by Emily Queen
“Which dress are you wanting to wear to the party, my lady?” Anna asked, gesturing to a wardrobe filled to bursting with sensible black frocks. Her guarded expression held a smidgen of doubt that annoyed Rosemary to no end, if for no other reason than it was justified. Her wardrobe was in serious need of an update, as she’d continued to don her mourning garb for months longer than the current custom.
"Pack an assortment of selections, and I'll choose one when I arrive," Rosemary replied. Anna still appeared at a loss, and her mouth opened and shut while a slight blush crept into her cheeks.
“Out with it, Anna,” Rosemary gently prodded.
The girl raised an eyebrow but responded nonetheless. “Perhaps you ought to call on Miss Vera. She might have something more…appropriate for a party.”
Rosemary grinned, “You know perfectly well giving Vera free rein over my wardrobe will result in my attending this fete looking like I belong in a west-end brothel. However, I need a buffer, and Vera more than qualifies. Mother will have a fit, but that’s half the fun.”
“Shall I send word?” Anna asked with a small smile. The young woman had been in Rosemary’s service since the beginning of her marriage to Andrew and had provided much comfort to her mistress in the months following his death. Rosemary didn’t know what she’d do without Anna and treated the girl accordingly whether the gesture conformed to normal servant-mistress relationships or not.
“Yes, please do. Tell her to hurry, and to pack for all contingencies. She’ll know exactly what to do,” Rosemary instructed and sent Anna off to make arrangements.
While the maid was gone, Rosemary finished readying herself and slipped a framed photograph of Andrew into the inner pocket of her case along with a sketch pad and a few pencils. Trusting Anna to take care of the rest upon her return, Rosemary exited to the hall. She avoided the direction that led to her late husband’s rooms and instead descended the stairs and settled herself in the dining room.
As soon as she’d taken a seat, a tray of toast and tea appeared at her side almost silently. She absently thanked the housemaid, who responded with a clipped “Welcome, Madam,” as was her custom. Of all the servants, Rosemary cared the least for Helen, whose veneer she had as yet been unable to crack.
She let a piece of buttered toast melt on her tongue and allowed a satisfied sigh to escape her lips. It had been difficult not to smother her sadness with biscuits and crisps, but she’d listened to her best friend Vera’s advice for once and had managed to maintain her figure.
Yes, Vera had helped her in many ways, and not just over the last year. A force of nature, Vera took every opportunity to snub her nose at convention. Even as children, when the pair had played endless games of make-believe, there couldn’t have been a better example of two polar opposites. Rosemary’s dreams had included a husband, children, and a level of stability Vera described as ‘boring in the extreme.' While her friend dreamt of excitement and stardom, always demanding the center of attention, Rosemary was happy to fade into the background.
She might not share Vera’s enthusiasm for everything and anything that resembled fun, but she could understand the desire to break out of society’s mold. The problem for Rosemary was that she cared about her family’s approval far too much to be branded an embarrassment in any way. On the rare occasions that Vera talked her into defying custom, Rosemary had always been careful not to stray too far from convention.
The doorbell chimed as she swallowed the last dregs of her tea. Seconds later, Vera blew into the dining room looking as though she’d been prepared for an impromptu weekend away long before Anna had summoned her. A short crop of coal-black hair fit neatly beneath a stylish cloche hat, setting off a pair of emerald eyes surrounded by thick lashes. Her dress was cut to the most fashionable length, several centimeters shorter than anything Rosemary owned or dared to wear.
Rosemary looked enviously at Vera’s lightly covered legs and fought the urge to remove her own itchy, uncomfortable stockings and rip them to shreds. Sometimes she wondered how such a creature had any use for her at all. Surely, Vera could find more entertaining friends here in London, but for some unfathomable reason, she preferred Rosemary’s company to that of anyone else.
“Rosie, you look absolutely invigorated. What’s this about heading off to Pardington? If you wanted to get away, you could have chosen a nice sandy beach somewhere, my love. Going home to visit our parents isn’t exactly tops on my list of enjoyable activities.” Vera kissed Rosemary on the cheek, taking a break from her diatribe to do so. “You must have something up your sleeve if it means trudging out to the country with practically no forewarning.”
