Her slim shoulders elegantly rose, “I had not noticed. But, pardon me, here I am talking about me,” her giggle was a bit too coy, “shouldn’t this be a conversation? What are your interests, Your Grace?”
“Hm, politics, medicine, astronomy, trading with the colonies and horses,” Norman listed clinically, “especially horses. I never fail to exercise my thoroughbred each day, no matter how early or late.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nose crinkle and knew she was not partial to the animal. “Have you ever ridden, Miss Fawcett?”
“Sidesaddle,” she replied shortly as they stopped for her to finger a yellow daffodil, “Every lady in my rank must ride, but I do not care for the motion of the horses. I feel like I am going to fall off with every step.”
A swift breeze picked up and Norman, who, while wisely noting her obvious distaste for horses, placed his back to it to shield her. “Forgive me for my negligence, Miss Fawcett but how old are you?”
Her eyes widened slightly and her laugh was soft, “I cannot imagine Mother leaving that out, I am two-and-twenty, Your Grace.”
“I myself am seven-and-twenty,” Norman added while turning back, “Prime age to sell off the stallion, I believe.”
“Nonsense,” she leaned closer, “you are not past your prime.”
“Tell that to my great-granduncle,” Norman said, “He retired from his riveting job of roaming Italy and Germany as a libertine and died happily at nine-and-twenty.”
Her giggles, soft and cultured were so manufactured that Norman wondered what her real laugh sounded like. “I am sure he passed away with no regrets.”
The Duke internally grimaced, Will I be regretting it for the rest of my life if I do choose to marry you, Miss Fawcett?
“I hope so, too.”
They continued walking. Her eyes were bright, and her face adorned with elfin features, but the Duke still felt nothing. There was still no pull towards her, and Norman regretted having to tell his mother that this match was not going to work. However, it was only fair that he could give it another try, or two. His mother had put a lot of effort into this, and it would be discourteous to give up without some strident tries.
“Should we turn back, Miss Fawcett, I do believe it is getting a bit warm.”
Green orbs traced over the tips of the trees near them and then flitted the sky, “I concur, we should return.”
With her arm looped around his, Norman gently guided them back towards the manor and with a genteel air, returned her to the Viscountess, who was still in the sitting room.
She closed the book over a finger, “Hello dear, how was the walk?”
“Enlightening,” Norman said before the young woman could. “I have begun to know Miss Fawcett in an interesting manner.”
“And I, you,” Miss Fawcett replied with a coquettish smile and a curtsy. “Thank you for such a wonderful walk, Your Grace.”
Norman inclined his head, “I will see you both at supper. Good day, Madam and Miss Fawcett. Miss Keats, you are dismissed.”
The lady maid curtsied, “Thank you, Your Grace.”
Outside Norman closed the door just as he heard the Viscountess ask, “How was it, truly?”
“Divine, Mother,” Miss Fawcett sighed a bit too emphatically, “I think we are on our way to a wonderful marriage.”
Shaking his head, Norman moved off. Oh, the fanciful imaginations of women. I have not said a word to give you that idea. Be prepared, Miss Fawcett, your lofty dreams might come crashing down.
Chapter 8
Rosaline dreaded leaving her rooms as the degradation she knew she was going to receive from the Ogbent’s was inevitable. The two looked at her as if she was the vilest creature ever made and it rankled. Even the protection from the Duchess was bound to wear out and then she would have to stand the brunt of their scorn herself.
The Duke had not said anything to her and her romanticized fantasy that he had defended her was slowly waning away.
Why would he be interested though?
The trip to the cloth brokers in London was set to take place in six days’ time, why, Rosaline was not sure. Perhaps it was that neither party wanted to rush the marriage and were allowing for some courtship to actually take place.
Rosaline had an inkling of why the peerage saw matches like this one, arranged marriages, as fitting—wealth. It all revolved around money. Over the years she had heard of matches made for the sake of money when the most important component, love, was absent. But then, what baffled her was why did they stay in misery? For money? For their image? Divorce was expensive yes, but separation worked just as well.
Her breakfast, a simple fare of tea, rolls and perseveres was eaten and she now found herself strolling through a secondary garden. At just after dawn, the perfume of the flowers was potent, and she felt as if she was walking through an exotic bazaar of spices. The red flowers were peppers, the golden ones were cardamom and mustard, and the dark oranges were cinnamon.
The brief break from reality spurred on an old desire she had not had in years—to sing. It started as a hum, then gradually rose to words and then a soft song was flowing from her lips.
Rosaline did not take much stock of her surroundings as this early the garden had to be empty, but she was proven wrong.
“You have a wonderful voice, Miss Hall,” the Duke’s baritone cut in.
Instantly, her heart leaped into her throat and she spun to see the Duke approaching her.
Oh no…
“Perhaps you could indulge us in a song some nights.”
