by Tessa Candle
She moved incrementally closer to the imposing man beside her. "I am glad you are here, Mr. Pines. I do not know how to thank you for your kindness."
"It is nothing to thank me for, Mrs. Colling. Just decency. But I have a country way of thinking." He tossed his head at the three young men. "I reckon those idle lads over there have a city way. And there are enough of those types hereabouts. If I was you, I would not stay out on the streets alone any longer than I had to, Mrs. Colling. I hope you can find your family soon."
So do I. But Rosamond knew there was no family to be found, so she smiled and nodded at the well intentioned man.
The group of idlers finally decided to move on to a better place to loaf about and left before Rosamond and Mr. Pines reached the entrance of Mrs. Holden's house.
"I shall return to my father now. We have a long cart ride before us. I hope you will be on the watch, Mrs. Colling, and not venture out alone anymore."
"Thank you, Mr. Pines. God bless you for your kindness." She could hardly tell him that she planned not only to go out alone, but after dark, and to and commit a theft—of sorts.
The small parlour in the boarding house was clean and warm although sparsely furnished. A middle-aged woman in modest attire and a spotless apron sat down at a small table with her, but did not offer any refreshments.
"I should like to inquire after a room if you have any." Rosamond tried to make her voice sound older than it was. She knew her looks would count against her in this particular situation. Prettiness counted against a person much more often than was commonly believed.
Much as expected, the woman squinted to peer at Rosamond's face under the veil. "You're a pretty widow. I do have rooms to let but only to those as conduct themselves honestly. I do not let loose sorts of women ply their trade in my home."
Rosamond sighed. She had expected this kind of attitude from any respectable boarding house. It was a double edged sword. Her face might keep her out of any of the decent places, for fear that she was a prostitute in disguise, and yet her face would also put her at grave risk in any but the strictest sort of house.
"I do not ply any sort of dishonest trade. I am in London looking for posting as a governess and I will be meeting with several people to make inquiries on my behalf towards this end. Please do not permit yourself to be misled by my appearance. My late husband did not leave me much to live upon, but I am an honest woman." It was not precisely true, but she was at least not dishonest in the way Mrs. Holden was worried about.
Mrs. Holden's mistrustful squint made the slight transition into a grimace of scepticism. "That you may be— at least for the moment. But it is my observation that those what look too pretty end up in ugly business."
Rosamond could not disagree, but was about to do so anyway, when the woman interrupted, "No, it is no good to plead your innocence. It cannot be helped—a woman with a face like yours will always attract the wrong sort of men. And I don't want those sorts hanging around my premises."
Rosamond restrained herself from remarking upon the three likely looking young men she had earlier seen hanging around Mrs. Holden's doorway. "Am I to understand then, that you do have rooms to let but you will not rent them to someone like me?"
The woman set her jaw. "Aye, that is about the size of it."
"Very well." Rosamond stood and inclined her head slightly at the matron. "I shall go somewhere else, I suppose. Thank you for your time." The woman was bigoted, but she ran the kind of boarding house that Rosamond was looking for. She would be back. She just needed to cobble together a better disguise.
When Rosamond emerged from the building it was growing dark, but she knew it would not yet be late enough that the theatre would be abandoned. She made her way in the direction of the more fashionable parts of town.
She knew she would not meet with any fewer leering swine among the upper classes. But she was determined to return the book—as self-indulgent as the mission was. And at least in the evening gloom, her black veil gave her better concealment. She tried to affect a slightly stooped figure to make herself look older as she began the long walk across town.
Despite her hunger and exhaustion after the long walk, a smile tickled at the corners of Rosamond's mouth when she reached Lady Goodram's address. It was a great, luxurious, house. One could even call it intimidating, and yet it was more inviting than the neighbouring homes.
Perhaps it was prejudice that coloured her vision, for Lady Goodram had charmed Rosamond with her wit and kindly disposition. Or it might be that the building took on some of the warmth and fascination of its mistress. Either way, the incandescent windows and the brass fittings on the door all gleamed with an inviting radiance possessed by no other home on the entire upper class street.
She climbed the steps, looked around to make sure she was not seen, and bent down to lean the packaged book against the door, so that it would fall inside when the portal opened. Her courage ebbed. Could she really be abandoning this last connection to the old duke? But then again, he had already left her behind. The book was merely a reminder of yet another man who sought to protect her, only to be torn away by death.
She was probably cursed to bring misfortune on anyone who tried to help her.
The packaged book sat in place, waiting calmly for admittance into the grand home. She straightened and stared jealously at it, a shadow passing over her heart. She wished she were there for a social call.
If only she could throw herself at Lady Goodram's mercy, explain everything, plead for her protection. But no matter how well she had liked Miss Dervish before, Lady Goodram had no doubt heard all kinds of rumours about her by now—probably embellished, though the truth was bad enough. Rosamond would not be received, and revealing herself was too great a risk.
She gathered her resolve, raised the knocker and struck three times before running off into the shadows so that she would not be seen.
