Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  Everything had changed so suddenly and she couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it, least of all her emotions. But out here, none of that seemed to matter, everything was simple, it was quiet, muted. The colors, the sounds, the smells.

  In the mist, her emotions, like the massive house, did not loom quite so large.

  With one long, resigned sigh, Rose turned and disappeared into that morning’s mist.

  *****

  Robert was enjoying a cup of tea and biscuits with the servants below stairs. It wasn’t at all the thing expected of a duke. But, as a duke, he could do as he very well pleased.

  He had been feeling restless, having woken early, before even the sun made its appearance. He had tried busying himself by pacing back and forth in his room but, concerned for the longevity of the rug, he dressed and departed.

  It wasn’t that he particularly planned to end up in the basement, but nor was it a surprise. Robert had always found the servant’s accommodations more comfortable in large homes such as this. He wasn’t in an over-large room with a draft, being forced to make polite conversation he couldn’t care less about with people he could hardly tolerate. Down here people were more relaxed and, if they weren’t, he made sure his charm left them no choice but to be just that.

  He had drawn a crowd—as he normally did.

  It wasn’t every day servants got to mingle with a duke, and certainly not a kind one. It was all too well known the haughty demeanor that distinguished dukes from the rest.

  But Robert was kind. Oh, he could be cold and condescending when needed—especially when in the company of the aristocrats upstairs, currently sleeping the day away. But with servants, he had always taken care to be kind. The role of servant certainly wasn’t the toughest job in the world but, having an acquaintance with many an aristocrat, Robert knew that most titled gentlemen were far less enjoyable to work for than he.

  Most aristocrats saw their servants as scum beneath their shoe, like they existed only to serve their needs, or as though they existed not at all. Robert saw them for what they were: flesh and blood, just as he, each and every one human. And Robert was determined to treat them as such.

  “What happened next?” asked one of the footman. He was young for a footman—no more than fifteen—and he was leaning over the table, same as everyone else was, listening intently to a story Robert was telling about how he had been trapped in a storm last year.

  He had been traveling from one of his homes in Reading back to London, when the rain abruptly turned to hail and his horse—who had been traveling at a full gallop—suddenly decided to stop short, throwing Robert from the saddle and into a puddle of mud. He hadn’t been hurt physically, but his pride certainly was, as he had been traveling with one of his friends, Lord Carr, who never paused to tease him about it.

  The memory was all but lost looking into the young lad’s eyes. His eyes were perfect ovals of a light grey. They reminded him of Rose, and that made his heart tug in his chest.

  He loved Rose.

  He’d had an entire night to think, and that was what he had come up with.

  He loved Rose. As much as he couldn’t believe it, he couldn’t deny it.

  He knew her.

  What he had momentarily believed to be a grave misstep on her part, he now recognized as a blessing. He had been able to get to know her in the most natural way possible. When they met, there were no expectations, they were both purely themselves. And he had fallen in love with her.

  Robert was promised to marry the most beautiful, most real lady in all of the aristocracy, in all of England. In all of the world. He couldn’t have ever asked for more.

  He opened his mouth, realizing belatedly that the footman had asked a question, but before he could get the words out to finish the story he had been recalling, a maid rushed in, her face flushed pink.

  “Might I have a word, Mrs. Wright?” she directed to the housekeeper, overlooking the presence of a duke and foregoing all formalities.

  “Trudy,” Mrs. Wright scolded in such a way that indicated years of practice, “you do not interrupt when in the company of a duke.”

  The maid turned scarlet, immediately turning to the table and sinking into a curtsy. “I do apologize, your Grace,” she murmured. Then, turning back to Mrs. Wright once more, continued in a rush, “I really must speak with you. Immediately.”

  The housekeeper’s eyes found the duke’s, searching for approval. It was absurd that she would have to look for his consent when he was the one intruding on her territory, but there was no point in arguing with her over it as it wouldn’t change a thing. So, instead, he waved them on.

