by Bree Wolf
Rosabel couldn’t help but smile, and yet, she was unsure if she could ever find half as much courage as the Dowager Duchess possessed. Rosabel doubted it very much and was proved right later that afternoon.
As she sat down with Georgiana in her nursery having a tea party with her dolls, Mrs. Rigsby stormed into the room and demanded to know the meaning of this. Georgiana froze, and Rosabel swallowed, feeling her own nerves jump. “We are having tea,” she responded, unable to comprehend for what reason this seemed to give offense. “I see nothing wrong with that, Mrs. Rigsby.”
Mrs. Rigsby huffed short of steam coming out of her ears. “I most certainly do, Your Grace. I mean no disrespect,” Rosabel doubted that very much, “but I must insist that Lady Georgiana continue her lessons. His Grace insisted that she be prepared to take her mother’s place.” A wicked gleam came to her eyes as they settled on Rosabel.
“I see,” Rosabel mumbled, wondering once again why the duke had married her. From what Mrs. Rigsby said, Georgiana’s education was well taken care of and in the sure hands of the governess. Why had he insisted on providing his daughter with a new mother if there was no room for her here?
Although Georgiana looked at her with sadness in her blue eyes, Rosabel could not help herself. “We will continue this later,” she said, rising from her chair. “Your father is right. You should not neglect your lessons.” With a smile for Georgiana and a curt nod for Mrs. Rigsby, Rosabel left the room, guilt flooding her heart at her own weakness.
***
Going for a walk by the duck pond, Rosabel was delighted to have Georgiana with her. After the girl’s lessons, they’d escaped Mrs. Rigsby’s controlling eye and stolen away as fast as they could. Skipping with each step, Georgiana approached the pond, tossing bread crumbs in the water, as she watched the ducks with bubbling delight diving after her offered treats. She jumped up and down, clapping her hands. “Did you see that? That one dove under all the way.”
Rosabel smiled and brushed a hand over Georgiana’s golden head. Instantly, she stopped as the familiarity of the gesture struck her, but Georgiana didn’t seem distressed at all. Her eyes shone as she leaned against Rosabel, watching the pond come to life when a quick toss of bread crumbs hit the ground or the water.
“Mommy always took me here,” Georgiana said, gaze fixed on the commotion before her. “She loved books, duckies, and horses.” She looked up at Rosabel, and although there was a hint of sadness in her eyes, her face shone with pride. “Mommy had a very big, white horse. Her name was Lightning because she was so fast. But Mommy wouldn’t let me near Lightning because she was wild,” Georgiana giggled, “like her. She always told me so.”
“I believe you,” Rosabel quickly assured the girl. “Your mother sounds like she was a lot of fun. Did you always spend a lot of time together? Was Mrs. Rigsby here back then?”
Georgiana nodded, and at first Rosabel wasn’t sure how to understand her answer. “Mrs. Rigsby never liked me going outside. She always tried to make me stay in my room and study.” She lifted her head, and her face scrunched up in disgust. “All kinds of boring stuff.” Then the radiant smile returned to her face. “But Mommy always took me outside anyway, and Mrs. Rigsby got so mad, but Mommy just shrugged and said, ‘Take it up with the duke.’ And then Mrs. Rigsby would stare.” Her little body shook with laughter.
Trying to picture the late Duchess of Kensington, Rosabel looked out over the duck pond at Westmore Manor, looming tall into the sky. Had her predecessor been able to handle Mrs. Rigsby? From what Georgiana had said, she had. Apparently, the little girl’s mother had been a strong woman. Gazing at Georgiana, Rosabel could see that same spirit shine in her eyes. At six, she could not help but submit to Mrs. Rigsby. But Rosabel doubted that the governess would easily subdue Georgiana once she grew older. Feeling her chest swell with pride, Rosabel looked at the little girl, who would undoubtedly follow in her mother’s footsteps and find her own way, no matter the obstacles.
A frown drew down her eyebrows, and she turned to Georgiana, “What was your mother’s name?” So far, she had only heard people talk of her as the late Duchess of Kensington.