A servant opened the door, allowing a radiant waterfall of light to pour out around him. Rosamond choked back a sigh of longing. Was it possible for such a simple thing as an open door to convey the promise of everything Rosamond most wanted—warmth, acceptance, safety, in a word, home? But open doors were transient. They closed again. The people behind them left you alone and exposed to the great wolf pack of the world.
The servant looked around in confusion. He bent over to pick up the package, read the slip of paper attached and returned inside, closing the door and cutting off the golden pool of light from Lady Goodram's home.
Rosamond forced aside her emotions. She had accomplished all she could reasonably hope for. When he gave the note and the book to his mistress, it would be certain to find its way back to Rutherford. That was all she could ask. Her fool's errand was thus discharged. It was time to get back to the business of surviving until her next birthday.
She tore her gaze away from the sentimental glow of Lady Goodram's house, and returned to the street for the long walk to the theatre. She would need a good disguise if she were going to survive in London.
Chapter 10
Frobisher accepted a glass of wine from Rutherford and seated himself under a cascade of crystal and fresh candles in the grand south parlour of Blackwood Manor. The chandelier sparkled in the sunlight, and he contemplated how nice it must be to have servants who actually cleaned these massive glass ornaments and replaced the candles daily. He was not feeling especially sociable, but he needed to update Rutherford. It did not help that he had so little news to tell.
"My man informs me that Mack could only lead you as far as the drive to a neighbouring farm, then the trail disappeared," Rutherford addressed Frobisher, but didn’t tear his smiling gaze away from his wife, who sat near the fire, nibbling a cracker.
Frobisher fought down an ignoble feeling of jealousy. The two were so happy. It was though they were still having a secret affair, not anchored down in the misery of the marital estate.
"Yes. I suppose it means she caught a ride on a cart somewhere." Frobisher
tapped his fingers on the rosewood table beside him. "I made enquiries, but the farmer had no idea whether one of his men gave anyone a ride. He said they would not be back from town until tomorrow, so I shall call again then and find out what I can. But there is no guarantee it was one of the farmer's carts. She could have got on any passing vehicle. Or perhaps she planned to meet someone."
Rutherford pursed his lips. "I think if she had arranged a meeting, it would have been easier to walk to the end of our drive and wait at the main road. Unless she was heading the opposite way—but there is nothing in that direction. I assume she intended to go to town. So why else she would go the opposite way unless it was to get a ride on a cart from one of the local farms? Have you asked at all the farms?"
"Not all. I came home when night fell." Frobisher felt suddenly sheepish. "However, there is another reason she would go in that direction. She wished to leave me a parting gift."
Rutherford gave him a penetrating look. "Are you acquainted?"
"No. Not really." Frobisher told Rutherford about searching the cottage and discovering the alarm bell.
"Rather clever." Rutherford looked impressed, despite his best efforts.
The duchess snorted. "Very cunning indeed."
"Yes," Frobisher continued, "and I do not know why, but I watered one of her plants before I left."
"Oh really?" Rutherford gave him an arch look. "You never struck me as a man who was overly sentimental about plants." He paused, then added, “Or inclined to do anything that even approached manual labour.”
"I know, I know.” Frobisher sighed at this irrelevant interruption. “But then she must have discovered the plant, and taken a detour to deliver it to my doorstep. Cheeky, that."
"My man mentioned that Mack tracked her to your front entry. I admit that intrigued me." Rutherford rubbed his chin. "I had an inkling that perhaps you and the pretty widow knew more of one another than either of you let on."
"Nonsense. I have never so much as seen her face."
The duchess coughed.
Rutherford drew his chair closer to her and put an arm around her shoulder. "Are you quite well, my dear?"
She bore a strange expression, but recovered herself and smiled reassuringly at her husband. "Very well, thank you. Please do not fret. I only inhaled a crumb. Nothing to worry about."
Rutherford did not look entirely convinced, and kept his arm where it was, as though by the gesture alone he could ward off any illness that might befall his wife.
It was alarming how protective Rutherford was. Frobisher had always known him to be valiant, but this love for his new duchess had brought forth a latent tenderness from beneath the hard shield of chivalry.
Frobisher would consider it more evidence that women should be avoided at all costs, except that he was fairly certain the two were expecting a child. The Duchess was subject to cravings and nausea. But they were keeping quiet about it, so Frobisher kept his surmises to himself. Despite his dislike for men becoming lap-dogs when they fell in love, Frobisher did allow that fathering babies ought to change a man for the better. Children must be protected and nurtured.
Rutherford chuckled and brought Frobisher back to the subject at hand. "Well, as you are not having an affair with the lovely Mrs. Colling, I suppose she must have had some particular reason for leaving a plant on your front stoop."
"I believe it was to tweak my nose. Do you not see? She had been watching me the whole time I was searching her cottage. I over-watered her plant, and she left it for me as a rebuke, not only for harming her potted flower, but for the intrusion into her privacy. It was also her way of taking leave, I think."
"Yes, she left you a Colling card, I suppose."
"Very clever. But do you think that is her real name?"
"I sincerely doubt it."
"During the search I found a scarf with the initials R.D. embroidered on it."
The duchess coughed again.
"Really my dearest, I think I should summon the doctor. You cannot let these coughs go unattended. They can turn into dreadful illnesses."