  “What is it, Trudy?” the housekeeper said. The older woman was tense in every way—her hair pulled back tight, her facial muscles all pinched. She had the air of an enforcer.

  The maid cast a nervous glance in Robert’s direction which had him intrigued. Even more so when she opened her mouth and said, her voice trembling in the slightest, “I-I-I must insist we speak in private, Mrs. Wright.”

  “Insolent girl! Anything that you say to me, you may say in front of the duke.”

  The maid named Trudy swallowed awkwardly. “Um…”

  “Well, spit it out, Trudy.”

  Trudy cast another alarmed look at the Robert, which had him straightening in his seat and, much like the servants had been doing to him, leaning in just a bit to make sure that he didn’t miss a word.

  In a jumble of words that seemed to topple over one another on her tongue, the maid answered, “Lady Rosalyn has gone off.”

  The housekeeper jumped up from her chair at that, as though she had been burned. Robert followed in suit, but managed to do so far more elegantly so that his chair did not, in fact, scrape against the floor. However, since every other person seated at the table was now obligated to stand in reverence, the end result was a lot of fingernails on chalkboard screeching of wood against the tile floor.

  Though, Robert didn’t stand because Mrs. Wright had. He stood because of the mention of Lady Rosalyn and the fact that she had “gone off.”

  Whatever did that mean?

  As if reading his mind, Mrs. Wright demanded, “What do you mean ‘gone off’?” in a tone three pitches higher than what it had been mere moments earlier.

  “Just that, Mrs. Wright. I saw her just now, sneaking out the servant’s entrance.” Trudy’s voice was hardly above the whisper of a mouse as her cheeks passed the color of beets.

  Robert cursed under his breath, his patience short and growing shorter.

  What was Rose thinking?

  “And you didn’t think to stop her?” Mrs. Wright hurled at the girl, her displeasure more than apparent.

  “I tried, Mrs. Wright, but she refused,” the maid defended quietly, wringing her hands together uncomfortably. “And I very well couldn’t put my hands on her.”

  Robert passed a hand across his brow, trying to wipe away his irritation, while Mrs. Wright’s hand came up to cover her mouth. When she withdrew it, her lips were tight and her eyes angry.

  His thoughts, a wild tangle of Rose, were throwing him back in time even as this moment pressed him forward.

  My actions yesterday caused quite the upheaval at my house.

  He had known what she meant even as she wouldn’t confess it. He knew that her father had beaten her and he’d felt every responsibility to protect her. Now more than ever. Now he actually could protect her. He could take her away from this place, away from that man.

  The maid, growing more nervous with each passing second that the housekeeper did not offer a comment, finally said, “Shall I go tell Lady Blythe?”

  “Not unless you wish to lose your head at the guillotine,” Mrs. Wright answered softly. Her voice bore the same resignation Robert had more than once heard in Rose. It was a tone that sat uncomfortably.

  “Oh,” Mrs. Wright gasped, realization dawning. Turning to Robert she said, “Do beg my pardon, your Grace.”

  It was impossible not
to smile at the jest the housekeeper had just dealt, though, he did try. And failed. He inclined his head toward Mrs. Wright, indicating his clemency, as he did not trust his voice in that moment. Either it would come out strangled by constrained amusement or one of his myriad of other emotions would surface and…

  And, well, he just didn’t want them to be apparent just then while surrounded by a room full of servants.

  “I shall tell her,” Mrs. Wright said, her attention back on Trudy, offering herself as a sacrifice to save the young maid.

  She seemed to stand taller, as though she were ready to take a bullet. Perhaps she was. With renewed authority she said, “Round up as many footmen as we can spare, and John,” she said motioning to the footman with the light eyes, “run to the village to fetch some laborers. No doubt Lady Blythe will wish us to form a search straight away. Be as discreet as possible. We don’t need the entire house alerted to her disappearance.”

