by Romy Sommer
He looked up from his new-fangled typewriter. “No thanks, love. Do take care.”
Rosalie laughed. “You are aware that we are now in the depths of the country? What harm could possibly come to me here?”
His blue eyes, mirrors of hers, twinkled. “I meant that you should take care not to disturb the peace of the village too much.”
“Really, Father, I don’t create disturbances! Between you and Anna you make me out to be the most tiresome, meddling person. You know I’m not. I want to help people. That’s not bad, is it?”
His eyes softened. “I know you have the best intentions, love, but you’re also as single-minded as a bloodhound with your nose to the scent.”
She could hardly deny it, since cracking the mystery of the letter had been at the fore-front of her thoughts all week. She laughed instead. “Don’t work too hard, and try to get outdoors for a little. This sunshine isn’t going to last forever.”
Before she shut the door, he’d already returned to tapping at the typewriter keys.
Rosalie placed the last of the summer roses in a tall antique silver vase, and turned it to view the arrangement from all sides.
“Thank you so much for helping out today,” said Mrs. Ferncroft. “And for agreeing to join the WI committee. We so badly need fresh ideas, and your harvest festival suggestion is pure inspiration.”
Rosalie smiled. “I can’t take the credit. My aunt’s parish did something similar last year.”
“Your aunt who lives in London?”
Rosalie nodded. “Frances Weatherby, my late mother’s sister.”
“Oh my poor dear, do you miss her terribly? Your mother, I mean.”
Rosalie handed the unwieldy vase to one of Mrs. Ferncroft’s numerous daughters to carry over to the church. “Not at all. I was very young when she died and scarcely remember her at all.”
“And your father has never re-married?”
“He was so in love with my mother he never got over losing her. I don’t think he’ll ever be able to love anyone else as he loved her.”
“Some men are like that. Have you heard of poor Commander Cavendish?”
Rosalie shook her head as she reached for the secateurs and another handful of roses. “Is he a local widower?”
“Oh no! He and Julia never married.”
Rosalie’s breath caught. Could she really be this lucky? “Oh?” she said, raising an eyebrow to encourage Mrs. Ferncroft to continue.
Mrs. Ferncroft’s voice dropped to a dramatic whisper. “He never recovered after Julia Fortescue ran away with that American. Lives all alone in his big old house and won’t have anything to do with the outside world.”
Rosalie fought back a surge of jubilation. She had a name!
“It’s a shame, isn’t it?” She prayed her expression did not betray her fascination.
“And he was such a good-looking man. What a waste!” Mrs. Ferncroft placed a hand over her heart and sighed, for all the world like a young woman swooning over a young man.
Rosalie suppressed the urge to giggle, and focussed on the pretty porcelain rose bowl before her. But her thoughts churned.
Aunt Frances had called him a serious young man. Since she hadn’t mentioned that he was much older than Julia, he must have made Commander at a very young age. Which meant that he couldn’t be all that old now. And he was a good-looking man.
With the scarcity of men since the war, it was a downright shame for a good-looking man, even a serious, heartbroken one, to lock himself away from the world.
She set the completed bowl aside and hopped down off the stool. “I really must get back home before the workmen drive Anna insane. I’ll see you in church tomorrow.”
Armed with a name, it was easy for Rosalie to discover more. One of the advantages of a house in disarray, and being cooped up indoors by several days of unrelenting rain, was that she spent more time in the kitchen with Anna than usual. While Anna potted around making tea for every caller, including the post boy, the milkman, and the butcher who called twice a week, Rosalie was free to chatter with the visitors.
She discovered that Commander William Cavendish lived all alone with only one man servant in the old manor house on the far side of the village, a house that had been in the Cavendish family for generations. He had been in the navy, serving on HMS Dartmouth in the Indies when war broke out, and had later seen service in the Mediterranean. He hadn’t returned home until after the war, and had shunned all polite company since then. Every mention of his name was accompanied by a great deal of head shaking and “What a shame”, though no-one was entirely certain whether it was the war, or returning home to find his sweetheart had run off with another man, which had sent him into seclusion.
