by Bree Wolf
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.
Beyond the door, stairs led up into an attic. Although Rosabel was sure to find nothing exciting up there but old furniture and cobwebs, her feet would not turn to leave. With a mind of their own, they steered her up the stairs into a dimly lit space. Small round windows here and there, hung with cobwebs as though fashioned into curtains, allowed some of the dark afternoon light to enter.
Bulging shapes covered with white linen cloths resembling tables, chairs or a chaise stood here and there. The walls were adorned with antique cabinets and commodes, trunks of all sizes were stacked covering the entire floor, creating small pathways and forming a labyrinth.
When her eyes had adjusted to the dim light, Rosabel stepped forward, unsure what to look at. The scene before her reminded her of a dungeon in an old castle in a ghost story her father had told her when she was young before her life had changed so abruptly. Her pulse beat in her chest, partly with excitement and partly with fear as the old stories caught up with her.
Entering the labyrinth, Rosabel ran her finger across the lid of one of the trunks, and it came away with a thick layer of dust covering it. No one had cleaned here in a while. Of course, there was no need to clean an attic that lay all but forgotten. Keeping right at the next turn, Rosabel walked on, her eyes gliding across the ancient possessions along the wall as though searching for something. But once her eyes had found what Rosabel herself had not known to look for, she could not help but stand and stare.
Against the very back of the wall, hidden by crates and trunks, an old frame, glistening golden in the few rays of light dancing over its ornaments, rested among companions. This one frame, however, was not completely covered. The white linen had slid aside a little revealing the upper left corner of a woman’s portrait. Although Rosabel could see mere strands of her golden hair held back with a blue clip, she did not doubt for a second that she would finally lay eyes on the woman so dearly missed, the woman who had left a hole that could not be filled, the woman whose place she had been forced to take, but failed to fill.
Leonora. Georgiana’s mother and her husband’s beloved late wife.
Chapter Ten - A Visitor
Rosabel felt as though she was about to disturb Leonora’s grave as she carefully set one foot before the other. Approaching the corner of the room with the greatest of care, she tried her best not to make a sound as she moved away crates and trunks, feeling their weight in the trembling of her arms and the pearls of sweat springing up on her forehead. But as much as Rosabel’s skin filled with goose bumps cautioning her, she could not turn back.
Ever since the day she had made her vows she had been walking in this woman’s shadow. To everyone around her, Leonora had been the perfect wife, mother and duchess. Compared to her, Rosabel felt more than just a little inadequate, but like a failure at life. And she was compared to the former Duchess of Kensington every step she took.
In a strange way, facing Leonora now gave Rosabel a first glimpse at her competitor for everyone’s affections and good opinion. Although Rosabel felt she had a right to feel a little jealousy, she Rosabel could not feel resentment for the woman whose face she was about to finally lay eyes on. Leonora had had a life she had loved, and she had been loved by those around her, only to be torn out of this life for no good reason. Was there ever a good reason? Rosabel wondered. If anything, she felt her heart go out to Leonora, hoping the woman would not mind her presence in her home.
Tenderly, Rosabel placed a hand on the edge of the portrait’s frame, feeling the smooth surface of the polished wood under her fingertips. Pushing the linen aside little by little, Rosabel found she was holding her breath.
Slowly, the linen fell away, revealing golden hair pinned up, with loose curls dancing down Leonora’s temples and resting on her slim shoulders. The blue clip in her hair perfectly matched the startling blue of her eyes, pale and pure as a summer sky, and yet, deep as the ocean on a stormy day. Her lips were the tiniest bit curled at the corners as though she was doing her best not to laugh. Head held high, chin lifted, Leonora looked the duchess Rosabel knew she could never be. Looking her in the eyes, Rosabel felt awed by her presence as though Leonora’s spirit had risen from the painting and now stood beside her.
Involuntarily, Rosabel glanced to her left. Although she saw nothing but specks of dust floating through the air, a shiver went over her.
Absorbed in the connection she felt, Rosabel flinched as the sounds of hooves on gravel reached her ear, tearing her away from the wonderings and musings of her ever-trembling mind.
As she rushed to the small window, Rosabel prayed that it was not her husband, who had decided to pay them a visit after all. Standing on her toes, she still could not see the path leading up to the front hall. The sky, however, hung heavy with rain-filled clouds, threatening to drench those unwilling to heed its warning any second.
Casting one last glance at the portrait, Rosabel straightened her dress and only then remembered that she had been on her way to fix her hair. Frightened to have her husband or any unknown visitor lay eyes on her in such a state of dishevelment, Rosabel rushed down the stairs, carefully closing the door to the attic behind her, and hastened to her room.
By the time he had managed to disentangle her hair and pin it up in an orderly fashion, there came a knock on her door. Lawrence entered and, bowing to her, said, “You have a visitor, Your Grace.”
