by Bree Wolf
Georgiana put a finger to her lips. “Well, I like purple.” A smile came to her face. “My mother used to wear purple a lot.”
Brushing a hand down Georgiana’s arm, Rosabel commented, “Purple is a wonderful colour. I can see why your mother loved it.”
Georgiana’s grin grew bigger at the compliment, showing off her tiny white teeth, and her eyes began to sparkle.
Asking a few more questions, Rosabel watched with content as the little girl came to life. She talked animatedly about her mother, her favourite horse and the lessons she so disliked. Rosabel was careful to tread lightly, but as much as the loss of her mother was still felt by the little girl, speaking about her also brought delight to her heart.
As the sun slowly climbed over the horizon, reaching inside the room, the whole world seemed aglow. Everything looked brighter and far from gloomy as Rosabel had thought the night before. Maybe it had been her state of mind through which she had seen the house before her. Her room at the very least had been turned into a place of laughter and happiness, and Rosabel looked forward to many more days passed in such delight.
“I love visiting the horses in the stables,” Georgiana continued her narration with glistening eyes. “Peter sometimes lets me feed Shadow an apple or a carrot. It tickles,” she giggled.
It was the most wonderful sound Rosabel had ever heard. “Who is Peter?” she asked.
“One of the stable boys. He is very nice. He understands about wanting to be outside.” All of a sudden her eyes dimmed.
Observing her step-daughter closely, Rosabel asked, “And who does not understand about wanting to be outside?”
Georgiana’s shoulders slumped, the last remnants of a smile vanished from her face. “Mrs. Rigsby. She always wants me to−” There she clasped a hand over her mouth. Jerking her head to the window, her eyes opened wide. “It’s morning. I forgot. I need to get back to my room.” Scrambling off the bed, she raced for the door.
Rosabel was dumbfounded. Before she could utter a single word, Georgiana’s footsteps echoed down the hall. Mrs. Rigsby, Rosabel thought. That woman made her shake in her shoes as well. What would she do if she found Georgiana out of bed? And above else not in her room?
Getting out of bed, Rosabel shivered and rang the bell to call for Bridget.
***
When Rosabel stepped out of her room, everything was quiet down the hall. Maybe Mrs. Rigsby had not noticed Georgiana’s absence.
Heading downstairs, Rosabel entered the breakfast parlour and was surprised when she found only one table setting. One of the footmen pulled out her chair and she sat down.
Having a number of staff standing by, watching her eat, made Rosabel uncomfortable and self-conscious. As the maid poured her tea, she asked, “What of Lady Georgiana? Does she not come down to breakfast?”
The maid declined, stating that Lady Georgiana always ate in the nursery. Rosabel frowned but soon concluded that without a parent in the house there probably was no need for the girl to head down to the breakfast parlour to take her food. Upon rising from the table, Rosabel instructed the maid that from now on Georgiana would eat with her. For a second, the maid seemed to hesitate, but then nodded and hurried back into the kitchen.
Not having anything to do, Rosabel decided to have a closer look at her new home. From what her husband had said, she concluded that her stay at Westmore Manor was of a more permanent nature and thus did her best to see the future in as bright a colour as possible.
The manor had housed many a generation before her, which became most obvious when Rosabel walked the many corridors connecting the different wings, up and down the stairs and into the great hall; all were adorned with portraits of people that now were considered her kin.
Ornate rugs and tapestries decorated the marble floors and wood-panelled walls. The furnishings were simple, yet elegant, many of which appeared to have been acquired in previous generations. Artefacts were displayed proudly, and Rosabel came across more than one maid with a duster in her hand, tending to the upkeep of the house. All in all, Rosabel did not dislike what she found. The rooms had high ceilings, and tall windows allowed a maximum of sunlight to reach inside the stone walls and brighten her day. However, there was something about this place, something that bothered her, something she couldn’t quite make out.
However, remembering her earlier comparison of Westmore Manor to a museum or even to a tomb, Rosabel finally understood what was lacking. While the house itself was beautiful and inviting and had everything money could buy, there was no life in it. No laughter. No smiles. And without conscious thought Rosabel found her feet ascending the stairs, turning toward the east wing and approaching the door to Georgiana’s nursery. The only place where there was still a resemblance of life.