Calmly trying to subdue the abnormal thrumming of her heart, Rosaline turned to the Duke. “I hardly think so, but thank you, Your Grace. If you do not mind my boldness, I was expecting a more…mischievous repartee from you.”
His smirk was one that both irritated and intrigued her, “I think you mean devilish, Miss Hall.”
“I would never accuse you of being so, Your Grace,” Rosaline added. The only people who I can definitively attribute to being devilish are the Ogbents.
“I assume that you have forgiven me then,” the Duke replied, “Truly, it was not my intention to scare you that day when you arrived.”
“I know, and I must apologize for my ire,” she held her hand over her chest. “I was on tenterhooks that morning. You must admit, it is not a usual occurrence to be summoned to the most powerful lady in the country with no inkling as to why.”
They stood in silence under the tree while Rosaline silently admired the Duke. Tan breeches and white shirts seemed to be his usual morning dress but this time his waistcoat was a light blue embroidered with tiny trailing vines. His cravat, free from its normal ordinary tie, was twisted into a barrel knot.
“My mother admires you, Miss Hall,” the Duke replied, “It is very apparent. You have mastered your trade at an early age, and she respects those who show such dedication.”
Did he just compliment me?
The level look in his eyes, and the small smile on his face she felt that he had. Uncomfortable, she cleared her throat, “Thank you? May I ask, why are you in the garden at such an early hour? It is barely past dawn.”
“I woke up with the dawn and felt a compelling voice prodding me to stretch my legs,” was the flippant quip. “And possibly consider the magnificence of God while I am it.”
“Are you a master of philosophy, Your Grace?” she asked.
“No, and in this context, we would be speaking about theology, Miss Hall,” was his diplomatic answer. “Philosophical approaches on this subject matter tend to lean to atheism. Where the rationales for not believing in deities stem from a lack of empirical evidence or, proof if you will, that God exists. However, that argument has no bearing here as all around me is beauty.”
Rosaline stilled. In some roundabout way, he just called me beautiful.
She bit her lip to keep back the smile brimming on her lips. It was incomprehensible how the one she should be much more careful of being around— the Duke—
made her feel comfortable more than anyone else.
“I do admire the way of the intellectuals,” Rosaline added somewhat regretfully, “They have the answers to the problems that many of us face every day.”
“You would be surprised Miss Hall,” the Duke’s tone was deadpan and somewhat sardonic, “Forgive my bluntness, but many of those intellectuals do not know their heads from their buttocks.”
Rosaline’s laughter rang out before she could control it, and her mirth filled her eyes with tears. The Duke’s flippant, mocking words, filled with blatant honestly, had tickled her. Knowing it was bad form to laugh so openly, Rosaline slapped a hand over her mouth to keep the snickers inside. Tears were brimming over her eyes, however.
Pressing her hand to her mouth, Rosaline swallowed over her mirth repeatedly. Searching her pockets for a handkerchief but she came upon none and started to regret laughing so hard. Now, she would have to go around with tear marks on her face.
“Drat,” she sighed only to see long fingers holding a pristine white handkerchief to her. The Duke had plucked out his own handkerchief to give to her.
Resisting the urge to glance around to make sure no one was watching, Rosaline hesitantly took it and dabbed at her eyes. She made sure to step away and put a respectable distance between them just in case.
Oh, imagine the tongues that’d wag should anyone see us…
“Thank you, Your Grace, but I must ask, is that how you see your…colleagues?”
“No,” he replied, “But that is how I see the stuffed shirts who adorn the lecture halls of Oxford like permanent ornamentations and dare to call themselves philosophers. My colleagues and those I call my close friends do have grains of common sense.”
The sun was growing warmer and Rosaline figured she must be missed in the manor, and more so, was the Duke. The cloth in her hand was so soft and monogrammed in the corner with gold thread were the letters N.O.K. She knew what the N and K stood for but what about the O?
“It stands for Octavius,” the Duke filled in quietly, “He was the grand-nephew of Julius Caesar but also, by Caesar's intestate will, was named as his adopted son and heir. He was a great warrior, too, like his predecessor as well.”
“I will return it to you, Your Grace,” Rosaline said, slightly embarrassed.
“If you wish,” said he, “But I would rather you keep it…for future spates of unexpected mirth. I have dozens of them. I am sure we are needed inside. I know I am, so if you will excuse me, Miss Hall, I must be going. Have a good day.”
Before she could utter her goodbyes, he was gone—striding over the ground with a masterful gait. Her parting words died on her lips while she looked down on the square of cloth in her hands.
What am I doing? Jesting alone with the Duke…If someone were to see us, I could lose my job and be thrown out on the streets!
“Norman Octavius Kinsley,” she whispered, “You are much more than I have expected.”