“Leonora,” Georgiana whispered almost in awe. “Uncle Edmond sometimes called her Leo because she had the heart of a lion.” Again, pride rang in her voice, and Rosabel couldn’t help but feel a sting of jealousy. The late Duchess of Kensington had been a great woman, in every way, and Rosabel herself was a lacking substitute, only reminding those who had loved her what a great loss they had suffered.
Rosabel spent the rest of the day locked in her mind. Almost as though in a trance, she wandered the halls, not seeing anything before her, but instead imagining Westmore Manor when Leonora had been its mistress. Had it seemed so dead then? Had her life taken everything that had made this huge house a home?
Rest wouldn’t come that night. Rosabel tossed and turned, and once again as though to mimic her inner turmoil, a raging storm assaulted her windows; this time rolling in from the south-west. Rain pelted on the panes, drumming into her mind the thoughts that wouldn’t leave her alone.
Pushing back the covers, Rosabel shrugged into a robe and tiptoed out the door and down the hall. Slowly opening the door to Georgiana’s room, she peeked inside, relieved to see the little girl in her bed, eyes closed, breathing evenly. A small golden-haired doll was clutched in her arms.
This night, Georgiana’s room was not the centre of the storm, and the muffled sounds had not yet disturbed her sleep. Fearing that Georgiana might wake up and be frightened again, Rosabel drew up a chair and settled in for the night, watching over the sleeping child.
As she sat there, her eyes ran over Georgiana’s features and she tried to imagine what her mother had looked like. As many portraits as she had found in almost every part of the house, Rosabel thought it more than just a bit odd that there appeared to be not a single one of the late Duchess of Kensington anywhere in Westmore Manor. Had there never been one? Or had it been removed? Hidden away to not be a constant reminder of what had been?
***
Georgiana didn’t wake that night, and when the storm calmed down and the early rays of a new day slowly climbed the tree line outside the window, Rosabel withdrew to her own room, lest she run into Mrs. Rigsby. Her gloomy thoughts, however, were still with her. Unable to shake the nagging feeling of merely being an insufficient substitute, Rosabel kept to her room for the next few days. She only ventured downstairs to take her meals and spend an hour here or there with Georgiana or her husband’s grandmother. Apart from that, she remained in her prison cell, sitting by the window, gaze fixed on nothing specific, wallowing in thoughts that she knew served no purpose.
Thinking of the governess and the disdain in her eyes as she had looked over Rosabel the night of her arrival at Westmore Manor, Rosabel couldn’t help but shiver. No one else, not even her aunt and uncle, had ever been able to make her feel as little as Mrs. Rigsby did without effort on a daily basis. Rosabel couldn’t even tell what it was that the governess did. There was something in the air when she entered a room and appraised those within as though her opinion was a ruling universally accepted as the truth. And that ruling had fallen on open ears with Rosabel. She knew it to be wrong to believe her, but she did nonetheless. Feeling smaller and smaller every day, Rosabel soon cowered in her room, barely feeling any strength to leave her bed in the morning.
Until one day when Georgiana came to her room, tears running down her rosy cheeks. She sobbed so heart-breakingly that Rosabel took her into her arms, trying her best to comfort her and feeling her own concerns melt away at the sight of this little angel in pain. Anger ignited then because deep down Rosabel knew the source of Georgiana’s pain before the little girl even opened her mouth. Mrs. Rigsby had taken Georgiana’s favourite doll, a gift from her mother when she had failed to recite a five-verse poem.
Heat boiled in Rosabel’s veins and rushed through her body. Before she knew what she was doing, she found herself hastening
down the hall, pulling Georgiana behind her. With more force than necessary, she pushed open the door to the nursery and found Mrs. Rigsby by the window, hands on her hips glaring at them. “There you are!” she hissed, cold eyes fixed on the little girl half-hiding behind Rosabel’s skirts. “A lady does not sniffle! And a lady most certainly does not run off just because−”
“Mrs. Rigsby!” Rosabel interrupted, her voice radiating the anger she felt. Instantly, the governess fell silent, confusion clouding her eyes. “Where is Lady Georgiana’s doll?”
Straightening her posture, Mrs. Rigsby met Rosabel’s burning eyes. “Forgive me, Your Grace, but I am merely trying my best to teach Lady Georgiana to be a lady,” she paused for a second, “like her mother.”