  Everyone was already starting to clamor about under Mrs. Wright’s directions when Robert held up a hand. “Wait,” he said, feeling all the power of a duke as every figure halted in place and every eye turned to him.

  “Forgive my intrusion, Mrs. Wright, but is a search really necessary?” he said, feeling the need to defend the woman he loved. “She only just left, after all. And perhaps she just decided to go for a stroll.”

  “Forgive my boldness, your Grace, but the search is most definitely necessary. Lady Rosalyn has a terrible sense of direction and becomes quite hopelessly lost if left to her own devices.”

  He had to credit her, Mrs. Wright was able to lie quite convincingly. Even more convincingly than Lady Blythe.

  But Robert knew the truth.

  He also knew that the last thing Rose wanted was to be chased by a horde of servants whose job it was to drag her back into the life she viewed as suffocating. Literally.

  “Surely she mustn’t have gotten too far as she only just departed.”

  Mrs. Wright stood still, staring at him. It wasn’t her place to disagree with a duke, but neither would she agree and undermine her own authority. He could see the wheels turning in her mind. She was thinking about what Rose had done the prior two days—nay, three. She had taken off and had not been seen for hours. She could have gotten into any sort of trouble. But she hadn’t. She had been with Robert. On at least two of the occasions.

  It wasn’t the housekeeper’s need to know that. Nor was it her place to thwart his authority. Knowing that she would not undermine him, he said, “I will go in search for Lady Rosalyn,”—he was careful to use her proper name—“and return once I have found her. There will be no need for a search to be banded together or Lady Blythe alerted. Is that understood?”

  He knew he was taking a risk. These were not his servants, after all, they were not under his pay or his command, but there were certain luxuries to being a duke. One of which was that, when one spoke, everyone generally listened.

  Risk or not, he needed to do this. He needed to speak with Rose and she had just manipulated the most perfect meeting. They would be alone and able to speak openly. More openly than they had in all their previous encounters.

  He needed to find her, to tell her. Tell her that she had nothing to fear, that he would protect her, that he would take her away from here and no one would ever hurt her again.

  Once he was outside, he realized just how out of his depths he was. The estate was massive, nearly paralleling his own for size, and Rose had already disappeared from sight. She could be anywhere. It would take him hours to thoroughly search the grounds, and even then he could come up empty-handed. This was her home—she no doubt knew of all the secret hiding places. If she didn’t want to be found, then he was the person least qualified for the task of doing just that.

  But he had hope. This was the love of his life, after all; if she saw him, if she knew he was looking for her, she would no doubt come forth.

  Right?

  He had seen her last night. Her eyes were guarded, but he didn’t need to see her emotions to know them. She was no doubt scared, terrified that he would be angry with her for lying to him. And he was. Briefly. Last night. But that was before she had nearly died in his arms.

  He wasn’t angry anymore. She had nothing to fear.

  They were in love and he was determined to make her believe that love triumphs all. If it didn’t, what would have been the purpose of their ever having met in the woods, on that path, three days earlier? If they were not meant to meet and fall in love and get married and live happily ever after, then what was the point?

  Just as today.

  This was fate. Rose sneaking out, the maid catching her in the act and still letting her go.

  This was fate.

  And he would tell her as much. Just as soon as he found her. Which, as it turns out, was slightly more difficult than it originally seemed.

  It wasn’t as though he could just bellow her name at the top of his lungs and hope that she brought herself forward. Any number of people could overhear. And so, instead, he picked a direction, letting his wide-legged gait carry him fast through the cultured landscape. But as the slight sting of the chilly air wore off, so did his belief in fate.

  After an hour of searching, a light rain began to fall. It was nothing more than a slight mist, but it was certainly enough to drive any sane person back indoors. With this in mind, Robert picked a spot to wait for Rose to appear.