Rosemary’s eyes clouded over for a moment at the thought of what she was about to do. “I have an ulterior motive, yes,” she hedged.
Vera let out the tinkling laugh that had beckoned many a man to her side, “I knew it. Dish.” She demanded, collapsing into the chair across from Rosemary.
“I had a visitor yesterday. Grace Barton, from Pardington. She was looking for assistance from Andrew, and before she left, I somehow found myself saying I'd come out to the country and see if I could help her." Rosemary explained Grace's worry about her father, and the letter she'd found in his desk. "I was just about to ask Wadsworth to move Andrew's desk, so I could begin converting the office, and it felt like serendipity when she said she was from Pardington. I know, it sounds like a terrible idea, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
Laughing again, Vera tossed her head and cast her friend an appraising look. “I do believe you have surprised me yet again, Rosie. Each time I start to believe you are a sad case and maybe there is no hope for you, you rise from the ashes like a phoenix and take me completely by surprise.”
Rosemary highly doubted that was the case and chalked it up to Vera’s theatrical nature. She was, after all, an aspiring actress. “I will simply take a consult, and then I’ll recommend the proper authorities.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” Vera replied, the corner of her lip still curled into a half grin. “We’ll go to Pardington, we’ll attend this party, and I have no doubt you’ll have old Grace squared away before tea on Sunday.”
“Old Grace?” Rosemary asked, her curiosity piqued. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Vera knew the woman; after all, Vera knew practically everyone who was anyone, and a slew of characters who would, in polite society, be considered nobodies.
“You must remember her; the Bartons are one of the most prominent families in Pardington.”
Searching her memory, Rosemary came up empty. Perhaps the details would come back to her as she spent more time with the woman. “No, I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. Mother and Father will attend the party—presumably your mother as well—and that gives us an opportunity to poke around without seeming out of place. I’ll need you to act as a distraction and also as an extra pair of eyes.” Vera was nothing if not astute, and she possessed an uncanny ability to read any room she entered within seconds.
“Of course, of course. Whatever you need. If nothing else, the food ought to be delicious and the drinks bottomless. Besides, if I get bored, there’s always your mother to torture with tales of my more deplorable acting jobs.”
“Be careful,” Rosemary laughed. “You know her patience only extends so far, and only so long as your mother is around. I swear, if Lorraine Blackburn told my mother that bald heads on women were coming into fashion, she’d show up having been shorn like a sheep.”
Vera’s expression turned to one of evil satisfaction. “Wouldn’t that be just the berries?”
Rosemary imagined her mother without hair, and the thought made her shiver with both amusement and discomfort. "No. In fact, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. Enough about that. Did you bring me something to wear? Something appropriate, I hope."
Eyes alighting with delight, Vera nodded emphatically. “I sure did, and you will look absolutely ravishing. I also brought jewelry. You must let me do something about that hair thou
gh, Rosie.”
It would have been pointless to argue, and for the first time in a long time, Rosemary found she didn’t really want to. It felt good to have a project, something to work towards. Of course, she’d much rather not be involved with a possible murder, but she would take what she could get.
“Maybe a nice bob. You could pull it off, with those cheekbones and your beautiful wide eyes…" While Rosemary mused, Vera had risen and crossed the room. With gentle hands, she scooped the honeyed length and scrunched it on top to measure different styles against Rosemary's face.
“Now wait just a second, I’m not bobbing my hair.” That was where Rose drew the line. “Andrew always liked it long, and I agree.”
Vera looked as though she wanted to say something about that, but resigned herself to bringing up the matter at a later date. “Then how about we do it up like we did the night you met? Those curls suited you nicely.” She held her breath, hoping that had been the right thing to say.