And I must stay away from you…
The Duke did not know to what to attribute his hasty departure from the garden. He did know that Miss Hall’s laugh was so bright and real that the very sound of it, the cadence, lilt, and timber were going to be stuck in his mind for days.
Unlike Miss Fawcett whose giggles were trained to be demure and ladylike, there was no pretense to Miss Hall’s humor. Admittedly, he had been a bit facetious with her by saying how he suddenly felt to stretch his legs and evermore, a bit rude by cursing in front of her.
She had not censured him for it, however, and that felt wonderful to him. Not that he was going to abuse her leniency, but the fact that he could be himself around her was magnificent.
“Norman,” his mother’s voice was as steady as ever as she met him in the foyer, “I was passing by and saw your steward. Mr. Colden has shown him to your study.”
“Thank you, Mother, and good morning,” he said while striding past her. He did not get to see how she had turned to him nor the searching look she had trained on his back.
Entering his study, Norman greeted Mr. Dodge, “Good day, Mr. Dodge, what do you need of me today?”
The man’s face was solemn, “Your Grace, you are needed in the capacity of magistrate this morning. Some criminals need to be dealt with.”
The Duke’s temperament sobered, “What are the crimes, Mr. Dodge?”
“The constables captured a ring of thieves, and a man who was illegally running a cock-fighting establishment and another man who is believed to be a murderer,” was his answer.
Now his jaw did clench, “Let me get my coat.”
Inside the manor, Rosaline went to the newly-appointed workroom. Having a generous span of forty feet in length and thirty in width, the room had windows that allowed in generous air and light.
Silently, she mapped out the spaces where the tables, shelves, and mannequins would be and where she would get the best light. Rosaline projected that she would be passing a lot of long nights in this room, squinting through lamplight and nursing pricked fingers.
Her hand slipped to her pocket and fingered the Duke’s handkerchief there. Its softness felt wonderful to her touch.
“I see it is to your liking, Miss Hall,” the Duchess’ voice, bounced off the bare wall and echoed in the empty room.
Yanking her hand out of her pocket, Rosaline turned, and fought the blush on her face, “It is, Your Grace. Forgive me for not being as attentive as I should be.”
The Duchess waved her off and entered the room with the tails of her deep-green morning dress gently falling around her ankles. “I must confess Miss Hall, that I have not the faintest inkling as to why this room was built.”
“It will serve a purpose, nevertheless,” Rosaline mused, “The lighting is wonderful.”
“I agree,” returned the older woman. “I know you must have some specifications about this room, please tell me what they are.”
“Well…” Rosaline considered before telling the Duchess how many tables, and mannequins she expected to be needed. She told her where the shelves could be and where the trays of thread, needles, and scissors could be. “And I think I will need an assistant.”
Her finishing words were said sheepishly, but she had to utter them anyway.
“I suspected,” the Duchess said simply, “This is a major work that can hardly be done by one person.”
Sighing in relief that she had not been denied, Rosaline then smiled. “Thank You, Your Grace.”
“My pleasure, Miss Hall,” the Duchess inclined her head before turning away.
With the Duchess gone, Rosaline took in a shaky breath and reached with trembling fingers back into her pocket. A terrible worry had overcome her when she had thought that she could lose her position if it was known that she was on, well, friendly terms with the Duke.
The cool cloth in her pocket reminded her of their positions—she was a seamstress, he was the duke. A duke that was about to get married. She closed her fingers around the cloth.
No matter what happens, we cannot be anything but what our status has made us…it does not matter that I am now seeing him as being much more than I had at first.
After a few more long moments of getting herself acquainted with her surroundings, Rosaline left the room and, in need of her evening meal, made her way to the kitchens.
She was passing through a hallway where a tiny sitting room was and there, she overheard the snide voice of Miss Fawcett. Slowing her pace, Rosaline stopped at just below the mouth of the door’s entrance and listened.
“—but be sure, Mother,” Miss Ogbent’ voice was a bit petulant, “You must have noticed that she resembles her.”
“Nonsense,” the Viscountess snapped, “And I thought I had ordered you to not mention that person again. She was dealt with Isabella, and anyone who poses a threat to us will be dealt with likewise.”
“Hmph,” Miss Fawcett snorted, “Fine Mother.”
Trying not to make a sound, Rosaline backed away from the doorway, turned around at
the end of the hallway and hurried away. With a pounding heart and ringing ears, she did not count herself safe until she was five hallways away.
Questions ran through her mind in quick succession. Who were they talking about? Who was the she and who was this thief? And why were the words ‘dealt with’ said like that…like something underhanded had been done?
However, the underscoring point of the matter, Rosaline realized with daunting clarity, was that the Ogbent’s were not to be trusted. Especially, those two. Am I safe from them…is anyone safe?
Chapter 9
The Sullen Seamstress of Horenwall Manor: A Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 7