Though they constantly referred to him as ‘poor Commander Cavendish’, it was apparent the entire village held him in some kind of awe. And it was also apparent to Rosalie exactly who had left that envelope on the mantelpiece for Julia to find.
And exactly who she should return it to.
On the first sunny day after the rainy spell, she dressed in her prettiest frock, a frosty pink silk and lace concoction, and set off across the fields towards the Manor. The sun warmed her bare head and arms, birds sang in the trees, and her spirit soared. Her objective was in sight at last, the mystery about to be resolved.
The Manor lay beyond the village, hidden from the road by a veritable forest of trees. It seemed isolated, cut off from the village by a will of its own.
Whatever she expected, when she rounded the curve in the drive and the house appeared before her, she wasn’t sure. But it wasn’t this.
From Mrs. Ferncroft’s description of the ‘big old house’, she’d expected a ramshackle Elizabethan sprawl, something draughty and dilapidated. Instead, she faced a stately double-storey Georgian house, gracefully symmetrical, with bay windows on either side of a porticoed entrance.
The windows stood open to the sunlight. A neat lawn ran from the last of the trees right up to the door, cut in two by the straight gravel drive. In the bright morning sunlight, the house’s stone walls turned a mellow gold. It was the most welcoming house she’d ever seen, and not at all the home of two confirmed bachelors.
She pulled the old bell pull and chimes echoed behind the door, followed by slow, measured footsteps. At last, the door swung open.
Chapter Three
William opened the door—and nearly shut it again. Only immobility kept him where he was, hand on the bronze door handle. Then the red fog cleared from his brain and he realised the woman on the doorstep was a stranger. “Who are you?”
She could have been Julia’s sister, the resemblance was so strong. Her skirt was shorter, a little more up to date, but even that reminded him of Julia. She’d also been a follower of fashion.
The stranger smiled, big blue eyes lighting up with a mix of amusement and curiosity. And no fear at all. He frowned.
“I’m Rosalie Stanton. My father and I recently moved into The Grange.”
He’d heard of them, of course. Peters kept him abreast of village news.
He leaned against the doorjamb, effectively blocking her view into the house, and making it quite clear she was not welcome. No woman had stepped foot in this house in close on ten years, and he wasn’t about to let this Julia doppelganger change that. “Yes?”
“I have something I think might belong to you.”
“Oh?”
She retrieved an envelope from the silk purse attached to her wrist. He frowned, and then his chest pulled slowly tight as he recognised it. He’d been frozen so long he wasn’t sure he’d ever feel again, but as she unfolded the envelope, his heart clenched so hard it was almost painful.
“Where did you get that?” His voice sounded choked.
“Let me in, and I’ll tell you.”
He recovered himself barely in time to stop himself from snatching the envelope from her hand. He had to know if it had been opened. If the ring was still there. Letting her in was a sm
all price to pay for getting his hands on that envelope.
Slowly, very slowly, he backed away from the door. “Come in.”
He left her only enough space to brush past him into the hall. She smelled of sunshine and light, an almost welcome intrusion. Almost.
He opened the door to the drawing room just as Peters popped his head out of the kitchen. “Who was that?” His eyes widened as he noticed the young woman in the hall. “Shall I make tea...Sir?”
“No,” he said.
“Thank you, that would be lovely,” she said.
Peters ducked back into the kitchen, grinning.
William gritted his teeth and shut the door on the drawing room. It was the most feminine room in the house, still decorated as it had been in his mother’s day. He didn’t want this composed, audacious young woman getting too comfortable in there.
