by Mary Balogh
“To Lady Pratt. She was most kind when we met at the parade ground.”
As Rosamund remembered, her ladyship had civilly greeted Minna and promenaded on. The woman might be disconcerted to find a renegade Bengal Bride on her doorstep.
“I wish you’d reconsider, my dear. We aren’t really rivals, you know. I don’t mean to remarry.”
“I suppose you think I don’t know what’s what,” Minna cried, her blushes causing odd blotches to appear on her sensitive skin. More tears tumbled on her lashes. “You mean to keep him as your lover even when I marry him.”
“Oh, is that how you see it?”
“Of course. I know you don’t want to marry. And why should you? You’ve everything you need without doing anything of the kind. You—” Minna hesitated, and her chin trembled—”you’re the luckiest woman in the world.”
“Why, you little—sit down and listen to something besides your romanticai ravings.” Rosamund reached out for Minna’s shoulders and pushed the young woman down upon the bed. “Lucky, am I? I buried my husband four years ago, when I was only four-and-twenty. I’ve been raising my little boy on my own, without a father for him to look up to. Samuel didn’t even have a portrait taken, drat the man’s modesty. I can’t remember, sometimes, what he looked like. And I was happy with him, Minna. Can you even feature what it is like not to remember the face of the one you loved?”
Minna said nothing and turned her head away.
Rosamund was wound up too tightly to stop speaking. She had never wallowed in self-pity, especially in front of a virtual stranger, but she could not help herself. “Yes, I have more worldly goods than when I came out to India, but there are so many other things I’ve lost forever.”
“Money softens suffering quite well, I daresay.”
Rosamund barely caught the sarcastic words, but she felt them like a slap in the face. “Money does nothing of the kind. But you may have it if it’s your only desire. You know I’ve promised to dower you when the time comes. How would you like me to settle a sum on you now instead? Then you might be quite independent, go back to England, set up house with your family if you wish.”
“Don’t insult me, please, Lady Ashburnham,” Minna said with dignity. “I won’t let you pay me to get out of the country.”
“Very well, I’ll get out of the country,” Rosamund all but shouted. “I can’t last another minute in this bedlam. Go where you will, you silly girl.”
So saying, she slammed out of the room and made her way to her own, where she sank onto the sofa and shook. A few angry tears ran down her face. What was happening to her? How had she so lost her composure with a young woman who depended on her not only for bed and board but for common sense, for security?
“I must be going mad,” she said aloud.
Speaking the words seemed to make the possibility recede, and Rosamund soon found herself back in Minna’s room, comforting the weeping girl and begging her forgiveness. In return, Minna begged Lady Ashburnham’s pardon quite sweetly. She hadn’t done any further packing; in fact, a few things had already been returned to their places in the room. Rosamund suspected that neither she nor her guest was thinking quite clearly.
“Do you plan to attend this Valentine dinner?” Minna asked in a tone of offhand curiosity.
“I suppose so. You will, too, won’t you?”
“Of course. I’ll go anywhere to see him. You know that.” Minna frowned. “Perhaps old Lady Tidbury is wrong. She makes up stories, they say, and she can’t always remember where she gets her information. Perhaps Colonel Fairburn never spoke to her at all; the dinner could be all her own idea.”
“Likely so,” Rosamund murmured. Might as well let the girl draw comfort where she could.
But even Minna could not let her fancy take her that far. “Then why did she speak so to you? As though she knew something private about your past? You did know Colonel Fairburn once, didn’t you? When you were young? She was right about that, wasn’t she?”
“So I’ve told you,” Rosamund replied, feeling a hundred years old. When you were young. Heavens, she was not yet thirty and until recently would never have called herself ready for the boneyard.
“And there was something to it,” Minna stated. “I can tell by the way you are looking, ma’am. But I warn you, I shan’t be set aside from my purpose.”
“You’ve changed your opinion of marriage very quickly, child. Well, what can I say? I wish you luck, and I assure you I don’t want to dally with your favorite.”