She sighed when Rosemary responded with a smile. “That’ll do just fine.” Leave it to Vera to bring up a memory that normally would have Rosemary crying into her handkerchief, and yet somehow made everything a little brighter. Fondly, Rosemary recalled the night in question, of the first time she’d locked eyes with Andrew after being dragged to a party nearly kicking and screaming. The whole world had become a little brighter that night, and it was nice to think of it without sadness for the first time in nearly a year.
Yes, Vera was a good egg—and a good friend—no matter what Rosemary’s mother thought.
“Wadsworth,” Rosemary called, certain the butler was hovering somewhere nearby, “please fetch Anna and load the luggage into the car. We’re headed to Pardington.”
Chapter 3
As the car pulled into the drive of Woolridge House, a mild sense of dread washed over Rosemary. Her childhood home carried many happy memories; her parents took pride in giving their children the finer things. Still, there was pain associated with the place that only partially had to do with the fact she and Andrew had been married there.
Vera, always intuitive to Rosemary’s needs, gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. She had her own demons to deal with, and Rosemary returned the gesture in acknowledgment of them.
“I’ll see you later on tonight,” Vera promised. She would stay just up the road at her mother’s estate, and Rosemary doubted she’d get any closer to Woolridge House than the front garden.
While Anna and Wadsworth, who had insisted upon accompanying his mistress as her driver, took care of the luggage, Rosemary made her way into the foyer. The pitter-patter of little feet met her ears, and a moment later she was nearly knocked over by a tow-headed child who launched himself into her arms. “Auntie Rose, where’d you come from?”
“I came from my home in London, little darling. How’s my favorite nephew?” she asked, kissing the chubby pink cheeks of her sister’s son. “Where is your mother?” she asked, not having expected to encounter Stella, who spent most of her time at her husband’s home in Oxford.
“In the dining room with Gran, I think. What did you bring me?” he asked, his blue eyes sparkling.
Rosemary sighed internally. “Well, Nelly, I didn’t know you would be here,” she began, hesitating when his adorable face fell. Thank goodness she’d packed a box of chocolates into her case. “However, Auntie always comes prepared. I’ll give your present to you after tea.”
The little boy, who was quickly approaching his fourth birthday, narrowed his eyes in consideration. “All right. Now, let’s go.” He took Rosemary’s hand in his tiny one and led her towards the dining room.
“That is absurd!” She heard her mother, Evelyn’s, voice before they’d rounded the corner. “You don’t go to Paris in August, dear. It’s far too humid. You go to Spain. Really, I don’t know what you could possibly be thinking.”
Rosemary thought Paris sounded like a marvelous place to visit but was certain if Stella had said she was taking a Spanish holiday, their mother would tell her she ought to go to France. That was the way things had always been between her mother and sister.
Stella followed every bit of advice Evelyn had given. She’d married young to an up-and-coming architecture professor, no less, and began having babies right away. She dressed the way Evelyn thought she ought to dress, and she decorated her home the way Evelyn instructed her to do. Yet, their mother still found fault with everything from Stella’s shoes to her wallpaper, including Leonard, who, as far as Rosemary could tell, had done nothing except treat her sister with respect.
Still, for some reason, Stella continued to seek Evelyn’s approval at all costs. It baffled Rosemary to no end. Her own relationship with their mother might be strained at times, but she’d charted her path and taken little criticism for her deviation from the family’s expectations. Announcing her intention of going for an art degree had felt like a rebellion to Rosemary, and yet the news had gone over with far less rebuke than Stella would have encountered had it been she who presented the idea.
“Stella!” Rosemary rushed to embrace her sister, who appeared grateful for the reprieve. Petite in the extreme, Stella bore little resemblance to Rosemary, save for the shape of her pointed nose, a feature handed down from their mother’s side of the family. Her tiny face was like a doll’s, and she possessed a type of beauty that seemed more fitting for an Arthurian heroine or a fairy-tale princess. Although one would be hard pressed to find another soul who agreed with her, Rosemary had always felt plain by comparison.
“Rose, I had no idea you were coming!” Stella’s relieved expression confirmed for Rosemary that she was a welcome interruption.
