Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  “What have you done? I had an awful time trying to keep your wretched mama away when I told her you were suffering from a migraine. By supper I was biting my nails with worry. I told her you went for a walk in the afternoon and hadn’t returned, and she nearly wrung my neck. I thought I was done in for sure! I never should have let you go off like that!

  “Oh, do excuse my boldness. Please, my lady. I’ve just been so worried! I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t come back.” The girl was hardly breathing she was talking so fast.

  When Helen had exhausted what surely must have been half her vocabulary, she finally took a wavering breath as undeniable tears began to well up in her eyes. Rose realized the girl was about to burst. Already uncomfortable with the forward display of emotion, Rose sought to pacify the maid, put her energy to better use.

  She lifted her hands as if to take the maid by the shoulders and shake her back into herself, then thought the better of it. She was, after all, covered in mud.

  “Helen,” she said firmly. “Have a bath drawn for me.”

  The maid looked relieved by the command, at having a task to do other than dwell on her worry. “Very well, my lady,” Helen said, curtsying and leaving the room quickly.

  Rose moved to her dressing room, peeling the torn and muddy fabric of the dress from her skin and taking in her horrific appearance. She looked as though she had been through a great battle. She had several scratches on her arms from the countless branches and twigs she had not managed to avoid, bruises were already forming under her skin, and the gash on her forehead had reopened and left a trail of blood running down her face.

  She would look an awful fright for the coming days. But there was nothing to be done.

  To Rose’s surprise, her mama did not summon a battalion to tear down the door and barge in. No one did. By the time the bath was prepared and Rose had sunk into its warmth, Helen had relayed that Lady Blythe had taken to bed upon Rose’s return. Rose had given her mother an awful fright, Helen said. She probably didn’t have any energy left to waste on Rose tonight, and Rose could not have been more grateful.

  After Helen scrubbed all the mud from her hair and under her nails, and had taken off at least one layer of skin, Rose ate the tray Cook sent up as though she had been starved. By the end, though, Rose’s muscles were so tired that she could hardly lift the fork to her mouth and she relented to bed. Sleep, however, did not come quite as easily.

  Rose ignored the soft tapping of her sister’s knuckles brushing against the solid wood of her locked door, or Isabelle’s whispered pleas for Rose to open it, to speak with her. She didn’t want to be seen. And she didn’t want to see anyone.

  She could do nothing, couldn’t even move. She just stared mindlessly at the canopy above her bed, until Isabelle gave up and dragged herself back to her own chamber.

  For the better part of an hour, Rose’s stomach churned from having eaten too much too quickly, and her mind swirled over the bizarre events of the day. She would have to return the horse, and tomorrow would be the best day to do so. The only day. The town fair in Swanson was beginning tomorrow, according to the innkeeper’s wife. With any luck, the Brighton family, and many of their servants, would be in attendance and away from the castle, providing her the opportunity to slip the horse back into its stall and be on her way home without anyone being the wiser.

  She could only hope it would be that easy.

  Tomorrow.

  Her parents certainly wouldn’t let her leave the grounds—much less the house—after what happened today. But if the horse was discovered in their stables, there would be no covering up what had happened. It was only a matter of time before the news of Lord Brighton’s stolen horse crossed the short distance to Whitefield Abbey. No one must know it was ever even here, or that she was ever there. She must leave before the dawn, before the servants, or her parents, awoke.

  Naturally, she couldn’t fall asleep, worried that she would sleep too deep and too long. Each time her eyes fluttered shut it was a light, stirring sleep, that always had her sitting up straight within minutes, panting, convinced that beyond her drapes the sun was full in the sky. Finally, Rose clamored over to the windows and flung the curtains back, letting the full moon cast its eerie light into her room.

  The grey hadn’t yet made its way into the sky when she began to move, lighting a single candle by which she packed a bag, folding one of her simpler day dresses into, one she could slip into unassisted. She then proceeded to the basement of the abbey, finding her way to the maid’s quarters and to the room marked for Helen. She slipped silently in, amazed by the ease of it.

  Not a door nor floorboard creaked as she made her way to Helen’s wardrobe, pulling from it the first garment her fingers found purchase on. She left five pounds in payment for Helen on the stand beside her bed—enough for the girl to buy a completely new wardrobe. Before Rose slipped out of the room, she considered the morning’s chill and seized Helen’s cloak as well.

  Dressed and outside in the cool morning air, Rose hurried to the barn. She took care to brush the dried mud out of the horse’s coat, wrapped his ankle, and fitted him with one of her own saddles.

  If she kept the mare at a slow walk and stayed upon the grass, she should be able to ride the distance, Rose carefully calculated.

  What she didn’t consider was just how to prepare the horse for the journey. She had never before saddled her own horse, and it took some time for the task to be completed and for Rose to be satisfied, before she and the mare took off along the drive. She took care to stay in the shadows—for the light was just starting to leach into the landscape.

  Just before the coming to the gates marking the edge of Whitefield land, Rose took her satchel and hung it upon the low branch of a tree, out of sight of the drive. In it was the day dress she had packed so that, upon her return, she could change into something a bit more dignified.