As she knocked on the door, waiting for someone to bid her enter, a tingling ran through her body, and she realized how excited she was to see her step-daughter again.
Hearing Mrs. Rigsby’s voice, Rosabel stepped inside and found Georgiana with a book on her head, walking up and down the room. A small grin spread over her face as their eyes met.
“A lady does not show her teeth,” Mrs. Rigsby reprimanded. Then she turned her cold eyes to Rosabel, who instantly understood that she was not welcome here. “What can I do for you, Your Grace?”
Since Rosabel had not come with a specific purpose in mind, other than to spend some time with Georgiana, she didn’t quite know what to say. “I have come to…observe your lessons.”
At her words, Mrs. Rigsby’s eyes narrowed, clearly displeased at the suggestion that her methods might be in need of supervision. Rosabel, however, pretended not to see the woman’s scowl and, sitting down by the small table where Georgiana had taken her dinner the night before, said, “You are doing a marvellous job, Georgiana. How do you manage to keep your head up with such a heavy load upon it?”
The girl beamed with pride. “It is not all that difficult. Just keep your head level to the floor.”
Mrs. Rigsby huffed. “If it is not difficult, why did you drop the book three times this morning?”
A bit of the twinkle left Georgiana’s face, but her eyes remained fixed on Rosabel. “Would you like to try?” Taking the book from her head, she held it out to Rosabel.
Before Rosabel could take it though, Mrs. Rigsby once more interfered. “Nonsense! Her Grace does not need to be bothered with childish games.”
Again unsure of what she ought to do, of what was her role in this, Rosabel’s heart broke when she saw the light vanish from Georgiana’s face. Without another thought, she stepped forward and took the book. “I’d love to. Now, again do explain how to do it.”
Georgiana’s face lit up from the inside, and like a dedicated teacher, she carefully instructed Rosabel how to balance the heavy volume on her head. Before long both were walking up and down the room, laughing when a book hit the floor with a loud bang. All the while Mrs. Rigsby looked like she would be sick.
Chapter Eight − The Late Duchess of Kensington
After spending the afternoon with Georgiana in the stable and meeting her favourite horse, Shadow, a black stallion of immense size and a scary temperament, Rosabel slipped into a deep slumber the minute her head touched the pillow at the end of the day. The night passed quietly. No storm. No nightmares. And when the new day began, the world looked a brighter place.
With a smile on her face, Rosabel went down to breakfast, careful not to skip down the corridor like a little girl. The excitement, however, coursed through her veins without hindrance, and she had some trouble maintaining composure in front of the staff. Upon entering the breakfast parlour, Rosabel’s smile died on her face.
Like the day before, there was only one place setting to be found on the long table, and Georgiana was nowhere to be seen. Sitting down, Rosabel turned to the maid. “Where is the Lady Georgiana?”
Keeping her eyes averted, the maid all but whispered, “Mrs. Rigsby insisted she take her breakfast
in the nursery so as not to lose time on her lessons.”
Rosabel felt like someone had slapped her in the face. Not so much did she feel the humiliation of her governess negating her orders, but rather the loss of company. In that moment, Rosabel realized that if she wished to spend time with her step-daughter and have any say in how she spent her day, she would have to fight Mrs. Rigsby who was clearly unwilling to relinquish the control she’d had so far. What scared Rosabel most was that she wasn’t sure if she had the courage to do so. She knew everyone else would have relieved Mrs. Rigsby of her position immediately. Especially since the rest of the staff had already grown accustomed to heeding her orders even if it meant defying the lady of the house.
But Rosabel couldn’t.
Barely touching her food, she stared out the window at the lush gardens outside Westmore Manor. Ever since her parents’ death, her life had been marked by absolute obedience. Afraid to be rejected by the world around her, Rosabel had done her best to be agreeable, to follow orders, to not question her superiors (or anyone else for that matter) until it had become second nature.
Could she undo what years of necessity had forced her to become? Could she return to being the girl her parents had set on the path to self-respect? Could she hold her head high in a confrontation?