So instead he led her into the library. Sunshine streamed in through the open windows, making the big room cosy and bright. But it was still unmistakeably a man’s room, smelling of leather wax and books rather than flowers. Her bright eyes swept over the room, his big mahogany desk, the chess set on the spindle-legged rosewood table in the bay window, the floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with books. Then she sat in the nearest of the leather wingback chairs and focussed all her attention on him.
The resemblance to Julia was more than skin deep, it seemed. She too had been more interested in people, and in fashion, than in books.
He sat across from her, clamping his arms across his chest to keep his hands still. “Tell me how you got that letter.”
“We’re remodelling the house and found this when we removed the old mantelpiece. I suspect it must have fallen down a crack between the mantel and the wall, and been stuck there.”
His breath froze in his chest. He remembered exactly where he’d placed it, tucked behind the old clock on the ornate ebony mantelpiece. How he’d kissed the envelope before setting it down. Then the clock had begun to chime, reminding him his time had run out.
He’d never noticed any gap there, but Rosalie’s story was plausible. She held the envelope out, and he took it with shaking hands.
It was still sealed. And in the corner he still felt the shape and weight of his mother’s wedding ring. It had already been old when she’d worn it. This ring had been in the Cavendish family longer than anyone could remember. Until he’d left it behind for the faithless Julia. He’d believed it lost forever.
“Thank you, Miss Stanton,” he said stiffly.
“Call me Rosalie.”
He was rather more grateful when Peters pushed open the door, entering the room backwards as he balanced a tray in his hands. Tea pot, proper tea cups rather than the mugs they usually used, a plate of toasted tea cakes. Peters had made an effort. “Thank you, Peters.”
Peters set down the tray and backed out of the room, winking at William over the young woman’s shoulder. William glared back at him.
He poured tea into the two dainty porcelain cups. “Milk? Sugar?”
“Milk, thank you.”
He added a dash of milk and handed her a cup before attending to his own. Now that he could no longer occupy himself with the tea, what was he supposed to say? Should he talk about the weather? It had been years since he’d made polite small talk. He wished her gone. He needed to be alone to think about what the unopened envelope meant.
“She never received it,” Rosalie said softly.
He looked up into a pair of startling blue eyes. Sympathetic blue eyes.
He didn’t need her sympathy, and he certainly didn’t want it.
“That would seem obvious.” He paused, then said warily, “It doesn’t matter.”
Her eyes showed she knew it did matter. She’d made the leap ahead of him, a leap he’d been too afraid to take: if Julia never received the letter, then perhaps she hadn’t been deliberately faithless. Perhaps she’d thought he left for the East Indies without making her any promises. It changed everything.
And it changed nothing. She was married to another man now, living another life, and he was still here alone, and less of a man than he’d been back then.
“It was a proposal, wasn’t it?” she asked.
He set his tea cup down with a clatter. It was none of this young lady’s business. “May I ask how you knew I left it for Julia?”
There was only one answer she could give: village gossip. He didn’t care that he was placing her in a corner. He expected her to be evasive. Instead, she raised direct blue eyes to his. “This is a small village. All I had to do was ask the right questions.”
The knot inside him, already pulled taut from long years of habit, tightened painfully. “How many people know about this letter?”
“My housekeeper, Anna.” She set down her teacup, rather more delicately than he had.
“And?”
She lifted her chin, defiance flashing in her eyes. “There is no ‘and’, Commander Cavendish. I may listen, but that doesn’t mean I can’t keep my mouth shut.”
Spoken with all the bluntness of a man. But despite his momentary, begrudging respect, he wanted her gone. He set his jaw. “If there’s nothing else...”
“I’ll be on my way.” She finished the sentence for him, eyes sparking, though he was no longer sure whether the look in her eye was defiance or amusement.
He escorted her to the front door and watched as she made her way down the drive, never once looking back. A tiny part of him was sad to see her go. If only her presence hadn’t brought back that old pain to his chest, he might have been a little more hospitable.
Or maybe not. He shut the door and turned back into the house to see Peters watching him from the end of the hall.