  She could not make haste to get to Brighton Castle with the horse injured. And by now, the staff there were, no doubt, beginning to wake. She wouldn’t be able to simply leave the horse and run now. But if she waited until afternoon, when the fair was in full swing, perhaps the family and many of the servants would be at the fair. That however would require her being gone until well into the afternoon, and she was pressing her luck as it was.

  So, she decided, she would simply have to take her chances when she got to the castle.

  And chance she took.

  By the time Rose trotted the mare bravely up the drive to Brighton Castle, it was half past nine o’clock if the sun were to be believed. She had taken the distance between her house and Lord Brighton’s so slowly that most could have gone faster by simply walking, surely.

  She was nervous beyond compare. It didn’t help that her heart was dipping and diving in her chest.

  There was nothing that she wanted more in the world than to turn back around and never lay eyes on this castle again. But she squared her shoulders and refused to unveil the anxiety that lay beneath the cool, calm, collected demeanor it had taken years for her to perfect.

  When she reached the stables, Reggie, the younger of the stable hands she had encountered the day prior, stepped out to meet her. “Well, well, well. What have we ‘ere?” he asked in a thick, Irish brogue.

  Rose straightened on the horse, all righteous dignity. “I’ve come to return this horse that I borrowed yesterday.”

  He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the frame of the door, considering her beneath a raised brow. “Borrowed?” he chuckled with condescending amusement that made Rose’s eyes narrow. “That’s a clever way to describe it.”

  Rose straightened further at the insult in the words. “I had every intention of restoring it to its proper home, and I have,” she said, dismounting, raising her chin an inch in a gesture that challenged him to call her a liar again.

  He didn’t speak.

  Smart man.

  He just continued to stare at her, his expre
ssion half-humor, half-undefined.

  Rose pressed her lips firmly together. He had every right to call her a liar, a thief, and whatever else he wanted. But she didn’t care to be called anything, for she didn’t care to linger. “I shall be on my way. You may keep the saddle as a gift from my father.”

  “Wait here, miss,” the man said, stepping forward, arm outstretch as though to grab hold of hers. Rose twirled out of reach, slapping the mare on the backside and dropping the horse’s reins as she did. The horse whinnied and reared, leaving the man no choice but to grab the reins for himself before the animal bolted. And in that moment of his hesitation, Rose put distance between them so that she was out of his reach, making her way back down the drive.

  “Lord Brighton will want a word with you, miss. You will have to wait until he returns,” the stable hand called after her.

  She turned back to look at him, hand on the brim of her bonnet, staring into the still rising sun. “So he is not here?” she enquired, a sly smile playing on her lips.

  Lord Brighton was not here and she may not worry. She did not have to conceal herself and make haste in her retreat. He would not be set upon her. With him gone, she could not be summoned to his presence. She was already leaving, and now she knew for certain that she would not be stopped.

  “He’s gone to town on some business, but he will return shortly,” the man said, his eyes narrowing on her as steel cut into his tone. “I cannot allow you to leave the premises.”

  Turning her back on the young man, Rose continued down the drive, undeterred. Calling over her shoulder, she said, “You cannot make me stay.”

  Rose supposed she should have bolted after that. The man very well could have called for someone to go after her. Any number of people could have witnessed, overheard the exchange and come to the stable hand’s aid and apprehended her. He himself still could have. And yet, she was feeling so confident that she didn’t. She walked the most poised, haughty walk that she could, thankful for all those years of training she’d suffered through to perfect it. Chin raised, nose high, back straight—a walk that did not suit such an unbecoming, ill-fitting dress.

  To her everlasting joy, the man did not call for help. He didn’t so much as move. Rose could hear the horse’s tail swishing through the air, could practically feel the man’s eyes following her down the drive.

  Her blood tingled in her veins. The whole experience—nearly getting killed yesterday, being so close to the handsome man, Robert, stealing a horse, sneaking out again this morning by the dawn’s stealthy light, and then so boldly returning it this morning—it had all been so adventurous, so invigorating. Her mouth was watering, her stomach clenching and unfurling. The feeling was remarkable.

  She could feel her heart beating for what seemed like the first time. She could feel her breath on her lips. All her senses had been heightened.

  This was living.

  This was what she would hold onto.

  Chapter 7

  1 hour earlier.

  Robert hadn’t slept. He’d been out half the night searching for the girl, and the other half he spent worrying about her from the comfort of his bed. She could be anywhere, lost, injured. He didn’t let his mind wander to the dark possibility of a worse outcome having befallen her.

  Death.

  He was aggravated that he hadn’t found her. Aggravated that she had stolen his horse. Aggravated that he had let her bewitch him.

  How foolish of a girl she was! If she was lost or injured, hopefully spending a night out in the cold English countryside in early April would knock some sense into her.

  Finally, he couldn’t keep the thought at bay: What if she didn’t survive the night?

  The morning sun hadn’t yet crested the horizon when he’d flung the sheets from atop him, dressed, and marched out the door, once again scouring his land for any trace of her.