This was the truth. The desires of her body didn’t count; her mind, the part she respected, had not the slightest wish for a liaison with Fairburn or any man.
Minna looked a little embarrassed, and a sort of truce was declared.
———
If Rosamund felt, in the days to follow, that Minna’s pose of tragedy queen bordered on the ridiculous, she had the good form not to tell the world she thought so.
Others were not quite so reticent. “I sa’y, ma’am,” Percy Fairburn commented one morning, when he had paid a call without his uncle (Colonel Fairburn, for once, having business at Fort William with the governor), “what’s wrong with Miss Peabody? She’s drooping about like a deuced ghost. Has she a head? I know she don’t normally take too much wine.”
Rosamund’s lips twitched. Did all young men assume that females’ headaches were the result of being jug-bitten?
The room was full of visitors, and Minna had drifted away from all of them and was standing languidly at a window. The pose was most attractive, Rosamund thought critically: despite the heavy rain, wind stirred the light curtains around the girl’s figure. Her brown curls were not really dressed, just bound back with a ribbon. Minna looked ripe for romance, in fact; she was standing at the window looking exactly like a beleaguered heroine in a gothic novel.
“Why are we females so preoccupied by love, Mr. Fairburn?” Rosamund asked.
Percy started at the odd question, which made no pretense of answering his own a few minutes before. “Why, I suppose for the same reason we males are,” he finally said with a grin.
Rosamund was pleased at his gallantry. The young man had the makings of a drawing-room favorite.
“Ah, you gentlemen don’t spend half the time we do worrying over that particular emotion. I’m afraid Miss Peabody is preoccupied by thoughts of one who doesn’t think of her. Why don’t you help her out? I don’t mean court her, if such isn’t your desire, but try to bring her out of herself, if you would. She looks positively depressed.”
“Perhaps ‘cause Uncle isn’t here. It’s Uncle she’s acting a gudgeon over, you know.”
“Oh, dear. Do you think so?” Rosamund was concerned for Minna’s dignity. If such an untried youth as Percy Fairburn had noticed the source of the young lady’s preoccupation, she might well be the laughingstock of the British community, and Minna didn’t deserve such a fate.
“Don’t worry,” Percy replied, as though he read her thoughts. “All girls act silly over Uncle.”
“Oh.” Rosamund laughed. “Then you won’t feel you’re stealing a march on the colonel.”
“Ma’am?”
“By distracting Miss Peabody. You do remember that I asked you to do so?”
Having a rapidly moving mind which rarely lit anywhere, young Fairburn remembered no such thing, but he readily promised and was soon approaching Minna’s side under Rosamund’s careful eye. She was happy when Minna smiled at one of Percy’s sallies, or perhaps it was some compliment. Rosamund wasn’t near enough to the window to hear the exchange.
So all the girls were “silly” over Colonel Fairburn, were they? Rosamund was not surprised. She looked around at her chattering guests, none of whom appeared disposed to go out into the rain. She knew she ought to be relieved at John’s absence, but somehow she quite wished he were here. She felt the need to spar with someone, and who better than he? Ah, well, there would be other days. She rang for Hari and ordered a cold collation for the company.
If they wouldn’t leave, they might as well be fed.
“The lady sahib does honor to her house,” Hari said in approval, moving importantly away. Soon he returned at the head of a long line of servants bearing meat, fruit, and cakes, and directed the placing of long tables and chairs that other retainers carried in. Hari was in his element when there were guests in the house.
Percy Fairburn stayed by Minna during tiffin; and he was not alone. The girl had by this time collected a small circle of admirers, young men wtth the Company or sons of British residents, and though she took no notice of any of them, they clustered around her loyally. Perhaps, thought Rosamund as she busied herself with her own regiment of suitors—an older group, this, with as many would-be lovers as would-be husbands—Minna’s allure was helped, not hindered, by her uncaring attitude toward any man who was not Colonel Fairburn. People always did want what did not come easily.