“Did you call ahead dear? Or send a telegram? If I’ve missed another message, I’ll need to find a new maid. Or perhaps give Bertram a good tongue-lashing,” Evelyn said.
Wishing it had indeed been the butler, Bertram, who had answered the telephone because then she would have been assured her mother received the message, Rosemary replied, "I spoke to Father, and he said he would inform you of my arrival. Perhaps I ought to have called again. I'm sorry, Mother."
“That’s not what I meant, dear. You’re welcome anytime, you know that. Still, you ought to know better than to trust your father to relay any sort of information. Why, he likely forgot he’d spoken to you the moment he set down the receiver. How long will you be staying?” Evelyn Woolridge had a tendency to ramble.
“Just for the weekend,” Rosemary said. “I’m to attend a party at the Barton residence tonight.”
Her mother stared at Rosemary for a moment before she asked, “With whom, dear? I didn’t realize you were still friendly with their daughter. Or is it that dashing son of theirs who has captured your attention?”
A flush crept up to Rosemary’s cheeks, but her voice was steady when she replied.
“I recently became reacquainted with Grace Barton, and it was she who extended the invitation. I’ll be attending with Vera.” She refused to elaborate again on her lack of desire to search for a new husband, an explanation that always fell on deaf ears. Stella flashed her sister a mischievous grin from behind their mother’s back, and it made Rosemary feel good to know at least one person was on her side.
"Vera is here as well? I spoke with her mother just yesterday, and she mentioned nothing about an impending visit." Evelyn looked worried about the idea that her heroine, Lorraine Blackburn, might have withheld information. Not for the first time did Rosemary wonder whether her mother thought, as did everyone else, that the two were an odd pairing. Evelyn, while still a handsome woman, looked like a moth next to a butterfly when Vera’s mother was around. Sort of the same way Rosemary felt around Vera if she were being honest.
“Relax, Mother. Coming home this weekend was a last-minute decision. Now, why does everyone keep telling me I ought to remember Grace Barton?” The notion had been bothering Rosemary ever since Vera brought it up. Actually, longer than that. From the moment Grace revealed she was from Pardington, a memory
too vague to pin down had niggled in Rosemary’s brain.
Evelyn cast a long look at her daughter. “You were Girl Guides together the year you turned fifteen.”
She needn’t have said anything else and chose not to. Instead, her eyes clouded over and she turned on her heel, abruptly leaving Rosemary and Stella alone in the dining room.
“I really put my foot in my mouth this time, didn’t I?” Rosemary asked, even though the question had been an innocent one.
Stella sighed. “Your transgressions are far less painful than mine. I thought naming the baby after Lionel would make her happy, but every time she says his full name, she gets that look in her eye.”
“I’ve noticed,” Rosemary agreed. “Lionel would have been properly chuffed to have young Nelly carry his name, and that is what you must remember. The boy’s nature is a credit to his uncle, and to be fair, Mother dotes upon her grandson, so he is none the worse for her pain.”
Lionel had been Rosemary’s oldest brother, the first-born son of Evelyn and their father, Cecil, and heir to the family fortune. Furthermore, he was the only man Vera had ever—and Rosemary feared would ever—love. His death in the war had devastated the family, and the subsequent loss of Andrew left Rosemary feeling more than jaded.
"Let's not talk any more about it," Stella suggested. "Such is life and all that. Now, show me what you intend to wear to this party. Mother and Father and Frederick will also attend, but Leonard and I will stay behind with Nelly.”
“I didn’t realize our family fostered such close connections to the Bartons,” Rosemary commented, ignoring the ever-present inquiry regarding her wardrobe choices. “Have you any idea what reason our brother would have for attending the fete?” Frederick had taken the brunt of the fallout from Lionel’s death and had never lived up to the Woolridge expectations, which appeared to be a family theme.
Stella laughed. “Well, Father does business with Mr. Barton, and Mother is trying to marry Frederick off, once and for all. She thinks a good woman will mend his wanton ways, but I think she forgets what women are like these days. Not that I have anything negative to say about Grace. I hardly know the woman.”