  All that turned up were a basket and bonnet, discarded on the trail where he had found her the day before. They sat before him now, on his desk, in his house, the only clue as to who the missing girl was.

  Passing time waiting for the village to awaken, he opened the basket, pulling out the few contents one by one, feeling like a trespasser. He pulled forth a pair of silk gloves, a slice of bread wrapped in cloth, a handkerchief, and just under a dozen shillings—more than he would have expected a simple country girl to have, much less carry. There was nothing about the basket that distinguished her, nothing that told him who she was or where she lived. It was a nice basket, nice gloves, and a decent bonnet, but that was all. Of course, he did not expect there to be monograms on the items, but just a small clue he could have worked with.

  A quiet knock sounded from the other side of the wood door he was closed behind. The knocker didn’t wait for Robert’s admittance, but turned the knob and stuck her nose through the opening. “Brother?” she asked. Then, pushing the door in further and entering the room in her entirety, she added brightly, “I thought I heard you up and about.”

  “Agatha,” he bowed over her knuckles. “How do you fare?”

  “Well, Brother.” She was engrossed in him for all of two seconds before her eyes caught sight of the basket and Robert was gone from her mind.

  “Oh, my!” she exclaimed, her dark curls bouncing on her head. “What a lovely basket.” She proceeded to examine Rose’s possessions as Robert had done moments before. Unlike Robert, she did not resist the urge to rub the soft material of the gloves against her cheek.

  “These are divine!” she squealed, her voice warming the dim light of morning as only she could do. “And the basket, too! It’s absolutely splendid. I daresay, whoever this girl is, she has impeccable taste. I only wish I could have met her. Tell me, Brother, what was she like?” Agatha’s voice had not yet lost the ethereal wistfulness that all young girls seemed to be born with. Each word uttered from her mouth was spoken with such innocence that he could not question what she said.

  Several years younger than Robert, Agatha had not yet learned to taper her youthful exuberance as a lady of seventeen really ought to have done. Such could not remain for long. Soon she would be on the marriage mart, though not this year.

  Seventeen suddenly seemed much too young.

  She really ought to have her come-out this season—after all, Lady Rosalyn was the same age and she was to make her bow in just a matter of weeks—but Robert was stalling. His sister had been at an impressionable age when their father died and she’d taken it hard. The same could not be said about Robert.

  Robert had been away at University when his father finally succumbed to the illness that had plagued him for several years, leaving him shut up within the walls of the castle. Sometimes it felt like the walls the man had built that killed him more than anything.

  It was either that or his father’s cold, black heart.

  Robert had been really, truly happy in his younger years, but the then-duke had to go and ruin his life forever, promising him in marriage to a lady who had not yet even been conceived. Robert could have happily grown up at Brighton Castle if it were not for that, if not for his father gambling away his future.

  Since then, Robert was not content here, and he was not happy. Here he had duty, he had commitments, he had the memory of his father hanging over him. And he didn’t like it. It was just another reason why, in the three years since his father’s funeral, he had not returned home, but had stayed in London, gambling and enjoying all the vices life had to offer, ignoring his responsibilities, shifting them all onto the shoulders of his trusted steward, Mr. Danvers.

  Though, his commitments could not be forever ignored.

  Mr. Danvers was advancing in age and was ready to retire. It was time for Robert to return and immerse himself in the running of his estates. He was young, it was true, but he was a duke nonetheless and though he despised his father just as he despised Lady Rosalyn, it was not the house, not the title that he despised. It was the memories that accompanied them.

  The title was an ho
nor. One which Robert happily bore, and it was far past time that he started wearing it properly.

  But, of course, he had returned at the most inopportune time.

  Lady Rosalyn Hayes, his wife-to-be, was preparing, quite unexpectedly, for her bow before the queen in a few short, short weeks, and would be prepared to have their understanding become official, according to his mother. Her parents were throwing a house party, to which the entire ton seemed to be invited. And Robert just happened to be the guest of honor. His mother had sent their—his—acceptance before he had even returned to the country, before he had heard anything of it.

  Robert pushed down the growl that was rising in his throat.

  Lady Rosalyn was, most certainly, not the reason why he had returned to Brighton Castle. He had returned to see to his estate and to finding a replacement for his steward, Mr. Danvers. Though, he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that his mother had been the one to orchestrate Mr. Danvers’ timely resignation for that very reason, the return of her son.

  He loved his mother, but she could really be quite meddlesome when she wished to be.

  So, Robert was to spend a week under the same roof as the lady whom he’d sworn to dislike for all eternity, likely being forced into conversation and paired together for each event. It was to be an excruciating endeavor.

  Robert couldn’t help but resent her.

  It was not like he dreamed of finding the perfect woman and falling in love. Marriages were hardly based off such in the aristocracy. He merely wanted the opportunity to pick whom he was going to marry. He’d never had a choice in anything, or at least, in the things that truly mattered. Most men in his position didn’t, but at least they had some say over who they were shackled with for all eternity.