The rain was over, and some of the guests were at long last calling for their palanquins, when the double doors of the grand salon opened to admit Colonel Fairburn. Rosamund instantly came out of the torpor the wet day and dull company had induced. She forgot what she had been doing or saying. Absently, she placed an empty wineglass in the hand of one Mr. Lutis, a new swain of hers, and advanced to meet John with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand.
He lifted the hand to his lips. “Your servant, madam. I come to collect my rapscallion nephew; he and I are due at Lady Tidbury’s within the half hour.”
Rosamund tingled strangely; he had not kissed her hand like that in a long time. She nodded and was about to speak when Minna rushed up, hand held out quite as expectantly as Lady Ashburnham’s had been, and said in a high, clear voice, “We are so glad to see you, Colonel. You mustn’t run away at once.”
Fairburn couldn’t ignore the little hand; he shook it firmly, which was evidently not what Minna had expected. She was frowning in puzzlement as Rosamund added, “We’ll hope to see you for a longer visit soon, Colonel Fairburn. But you mustn’t disappoint Lady Tidbury.” After a pause, she added, “I hear that she is planning a party soon, on your orders.”
His eyebrows shot up. “You don’t say? How news does travel, to be sure.”
“Lady Tidbury told me,” Rosamund said. “Told us.” With a smile she indicated Minna, who had grown tense at the awful reference to the Valentine’s Eve dinner. “Her ladyship can be fanciful. She would have it you’re planning to play a trick of some sort on a certain woman.”
“Good Lord!” Fairburn gave Rosamund a searching look. “The old—the dear lady has gone and spilled the story. I wouldn’t have thought it of her.”
Rosamund shrugged. “Her loyalty to womanhood, as she sees it, supersedes any arrangements she may have made with you.”
“Ah! So she warned you off.”
“I must say I was surprised to hear her story, John. Surprised and displeased. But now that you know I know, you may call off whatever you had planned.” Rosamund paused, then added, “I’m sure we understand each other.”
Fairburn cast a questioning look at Minna, who was evidently listening with all her ears.
“Oh, Miss Peabody knows that you and I were once acquainted,” Rosamund assured him.
Minna caught her breath at this and turned pleading eyes to Lady Ashburnham.
Rosamund understood that she must not, for the sake of domestic peace, continue her frankness by informing Colonel Fairburn that Miss Peabody was dying of love for him and had actually fought with her hostess over him.
Naturally she had no such plan. “That’s all I have to say,” Rosamund said with a reassuring look at the girl. “I do hate to see you go to all the trouble of some complex prank, sir, and have it all for naught. It will be for naught, you know.”
“Your consideration, ma’am, is most gratifying.” Fairburn was still regarding her in that unbelieving way. “I can see my call on Lady Tidbury is doubly necessary now. I’ll have to scold her.”
“Please don’t do that, John.”
He laughed. “I won’t, and well you know it. Tell me, did you accept her invitation for the dinner?”
“I did.”
“Then we are no worse off than we were before. Your servant, ma’am.” As his nephew approached, he added, “We’ll be off, then. I hope to see you soon.”
Rosamund inclined her head in a noncommittal fashion while Minna babbled that she did indeed hope she would see the colonel soon.
When the girl’s words died away, John looked at Rosamund. “I forgot, my lady, to congratulate you on your friend Babur’s new talent. I find he’s learned his first word. And a most important one.”
Rosamund flushed. Love. The parrot had been squawking it incessantly.
“Why, Colonel Fairburn, I’ve been trying and trying to understand Babur’s new word. What is it?” Minna gushed into the silence.
“Ah, my dear young lady, you’ll have to find that out for yourself,” John said with a slow smile. Then, with another significant look at Rosamund, he went on his way, followed by an amused Percy.
“That was so strange, ma’am,” Minna murmured at her side. “I—I was afraid you’d tell him about me.”
“No, dear, I wouldn’t embarrass you so. Did you think the conversation strange? Let us simply say that I’m tired of men having the upper hand because of dishonesty.”
“Whose dishonesty, my lady?” Minna turned a fiery hue “Why, anyone’s,” Rosamund replied, wondering if she ought to suspect her young protégée of some dire doings. What sort of doings, she could not imagine, and so she forgot the fleeting impression that Minna was hiding something.