A visitor? Rosabel wondered. Then it could not be her husband. A wave of relief washed over her, and she could feel the knot in her stomach dissipate. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, she asked, “Who is it?”
“Edmond Dunsworth, Duke of Cromwell, Your Grace.”
Although the name sounded familiar, Rosabel could not conjure up a face to go with it. Nodding to Lawrence, she followed him downstairs toward the front drawing-room. He opened the door and, stepping inside, announced to her visitor, “Her Grace the Duchess of Kensington.”
Still at odds with her address, Rosabel took a deep breath and stepped forward, eyes straining to glimpse her visitor. Not knowing what to expect, she was relieved to find a welcoming smile on his face.
“Duchess,” he said, bowing to her, but his eyes sparkled with mischief. “I hope you do not mind my intrusion upon your hospitality.”
“Not at all,” Rosabel said, bowing her head in greeting to her husband’s best friend. Oh, how inconvenient this connection was! Remembering how she had wished he could be her husband instead, Rosabel felt herself blush.
“Are you unwell?” he asked, although from the expression on his face she could tell that he was jesting with her. “Do have a seat.”
Following his suggestion, Rosabel was
relieved to be off her feet and not in danger of swooning any time soon. Her heart hammered in her chest, and she could hardly concentrate on what to say. “What brings you to Westmore?”
A smile on his face, he leaned back comfortably. “I am passing by on my way to Camden Hall.”
“I see,” Rosabel nodded. He was on his way to see her husband. Was he to report on how she managed herself in her new role? Did her husband ask him to spy on her? A shiver ran up and down her arms.
As she looked up, Rosabel found his eyes observing her. But when she took a deep breath, readying herself to face any accusation or shortcomings he could lay at her door, a grin spread over his features that once again displayed his easy-going nature. “There is no need for concern, Your Grace. Even if Graham had asked for a report, I could not deliver one that would paint you in a bad light.”
Rosabel felt herself tremble, embarrassed at how easily he had read her thoughts. It would prove well to be more guarded in the future.
“I assure you I have no such concerns.”
“Good,” the duke nodded. “Then let’s talk of pleasanter matters. How is Lady Georgiana?”
Rosabel’s face instantly transformed at the change of topic. She noticed his eyes watching her, and yet, the words spilled from her mouth without thought as to how her eagerness would be received. She talked of Georgiana’s delightful nature, her fondness of Shadow and the many wonderful hours spent upstairs in the library.
“The library?” the duke mused. “Yes, Leonora often read to her there. I am glad that Georgiana remembers so much of her mother.” His face grew darker. “She was so young when it happened.”
Seeing his face, Rosabel couldn’t help but ask. “Did you know the late Duchess of Kensington?”
Meeting her eyes, the duke nodded. “I did, yes. She−”
In that moment the door flew open.
Rosabel flinched, expecting something terrible, but was relieved to find Georgiana fly into the room, the biggest smile on her face. Her eyes barely glanced at Rosabel as she instantly flung herself into the duke’s arms. “Uncle Edmond!”
Uncle Edmond? Rosabel wondered as she watched him spin her around and around, his laughter mixing with hers. Then he set her down again, and both took a seat across from Rosabel.
A feeling of forbearance settled over Rosabel, and the words flew out of her mouth. “Uncle Edmond? Is that an honorary title? You are not my husband’s brother, are you? Does that mean you are…?”
He met her eyes without flinching. “Yes, Leonora was my little sister.”
Rosabel gasped, afraid to see a new cold settled in his eyes as well. How he must hate her for taking his sister’s place!
Chapter Eleven - My Love Leonora
After a quick excuse, Rosabel all but ran from the parlour. Her feet echoed on the marble hall as they carried her away, up the stairs and down a corridor. Before she had formed any coherent thought, she found herself pushing open the door to the attic, the stairs creaking under her shoes. Climbing to the top, Rosabel turned to the still uncovered portrait sitting in the back of the room. She hurried over as though someone was after her and, feeling her knees wobble, sank down onto the floor in front of it.
Tears dropped from her cheeks and onto her hands, and Rosabel realized that she was crying. The realization drew heavy sobs from her throat, and for a moment she buried her face in her hands, unable to look at the woman staring back at her from the portrait.
“Wherever I turn, there you are,” she cried, glancing up at the woman who had to face her accusations with nothing but silence. “How am I to make a life here if all they want is you?” She shook her head, knowing that she was being unfair.
Leonora had not been the one responsible. She had not been the one to put Rosabel in this impossible position. She had simply died, died and left a hole impossible to fill. And yet, here Rosabel was. Here she was, forced to live a life not meant for her. And at every twist and turn people reminded her of it; intentionally or not; it made no difference. Rosabel couldn’t help but feel she was the one who had robbed Leonora of her life and the people who loved her of the woman with the kind eyes and the affectionate smile.
