by Val Wood
When they reached Scarborough and Mrs Carleton’s house there was no one at home. Her housekeeper called for a boy to take the pony and trap to the mews down the road, and assured Rosalie that she would tell her employer as soon as she returned and that someone would take care of the animal. She shook her head when asked about Clementina and replied that the young lady was hardly ever in.
The train into Hull was on time, and as Sonny had more baggage than Rosalie he suggested that they take a hansom cab to her house and he would see her safely inside before going home himself.
‘Perhaps I could take you for supper,’ he said. ‘Neither of us will have food in the house.’
She agreed and they arranged that he would call for her at eight o’clock, it being already seven. They were both hungry, not having eaten since their picnic outside the inn.
Rosalie unlocked the door and stepped inside. The hallway was cold and smelled damp even though the day had been warm. Sonny came inside with her and checked the downstairs rooms.
‘Would you like me to look upstairs?’ he asked.
She said it wouldn’t be necessary; everything seemed to be all right. ‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘I could unpack my bag and walk across to Charlotte Street and meet you at your lodgings, rather than wait here for you.’
He hesitated for a second and then said, ‘Yes. I’ll drop my bags off and unpack later.’ He smiled. ‘Then we’ll have supper.’
Rosalie looked in the kitchen and the drawing room. The furniture was covered with sheets and the curtains were closed. Then she went upstairs. The house was gloomy and dark, she thought, but had it always been like that? Did she only notice it now because she was used to the light and space that she had been enjoying at her uncle’s house?
Tentatively she opened the door to her mother’s bedroom, the room her father had shared with her mother on the few occasions he was at home; the room in which her mother had died.
She wrinkled her nose. A faint spicy aroma hung in the air. But it was not one that she recognized. It was heavier than the floral scents her mother preferred.
Martha had stripped the bed before she left and had been about to put a fustian sheet over it, but Rosalie had asked her to put the satin bedspread over the mattress and the sheet on top. It had been a whim and not one she could explain. The sheet was still there, but looked as if it had been only casually thrown over. She pulled it off and saw that the bedspread was crumpled. She lifted a corner and there were blankets beneath it. How odd, she thought. I’m sure they were taken off for washing.
She turned and glanced round the room. Everything else appeared to be as she had left it except – except for a silk scarf draped over the back of the chair by the dressing table. Rosalie put her hand to her mouth. What did it mean? She picked it up and ran it through her fingers. It was very pretty but not one she had seen before. Certainly not her mother’s. Her mother never wore blue.
Someone has been here. Did Mr Benjamin hire a housekeeper to check on the house and light fires as had been suggested? But it was an expensive scarf, not one which a housekeeper would possess, and if she did, then why hadn’t she returned for it?
Rosalie gave herself a shake and set her thoughts to one side, put her bag in her own room, washed her hands, changed her coat and, locking the front door behind her, set off for Charlotte Street.
Sonny was running down the wooden steps as she approached the mews building and she was a little disappointed as she was hoping to see his studio. But perhaps tonight is not a good time, she decided. Maybe during the day.
He greeted her, and tucking her arm into his led her off to an inn in the High Street which had a separate room for dining.
Rosalie told him about the silk scarf and he considered for a while and then said, ‘I think you’re probably right about the housekeeper. It might have been given to her as a gift or she might have bought it second hand. And perhaps she hasn’t yet missed it.’
‘I expect you’re right,’ she agreed. ‘I’m being fanciful.’
He gave her a quizzical look. ‘You? Is that possible? Is that within your character?’
She laughed, whereas once she would have been cross or offended. Now she knew him better. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said. ‘I can be very fanciful indeed. Bordering on the ridiculous at times.’
‘And what forms do these ridiculous fancies take?’ he asked, leaning towards her across the table.
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’ A blush came to her cheeks and his eyes creased as he smiled. ‘If I revealed some of my imaginary whimsies they would be considered far-fetched and preposterous.’
‘And does that apply when thinking of the scarf found in your mother’s bedroom?’
