, or Miss Spencer. She was not his anymore. Or anybody’s, for that matter. She was Lady Everleigh, the respected and admired widow of a good man, with her own status and her own money.
I am not the same woman who was so madly in love with Lysander Holloway, she thought. And I never shall be again.
I hope you enjoyed the preview of my new novel“The Wounded Countess” It will be live on Amazon soon…
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