Rosabel swallowed, understanding the words the way they were meant, as an insult. Fighting down the urge to run from the room and hide, Rosabel took a deep breath as her eyes shifted to the little girl, her tiny hand still clutched in her own. Hiding behind her skirts for protection, Georgiana barely glanced at her governess, small frame shaking as the tears continued to run down her cheeks.
In that moment Rosabel’s heart sped up. The blood pumped through her veins as though running a marathon and, as though a flame had been ignited that could never be subdued, a fire stronger than anything she had ever felt rushed through her body. She felt it burn in the tip of her toes as much as in the tip of her hair. It burned, and a fever took control, suffocated her fears and discarded their ashes. In that moment, Rosabel was not herself anymore. In that moment, she was a mother protecting her child, and nothing scared her more than the threat of new tears running down her daughter’s cheeks. Knowing she’d do anything in her power to prevent that, Rosabel stepped forward.
“Mrs. Rigsby, where is Lady Georgiana’s doll?” The governess held her ground, but Rosabel thought to detect a hint of weakness in her eyes. “I will not repeat myself,” she hissed, her own eyes unwavering as she fixed her opponent.
A moment of silence hung in the air, lasting a short eternity. All that could be heard were Georgiana’s soft sobs, spurring Rosabel on, giving her the kindling she needed to keep her fire burning.
Then, finally Mrs. Rigsby turned and strode from the room. In a moment she returned, holding in her hands the doll with the golden hair. For the first time, Rosabel recognized its resemblance to Georgiana.
A scowl on her face, the governess extended her hand. As Georgiana was still hiding behind Rosabel’s skirts, eyes longingly staring at her precious doll, Rosabel took it from Mrs. Rigsby’s hand and passed it on to its rightful owner. A small breath of relief escaped Georgiana as she clutched the doll to her chest, and, closing her eyes, hugged it tight as though it were her mother. In that moment, Rosabel understood what the doll meant to the little girl.
Tearing her eyes from the heart-breaking scene partially hidden by her skirts, Rosabel turned to the governess. “Mrs. Rigsby, I feel the need to remind you that, as Lady Georgiana’s governess, it falls to you to provide her with the education she requires to lead a successful life. You are, however, not her mother,” Rosabel could almost feel Leonora speaking through her, “and you will refrain from punishments such as these in the future. Am I understood?”
As much as her own eyes burned, Mrs. Rigsby’s were cold as ice, and for a terrifying moment they reminded her of her husband’s. But then the governess looked away, and Rosabel heard the disdain in her voice as she mumbled, “Yes, Your Grace,” before walking out of the room.
Chapter Nine − The Attic
“Georgiana told me, Dear.” the Dowager Duchess beamed at her. “I cannot tell you how proud I am of you!”
Rosabel felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she took her regular seat by the old woman’s bed. “It was nothing. I …”
“Nothing?” The Dowager Duchess shook her head. “Now, now, this is not a moment for false modesty. I know how much courage it must have cost you to put that woman in her place. It was about time.”
“But will she not be angry?”
The Dowager Duchess shrugged. “Certainly, but what is it to you?”
Wringing her hands, Rosabel rose from the chair and started pacing the room. “I’m afraid she will direct her anger at Georgiana. What if she takes it out on her?”
The old woman’s eyes turned serious. “Then you will do as you did now. You will step in front of the child and protect her from that lunatic woman.”
“I’m not sure I can.”
“But I am.”
“How?” Rosabel asked, shaking her head. Staring at the small, old woman in the enormous bed, she felt her own limbs tremble. “How can you possibly know?”
A smile illuminated the Dowager Duchess’ face. “Because you’re her mother. It’s what mothers do.”
Sinking back into her chair, Rosabel looked at the old woman. “I do love her,” she whispered, feeling a wrinkled hand embrace hers, giving it a gentle squeeze.
Still contemplating her options later in the afternoon, Rosabel followed Georgiana down a long corridor in the west wing. Eventually, they met with heavy-set double doors. Giving them a slight push, they slid apart as though made of air.
“This was my mother’s favourite room in the entire house,” Georgiana whispered as though not wanting to disturb the rows upon rows of books filling the library from floor to ceiling. “She always said every book was an adventure waiting to happen.” Taking Rosabel’s hand, she drew her deeper into the room lit by arched windows running along the entire length of the west wall. Sunshine spilled inside, touching the massive stone fireplace in the back fronted by a number of armchairs and a Persian rug running all the way to the double doors.