  Shaded from the rain by the drooping branches of a giant willow, Robert was able to clearly see the servant’s entrance to Whitefield Abbey while simultaneously remaining hidden. Surely she would be wise enough to turn back from wherever she was and seek the warmth of shelter.

  But Rose did not appear.

  Not after a quarter of an hour passed. Not after a half. Not even after the whole of another hour ticked its way into oblivion.

  Not even when the winds grew stronger and the drizzle turned into fat drops of rain that fell as pellets through the branches and soaked him within minutes. The air turned from chilly to brisk, then to the point where it made his teeth chatter and his fingers turn stiff with the cold.

  Robert waited beneath that tree, nearly trembling. Still there was no sign of her.

  Where had she gone?

  He closed his eyes against the wind and the rain and the pain.

  It was fate.

  This day, all the moments they’d shared, it was all fate.

  Or was it merely that fate was playing a cruel joke on him?

  He had sworn to loathe Lady Rosalyn for all of eternity and he had gone and fallen in love with her. And now he couldn’t even find her, couldn’t speak with her.

  Every other moment, she was on the verge of death. Every encounter he had with her thus far included her nearly dying. And now she was outside, God only knew where, trapped in the rain.

  Maybe this happily-ever-after that he suddenly could imagine alongside this woman was the cruel joke. Maybe fate was Rose catching pneumonia or influenza or any number of things out here in the cold, and dying, leaving him alone. Just as he had wished for.

  How many times had he wished for Lady Rosalyn’s death? Wished that he didn’t have to marry her to gain back his land?

  Too many to count.

  He didn’t want that now—didn’t want her to die. How fitting it’d be that she die now.

  Fate.

  Anyone who believed in such a thing was a fool. Fate was nothing. People made their own fate.

  He had to believe that. As he finally gave up waiting, waiting for the love of his life to appear so that he could declare that love to her, he had to believe that.

  It wasn’t fate that he didn’t find her. It was a large estate, too large for him to search thoroughly.

  And it wasn’t her fate to die. Not yet. The only reason why she had ever been in harm’s way before was because of him. On the first two occasions of their meeting he had been the implement of her near demise.

  Not fate. Him.

  The u
niverse wasn’t killing her. He was.

  But Robert could control himself.

  He would keep her alive. Even if it killed him.

  The universe had no power here. Fate did not control his destiny.

  He did.

  Chapter 17

  Robert was intent in his new-found belief that fate was a joke, unworthy of notice, that he could control his own fate. And Rose’s too.

  However, he misjudged one thing.

  Robert misjudged just how much control he had in Rose’s fate.

  Or maybe, it was she who had the control and was just too stubborn to harness it.

  All she’d wanted was to be alone.

  And then he had followed her. She hadn’t expected that.

  She feared what he would say. She feared being alone with him.

  So she did the only reasonable thing she could think to do and hid in the first place she could think of and the last place he would look.

  She had been, quite literally, up a tree.

  Which wouldn’t have been a very big deal had Robert not come to stand under that very tree.

  And so, for nearly two hours, Rose remained straddling a wide branch of a willow tree, her back pressed up against the rough bark of the trunk while Robert stood just below her.

  He was unsettlingly still. And quiet.

  For the entirety of the time he remained beneath her, Rose held her breath. She had barely nerve enough to blink her eyes, convinced that he would hear the fluttering of the lids. She couldn’t shift her weight when her position became uncomfortable. And she definitely couldn’t shiver from the cold. Any movement would have given her away.

  She supposed that she should have revealed herself—it would have saved herself a lot of time stuck in that forsaken tree. In the rain. But she had come outside to be alone with her thoughts, to be away from him, the man who disoriented her like no other.

  She didn’t know how to feel about this man—love or hate, or both and every emotion in between? So she didn’t move. Rose waited for him to do so. For five minutes. And then ten. And by the time it became obvious that he wasn’t going to move, too much time had already succumbed to the past that it would have been obvious that she was hiding from him. Which she was.