Rosabel shook her head. There was no spark that gave her fire. Instead, a heavy boulder rested on her shoulders, bending her to its will.
***
About to ascend the winding stairs leading to the upper floor, Rosabel stopped, turning her head at the rapidly approaching footsteps echoing along the hall.
In long strides, although not running as his dignified position would never allow for such behaviour, Lawrence hastened toward her. “Your Grace,” he called to her, just a touch out of breath. “The Dowager Duchess requests your presence in her chambers.”
At his words, all blood drained from Rosabel’s face. “Excuse me?” she whispered.
Not surprised at her ignorance, Lawrence nodded. “His Grace’s grandmother. Due to an ailment, she is unable to leave her bedchamber, but she would very much like to make your acquaintance.” Without waiting for her reply, he took to the stairs. “If you would please follow me, Your Grace.”
Rosabel felt her hands tremble as they turned down the west wing, passing door after door. Her husband had not mentioned a grandmother. How could he have not told her? She was so very unprepared to meet this woman, especially on short notice.
Lawrence stopped in front of a heavy-set door. After giving a quick knock, he slid it open and beckoned her to enter.
With shaking hands, Rosabel stepped across the threshold into a darkened room. Looming shadows rose from the floor to her left and right, and she had trouble picking her way across the room toward a massive four-post bed at the far wall.
Against the white bed clothes, the small woman looked like a ghost, her skin almost translucent and her hair barely visible. Her eyes were closed, and Rosabel stopped, unsure what to do.
She ought not to be here! Clearly the woman was sleeping, and would probably have a fit if Rosabel disturbed her rest. Lawrence had not mentioned what ailment she suffered, but Rosabel suspected that it was simply an ailment that came with age.
Turning back to the door, Rosabel silently placed one step in front of the other, afraid to trip and wake the woman. When her hand touched the door handle, a remarkably strong and clearly irritated voice spoke from amidst the covers. “The moment I doze off, these people sneak in here and close the blasted curtains again!”
Rosabel froze, drawing in a sharp breath at hearing the anger in the woman’s voice. Not what she had expected.
“Ah! Someone’s here,” the Dowager Duchess observed. “Do be so kind and open the curtains.”
Not knowing what to say, Rosabel did as she was asked. Pulling back the heavy curtains, sunlight flooded the room, temporarily blinding her as her eyes had slowly grown accustomed to the dimness.
When she turned around, Rosabel found soft, green eyes looking at her. They travelled down her frame and took in her trembling hands and unsteady gaze. Then a smile lifted up the corners of her wrinkled mouth. “Welcome, my dear.”
“Th-thank you,” Rosabel stammered.
“Would you be a dear and come a little closer?” the Dowager Duchess asked, squinting her eyes. “I promise I will not bite, and I wish to see your face.”
“Certainly,” Rosabel mumbled, slowly approaching the bed. Under the woman’s scrutinizing eyes, she grew more and more uncomfortable, wringing her hands and casting the occasional longing glance at the door.
“What did my grandson tell you about me that has you trembling like this?” she asked, and her eyes narrowed.
Rosabel quickly shook her head. “N-nothing, Duchess. He did not mention…I mean− “
A chuckle rose from the old woman’s throat. “You mean to tell me he did not even mention me.” She shook her head, but a warm smile played on her features. “Graham, dear boy, how very unbecoming of you.”
Rosabel just stood and stared.
“My dear, would you mind sitting down?” the Dowager Duchess asked, pointing to the chair beside her bed. “You look as white as a sheet. Believe me, if I could get up, I’d offer you the bed.” Again she chuckled.
Sinking into the soft armchair, Rosabel was grateful for the woman’s observing eyes. As her hands still trembled, she took a deep breath, trying her best to look more comfortable with the situation she found herself in so unexpectedly. “Is there anything I can do? Do you need anything?” she whispered as the silence stretched too long.
The Dowager Duchess smiled. “A little company would be nice.”
Rosabel nodded, not sure what to say. How was she to converse with this woman? If she said a wrong word, would her husband’s grandmother recognize her low station and send her from the room?