Craning her neck, Rosabel did not know where to look first. “This is wonderful!” she gasped. “Oh, so wonderful! Did you spend a lot of time here?”
Georgiana nodded. “She would always read to me. At night, she would read to me in bed, but during the day we would come here. This is where she taught me to read.”
Rosabel’s eyes turned to the quiet, little girl, holding on to the dearest treasure she had, the memories of her mother. “You miss her a lot.”
Meeting her eyes, Georgiana nodded, “I do.” A tear ran down her cheek, but she brushed it away. “I wish she would come back.”
Pulling the little girl into her arms, Rosabel held her tight, gently stroking her back. “I wish that too.”
***
In the coming weeks, Rosabel and Georgiana spend many wonderful hours tucked away in the library, going on one adventure after the other. As the air outside grew chilly and had a more and more distinct nip to it, they would huddle in front of a roaring fire, watching the late afternoon winds carry around the coloured leaves of late autumn on their never-ending journey. Hot tea and Cook’s delicious biscuits with a touch of cinnamon would keep them warm and well-fed, and they would often forget to return downstairs for the evening meal.
Rosabel loved these weeks.
While Mrs. Rigsby refrained from any further attempts of sabotaging Rosabel’s position in the household, apart from the occasional, thinly-veiled insult, Rosabel herself felt like a heavy weight had been lifted off her shoulders. Step by step, she found her way around Westmore Manor and its people. Always having an open ear and a kind word for her staff, Rosabel was delighted to see that most of them curtsied with an honest smile whenever they would come upon her. Bridget and Lawrence were dearest to her; both openly showed their affection for Georgiana and hardly missed an opportunity to sneak her an extra biscuit or a treat for Shadow.
Whenever Georgiana was stuck with Mrs. Rigsby−her lessons being the only time she could not escape her governess−Rosabel would sit with her husband’s grandmother or explore Westmore Manor and its grounds. Riding Shadow, at Georgiana’s request, she found that the horse’s temperament stemmed from a skittish and frightful nature. So she took her time, bribing the black stallion with treats and stroking behind his ears whenever she visited the stables. Soon, t
he tall horse greeted her with a friendly neigh when she drew near, and Rosabel delighted in his affections. Taking him outside into the grounds almost every day, Rosabel felt freed of the last chains that simply wouldn’t dissolve. Although she felt more or less at peace in Westmore now, there always was that tiny voice whispering in her head that things would not last. There was a danger to her happiness on the horizon, and Rosabel only knew too well what danger that voice spoke of: her husband.
Not having heard from him even once since her departure from Camden Hall, Rosabel often all but forgot he even existed. Only when people referred to her as the duchess in name, did she remind herself that she was indeed a married woman. Nevertheless, Rosabel hoped with all her heart that her husband was equally content with their arrangement and disinclined to ever make any changes to it.
Returning from a long run across the grassy plain to the west of the manor, Rosabel handed Shadow’s reins to Peter, the stable boy, and hurried toward the house as the first heavy drops of another rainy afternoon announced themselves. Lawrence took her hat and coat, and Rosabel hurried upstairs, desperate to run a brush through the entangled mess that used to be her hair. The fresh air still in her lungs, Rosabel climbed the steps with ease, her new energy almost giving her wings. Humming under her breath, she turned right and walked down the corridor toward her room when something caught her attention.
Set off to the side, another, smaller corridor broke off to the left, usually hidden behind a door, a door that looked like every other door. Only now this door stood ajar and slowly moved open as Rosabel swept passed it.
Stopping, Rosabel peered past the door into the dark hallway. Curious, she took another step forward, pushing the door all the way open. Except for walls, a floor and a ceiling, there was nothing much to see, nothing but another door, just as ordinary, at the opposite side of the small corridor.
Wondering what lay beyond, Rosabel approached the door. It wasn’t locked, but stuck at first and only slid open after a vigorous pull, screeching so loudly that Rosabel was sure the whole household would be up in a second demanding to know what unholy sound had disturbed their existence.