His former shipmate grinned again. “You let her in.”
“I could hardly keep her out. Trust me, I tried.”
Peters shrugged. “Reminds me of someone.”
“She does look uncannily like Julia. And that’s exactly the sort of frivolous dress Julia would have worn.”
“I was thinking of you.” Peters’ tone was dry, but there was mischief in his eyes. He ducked back into the kitchen before William could respond.
“You imp! What was it like inside? All cluttered with old newspapers and dirty tea cups, I imagine.” Anna fussed around the kitchen, preparing lunch for the workmen.
Rosalie sat at the table, her chin cupped in her hands. “Not at all. It was neat. Meticulously so. And so many books!” She sighed dreamily.
“What was the mysterious recluse like?”
Rosalie shrugged. “His social skills could use a little work, but he wasn’t as frightening as everyone made him out to be.” All right, so he’d been downright rude, but she’d caught him by surprise. She suspected he wasn’t a man who liked surprises.
Anna sliced through the still-warm bread. “Mrs. Wallace told me he was a good-looking man before the war.”
Rosalie smiled, a half smile to herself. “Not was. Is. And he’s not so old either. He must have made Commander very young.”
“War makes for rapid advancement.” Anna sighed, turning back to the stove.
“The village folk are quite right. It’s a terrible waste for a man like that to live all alone. He needs to be charmed out of his shell and brought back into society.”
“Now don’t you go getting any ideas, young lady.”
Rosalie hoped her expression was all innocence. “What ideas could I possibly have?”
“You’re not planning on matchmaking him, are you?” Anna looked distinctly suspicious. “Remember what happened when you tried that in Kent last year? We were so lucky they managed to hush up the scandal of that elopement.”
“Yes, but look at how perfectly it all turned out in the end. They were perfect for each other, and now that the first grandchild is on the way, her parents have finally come around.”
Anna shook her head as she turned away, missing the gleam in Rosalie’s eyes. Anna’s warning was already too late. Commander Cavendish needed
her help, and he was going to get it, whether he wanted it or not.
Chapter Four
It was terrible weather in which to go out walking. Rosalie looked up at the gathering storm clouds. The wind whipped about her, smelling of rain. She shivered. Perhaps she should have worn a coat, at least, or wellingtons in place of these completely inappropriate shoes. But that wouldn’t have suited her purpose at all.
She followed the footpath through the woods, emerging from the safety of the trees as the first large raindrops splashed down. In the distance, smoke rose from the house hidden in the clearing, a beacon in the dwindling light. She headed straight towards it.
By the time she reached the protection of the porticoed entrance, she was soaked. Her mud-splattered shoes were ruined, hair plastered her face, and her thin dress was equally plastered to her figure. She rang the doorbell and waited, her heart suddenly growing fluttery in her chest.
It was Peters who opened the door to her this time. She swallowed a rush of disappointment, and her heart returned to its normal pattern. “Oh I’m so glad you’re home. I’m completely drenched, and I wondered if you’d give me a place to dry off until the worst of the storm is over?”
“Who is it?” a voice called from the library, and her heart rate accelerated again. He had a beautiful voice, with the timbre of rich oak.
“It’s Miss Stanton,” Peters called over his shoulder, stepping back to let her into the hall. “She got caught in the rain.”
Commander Cavendish emerged from his library, the same scowl on his face that he’d worn the last time she’d visited. He gave her a cursory head-to-toe glance. His eyes seemed to linger on her curves, where the damp fabric cleaved closest to her breasts, though it must surely have been her imagination, for there was none of the admiration she was used to in his hard face. “That was extremely silly of you, to go out in this weather without even an umbrella or coat.”
What his expression did say was that he clearly thought her nothing more than a spoilt city girl. Well, that was fine. It didn’t matter what he thought of her. Only that he was forced to acknowledge that the intrusion of the outside world wasn’t such a terrible thing, after all.