Looking at Leonora’s portrait, Rosabel’s gaze travelled over her blue eyes, full of kindness and devotion, down to her mouth curled up in an attempt not to laugh and wondered how she had not seen the resemblance to her brother before. Whenever she had seen him, his face had held the same joy of life, the same kindness that she had instantly felt comfortable in his presence.
Here she stopped.
He had smiled at her, always. Why? Did he not resent her for taking his sister’s place? Although Rosabel knew he must, she could not remember anything in his eyes that had held blame or accusation directed at her. The only one who made her feel like this was her own husband.
And while the Duke of Kensington had the same blue eyes as his late wife and brother-in-law, his froze her heart. Whenever he had looked at her, a shiver had spread down her back and arms as though warning her of an evil in her vicinity. Never before had Rosabel realized how someone’s eyes held the secret of their souls.
What was she to do? Rosabel wondered, brushing the tears off her cheeks. She could not hide in the attic for the duration of the duke’s visit. She had to face him, at the very least to save face.
Determined not to let him see how much his connection to her predecessor had rattled her, Rosabel rose to her feet. As she steadied herself with a hand on an oak chest, stacked on top of two crates, the lid creaked and the key fell from the lock, hitting the floorboards with a dull thud.
Staring at it for a second, Rosabel bent down and picked it up. As she inserted it back into the lock, however, her hand, as though moving on its own, did not release the key, but instead turned it. Instantly, the lock sprang open, and the lid stood ajar, inviting her to explore further.
“This is wrong,” she whispered, knowing that whatever these crates and trunks held had once probably belonged to Leonora. Rosabel had no business going through the woman’s possessions. And yet, Rosabel couldn’t help herself.
Opening the lid all the way, she found a small jewellery chest engraved My Love Leonora. Next to it, neatly stacked, were leather-bound books held closed by a small golden threat. Running her finger over the spine, turning it in her hand, Rosabel suspected that these were Leonora’s diaries. Her fingers itched with curiosity, but Rosabel called herself to reason.
Putting down the diary, she turned to a small wooden box. The lid could be slid sideways, and as it came off, a small draft made one of the letters inside tumble to the floor. Rosabel placed the box back in the chest and bent down to pick up the envelop. As she grabbed it by the edge though, a single sheet of paper slid out and once again fell to the floor.
Although Rosabel knew she ought to put it back, her fingers unfolded the paper, and her eyes turned to the words written there. It was dated April 1793, eight years ago.
My dearest L.,
I am counting the days till I will lay eyes on your beautiful face once again. Without you my days are spent in darkness as though the sun is absent, but I pray it will not be absent for long. I am hopeful that all will be settled in due time. I beg of you to put your trust in me and not despair. Brighter days will come when my father will see the beauty of your soul and whole-heartedly agree to our union. Of that I am certain.
I remain yours with all my heart,
G.
Entranced, Rosabel stared at the slightly fading words on the gilded piece of paper. As short as the letter was, it gave her a unique, while undeserved, insight in her husband’s life. Apparently, his father had not approved the match, at least not at first. “Why would he reject her?” Rosabel mumbled. “She must have been a duke’s daughter, considering that her brother is now the Duke of Cromwell.” Had there been a feud between the families? According to everyone who had known her, she had been such a lovely woman, perfect in the eyes of many; surely her husband’s father could have had n
o objections with regard to her character.
Obviously, he had later agreed to the marriage. Rosabel frowned. Or had they gone against his wishes? Maybe he had died before they had gotten married, thus freeing his son to choose as he wished.
Whatever the obstacles, they had overcome them. They had stood by each other through dark and light and had been rewarded. At least for a time.
Sipping her tea, Rosabel stared out the window, aware that the Dowager Duchess had her watchful eyes on her. Millions of questions assaulted her mind, and yet, she had never spoken to the woman about her grandson and his first wife. At times, the Dowager Duchess had inquired after their courtship and the circumstances of their hastened wedding. Rosabel had always eluded such questions though. Nevertheless, she had no doubt that the Dowager Duchess had her suspicions about the nature of their marriage.
“It is not Mrs. Rigsby, is it?” the Dowager Duchess asked.
Rosabel shook her head, lifting her eyes to look upon the woman regarding her with heart-felt concern. “I…I cannot help but wonder about…my husband’s first wife.” For a second, her eyes returned to the soft rain drumming on the window pane before returning to the woman in the bed. “What was she like? Did they love each other?”
Eyes not leaving Rosabel’s face, the Dowager Duchess took a deep breath, collecting her thoughts. “My grandson, he has always been a bit of a closed book.” She smiled ruefully. “I am convinced that there are a great many things I do not know about him, and so I cannot answer your questions with certainty. But although he never said a word, I do know that he loved her dearly. Her loss shattered his heart.” Her lips thinned as she looked at Rosabel. “That’s when the cold came to his eyes.”
Rosabel’s heard snapped up at the old woman’s words.