———
Contrary to his word to Rosamund, Colonel John Fairburn had something resembling a scold to read Sir Magnus Tidbury’s lady for her perfidy. “Well, ma’am, it’s all up with me. So you told Lady Ashburnham to beware my stealthy plans. To hear her talk, she expects to meet with some hackneyed joke at your dinner table.”
“I couldn’t let the girl walk blindly into your trap, could I, boy?” countered Lady Tidbury. They were riding through a green field near the river and the Tidbury’s villa, on ground that still steamed from a recent rain, and Percy had just galloped ahead on the lady’s strong hint that he was not wanted.
“It’s worse than an old ballad,” John muttered. “Tragedy for no reason. Tell me, ma’am, what is to stop me from winning the woman I love? She loved me too, once, and I’d wager she could learn again.”
“Love? What has love to do with this, you rake? Ah, I know very well you gentlemen cloak everything in that word. Gets you where you would else never tread. Lady Ashburnham has the wit to know it too. Love, my foot. If you had loved her you would never have cast her aside.”
“I didn’t—oh, what’s the use.” John understood completely, or thought he did. This old meddler had been prating on to Rosamund about male lust. Little did the Tidbury know that Rosamund already thought he was a creature driven by no other feelings, a heartless seducer who would promise anything in the heat of the moment. “So you told her I was plotting her seduction.”
“Well, I hinted as much,” Lady Tidbury admitted. “You’re a fiend to try to bed that virtuous young woman. Why, she’s never looked at another man since her husband’s death, and there’s been droves of you fellows swarming round her. Just because she has a weakness for you doesn’t give you leave to toy with her affections. Good God, man, she has her son to think of! She can’t become a notorious woman. It wouldn’t do the boy any good at all. They have enough trouble as it is, Sir Samuel having had Jewish blood.”
“Do you really think she has a weakness for me?” John asked with interest, ignoring the bit about Rosamund’s late husband. He had heard it before.
“Oh, no, you’ll get no encouragement from me,” snapped the old lady, wheeling her horse about. “Percy!” she bellowed across the plain. “We’re going back.”
In the distance, Percy took off his hat and waved it, then galloped toward them.
“I don’t know, ma’am,” John said, shaking his head. “I had understood that one’s female friends were supposed to help young men with affairs of the heart.”
“Leave the heart out of this,” Lady Tidbury said with a snort. “You’re possessed by quite another organ—”
“Ahem!” John cleared his throat loudly as Percy rode up. “Shall we race back to the compound, ma’am, nephew? I’ll give you both a start, of course.”
The change of subject worked as expected. Lady Tidbury and Percy crashed off into the distance while John let his own mount amble behind, not intending for a moment to take part in any race.
So Lady Tidbury’s delicate sensibilities had been offended by what she assumed was a fury of male lust. John didn’t know where she could have got such an idea. He imagined she would be glad to tell him, and thr her answer would involve some of the many men she had known in her colorful past.
He was growing ever more certain, as the days passed, that Rosamund was necessary to his happiness, and that he was the only one who could assure hers. They must find a way out of their confusion.
Perhaps Lady Tidbury would turn out to be, after all, the gruff yet warmhearted old crone of song and story. Perhaps she only liked having everybody dance to her particular tune and was annoyed that John had called this one. Despite warning Rosamund of Colonel Fairburn’s vile intent, the old lady was still holding the dinner party. She could well be plotting to push Lady Ashburnham and Fairburn into each other’s arms—by some method of her own contriving—on that very night.
John hoped so. He could use all the help he could get.
———
Rosamund had no wish to turn back the clock when she dressed for the Tidburys’ dinner party, though she could not help remembering how she had been ten years before.
Her teenaged self, that poor Elizabeth, had been plain and mousy, flat-chested yet plump, with too-round cheeks and a dismal eye for color. Color? She had worn nothing but white muslin, the cheapest respectable fabric. The Rosamund of the present day, from fined-down face to sun-lightened hair, was a much more desirable article.