“Relax, Dear,” the Dowager Duchess interrupted her thoughts. “I am not the evil step-mother in this story.” A devilish grin lit up her face. “I would just like to learn a little bit about the woman my grandson chose for his bride.” Rosabel stiffened. “Here, I’ll start. I’m an old woman, which is fairly obvious, and since my body is slowly failing me, I am tied to this bed day in and out, and quite frankly I’m bored to death.” She nodded her head vigorously. “I swear. It is this,” she waved her hand at the lonely room, “that will put me in the grave. So, when my grandson wrote to me about his impending nuptials and his intention of having you here at Westmore, I was delighted.” A genuine sparkle came to her eyes, and Rosabel felt herself relax, returning the woman’s smile whole-heartedly. “So, before the Season starts and he whisks you off to London, please brighten up an old woman’s quite dreary days.”
Smiling, Rosabel nodded, feeling the sun in her back, warming her limbs and stilling their trembling. Yes, London. Her husband had informed her of his intention for a quick introduction into society, but instead of focusing on life’s unpleasantries, Rosabel felt herself bewitched by the old woman’s charms. Maybe there was more life in Westmore than she had first thought.
***
Despite Mrs. Rigsby’s interference, Rosabel grew more and more attached to the little girl over the next few weeks. The cheerfulness of her spirit amazed her, and she realized that not the sun but Georgiana’s presence had brought light to her room that first morning. Wherever the little girl went, smiles followed her. The only one who seemed immune to her powers was Mrs. Rigsby, the governess.
In many ways, the Dowager Duchess was very much like Georgiana. Both open and welcoming, Rosabel felt completely at ease in their company within a matter of days.
“What’s bothering you, my dear?” the Dowager Duchess asked one morning while they were sitting together in her room, sipping tea. The curtains were pulled back and allowed the warm fall sun to reach inside and chase away the chill that seemed to linger these days.
Rosabel shrugged, eyes focused on the amber liquid in her cup.
The Dowager D
uchess sighed. “Talk to me, Dear, and preferably today. Who knows if I will still be around tomorrow?” A chuckle rose from her throat, and Rosabel stared at her open-mouthed. “Don’t look so shocked, Dear. Can’t an old woman make a joke? Now! Say what’s on your mind.”
Putting down her cup, Rosabel folded her hands in her lap. “I…I don’t know how to be a duchess. Not a day passes when I do not feel unsure of how to express myself, how to address the servants, what to say and what not to say. Every time someone addresses me as ‘Your Grace,’ I almost flinch.”
“Dear, I know you’re a bit on the shy side of the world, but these things take time. Be patient and do what feels right. I’m sure you’re doing a fine job.”
Rosabel nodded, forcing a smile on her face. “I will.”
The Dowager Duchess narrowed her eyes. “Now, even with my impaired hearing, I could hear the lie in your voice.” Rosabel’s eyes opened wide. “And stop looking so shocked all the time. My goodness, what happened that instilled such fear in your heart?”
Looking at her hands, Rosabel recounted the sad story of her life, hoping that the Dowager Duchess would not regard her with pity in her eyes from now on. However, her fear proved unfounded. For when she looked up, a warm smile played on the woman’s lips and she gently placed her hand on Rosabel’s clenched fists. “We all have our pasts, Dear. I do not mean to belittle yours, only to remind you that your past is your past. The future is still unknown, and we need to make the best of it. Do not allow your past to hold you back, or there will come a time when nothing but regret fills your days.”
Facing the green eyes that so imploringly looked into hers, Rosabel nodded; and this time the Dowager Duchess looked pleased. “Good,” she whispered, gently squeezing her hand. “Now tell me, what brought on this worry?”
Rosabel took a deep breath. “I’m afraid Mrs. Rigsby does not like me.”
Instantly, laughter echoed through the room, and Rosabel had to blink to assure herself of what her ears had perceived. Wiping a tear from the corner of her eye, the Dowager Duchess said, “Dear, that’s not your fault. The woman does not like anyone, and from what I’ve gathered, the feeling is mutual. Do not worry about her. Walk down your path, and if she gets in your way,” a twinkle came to the old woman’s eyes, “push her aside.”