"Oh please do not be so solicitous, Rutherford." She laughed at him. "Truly, it is nothing."
Frobisher wondered for a moment if the duchess might be malingering for attention, as so many of her sex did. But he returned to the subject, "I suppose I shall have to return to London to look for her. It is the logical place to go to avoid discovery. A person can easily get lost in the crowds there." He shook his head in disapproval. No good could come of her going to town.
"I agree, but I hope we are both wrong." Rutherford frowned. "I feel terrible that my actions have estranged her. It should be doubly worse if my attempts at making amends should drive her to flee into town. She is far too pretty to be safe in London."
"True." The duchess also looked troubled. She tapped her fingers together thoughtfully. "So you must go after her, Frobisher. And while you are in town, I wonder if you might do me a small favour."
Frobisher braced himself. He hoped he was not about to be saddled with the task of bringing back a shipment of gowns and bonnets. "How may I be of service, Duchess?"
"Oh please stop calling me that. If you call my husband Rutherford, you may as well call me Tilly."
He smiled. "Very well, Tilly. What did you have in mind?"
Tilly's blue eyes sparkled in a way that suggested a secret scheme of some sort. "There is another widow in London who needs protection. I am sorry to omit specifics, but suffice it to say that Lord Screwe would like nothing more than to hunt her down and do her great harm, or worse."
"Is Screwe not in gaol? Surely there is some consequence for sneaking in the servants’ entrance of your house on your wedding day with a gun?"
"The consequence for a viscount is apparently not so severe." Rutherford had a murderous look in his eye. "I should have shot him, myself, rather than rely on the majesty of the law. Or I could have played the magistrate and hanged him. This is what I get for maintaining some respect for the impartiality of judges."
"Well, he was incarcerated," Tilly corrected him. "The principal problem is that someone paid the fine for the penniless bounder and hired a proxy to serve the sentence for him, leaving him out and about and free to pursue his poisonous schemes."
"Surely not. Is it possible that he has even one friend left among the ton?"
"Not among the ton." Rutherford's voice was dark. "I had a couple of spies about the nick, giving me information and keeping an eye on him. Apparently the person responsible for Screwe's liberty is none other than Red Martha."
"The madam?" Frobisher squinted, then recalled himself and summoned a small inkling of chivalry from some disused corner of his heart. "I beg your pardon for making such a reference in your presence, Tilly."
Tilly smiled sweetly, but her upper lip twitched as though with repressed mirth. "Not at all. I do prefer to call a spade a spade."
Well, at least she was not one to put on missish airs for show. "That strikes me as very odd. I am sure he was once an excellent customer, but what could possibly be Red Martha's interest in a bankrupt loose Screwe?"
"Nothing good, to be certain. But one of my spies tells me that Screwe promised to pay her back immediately, plus another thousand pounds, if she helps him find the woman he is looking for."
Frobisher gasped. "A thousand pounds? Who on earth could be worth that kind of money? And where is Screwe supposed to get the funds to pay her? Red Martha is not a woman to be crossed, and I thought you had foreclosed on all his assets."
"I have. All except an account over which he has trusteeship."
"Then he plans on abusing his trust and stealing from the beneficiary to pay Red Martha?"
"So it would seem, but that cannot come as much of a surprise."
"No," Frobisher scoffed. "But surely the beneficiary will take legal action against him."
"Perhaps." Rutherford looked doubtful. "However, I think he has already misappropriated money from the trust, and I have found no evidenc
e that anyone has brought suit."
"In any case," Tilly brought the conversation back to the purpose at hand, "I think the woman Screwe is after is Mrs. Steele. She came out of hiding when she believed Screwe was safely in gaol, but now that he is out again..."
"You think he will go looking for her."
"Yes. She is not safe as long as he is at large. Until recently I have denied even myself the knowledge of her whereabouts, for Screwe has a history of spying on me, and I thought she was more secure hidden than guarded. In short, I did not wish that he should find her out through her connection to me. But now that I know he has such a great reward in mind for her capture, I feel her discovery is inevitable, and that she will be safer under our protection. Only it could prove disastrously obvious where she is bound if we send one of our carriages for her."
"And does she possess some great wealth?"
"Not that I know of."
"Then why would Screwe offer a thousand pounds to get his hands on her?"
"I do not know." Tilly squinted thoughtfully. "And I will not interrogate her about it—she has been through enough. But do I intend to find out. Anyway, I rescued her from Screwe once, and when I rescue someone, they stay rescued."
Frobisher laughed at her spirit and resolve. The duchess was winning him over—he might even make a special exception for her and add her to the small list of women whom he liked. His heart shuddered with a twinge of faint longing to see the look of admiration that Rutherford gave his wife. Was Frobisher really missing something? Was this kind of companionship possible within the mercenary, oppressive institution of marriage?
Chapter 11
Rosamond spent a cold night sleeping in the box of fabric scraps in the theatre, but it was better and safer than sleeping in some dodgy boarding house.
She stretched and climbed out of her makeshift bed, surveying the festive chaos of costumes and props that surrounded her, as they faintly lit up within the first tentative fingers of sunlight from the high window.