She swallowed and looked away. ‘No,’ she said quietly. ‘That is something quite different. That is fact. Someone has been there.’ She looked across at him with wide eyes. ‘When I spoke of my imaginary whimsies I was speaking of an extravagant desire for the impossible.’
Sonny reached for her hand and held it. ‘Nothing is impossible,’ he said softly. ‘Not if you want it badly enough.’
CHAPTER FORTY
Sonny walked Rosalie back home, and although she had felt a little uneasy about sleeping alone in the house she slept quite well. The following morning she made a pot of coffee which she drank without milk or sugar, and opened a tin of pears which she found in a store cupboard and ate those for breakfast.
She had a half-hour wait before she could see Mr Benjamin as he was with a client, so she went back into the street and found a café just opening its doors. She ordered tea and muffins and sat at a table in the window looking out at passers-by until the time came for her appointment.
‘Miss Kingston! How very nice to see you.’ Mr Benjamin was effusive in his greeting. ‘I was about to write to you.’
‘Were you?’ she said. ‘Have you news for me?’
‘Well, only confirmation of what your father has decided. He will have told you about the house?’
Rosalie shook her head. ‘I’m afraid my father is very lax about letter writing. I’m sure he intends to write but there is always something more pressing to be done first.’
She smiled as she spoke; she felt more benevolent towards her father than she sometimes did. He was remiss, she realized, in his attitude towards her, but today, as she was feeling happy and more confident, she was prepared to forgive him.
‘Mr Benjamin,’ she continued. ‘Did you arrange for a housekeeper as you suggested? Or has someone been to check on the house?’ She was thinking of course of the silk scarf and she was taken aback by his answer.
‘Only your father himself.’ The lawyer frowned. ‘He said there was no need for a housekeeper as the house is to be sold.’
‘My father? Oh, so not recently – that must have been in the spring?’ He was going to visit the house after Uncle Luke’s wedding, she remembered. But I have been since and the scarf wasn’t there then.
‘No no,’ he exclaimed. ‘This time. The week that’s just gone. He came to see me on ... erm, let me see.’ He glanced at his diary and flicked back a couple of pages. ‘Wednesday, it was. I assumed he would visit you at his brother’s house. Although I do recall his saying that they didn’t have a great deal of time.’
‘I see.’ She felt grieved and disappointed. How could he come all this way and not come a little further to see her?
‘So yes,’ he went on, ‘I was about to dictate a letter to confirm his instructions. The house is to be sold and I understand that you will be going to live in Aldershot. A busy military town, I believe, although I have never been.’ He smiled broadly. ‘Plenty for a young lady to do, I imagine. Parties and balls and suchlike!’
‘I expect so,’ she said vaguely, and almost forgot why she had come to see him. ‘I wanted to ask you something, Mr Benjamin.’
‘Well, ask away, Miss Kingston; what can I do for you?’
Rosalie took a deep breath. There was something not quite right
. She felt uneasy. ‘I seem to recall,’ she began, ‘that some years ago my mother said something to me about an inheritance when I reached my eighteenth birthday. I think it was from her family estate and nothing to do with my father.’
‘Mm,’ he said. ‘Well, I’d have to look that up. When is your birthday, Miss Kingston? Is it soon?’
‘January the fifteenth,’ she said. She hesitated. ‘And I want to make plans. Which do not include going to Aldershot,’ she added firmly.
Mr Benjamin suggested that she come back the next day and in the meantime he would seek out the details she required.
Rosalie rose from her chair. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’
It was as she left his office and stepped outside the door on to the footpath that she realized what it was that had made her uneasy. She stood stock still as pedestrians pushed past her.
‘They didn’t have a great deal of time,’ she muttered, her lips barely moving. That’s what he said. Was it a slip of the tongue? She frowned as she concentrated on his exact words. Mr Benjamin had said, ‘I do recall his saying that they didn’t have a great deal of time.’
He was at the house with a woman! Mrs Sherwood. The widow he wants to marry. The person who will introduce me to society! What kind of society is that, she thought, horrified, which allows a woman to gallivant alone with a newly widowed man?
‘You might be mistaken,’ Sonny said to her, when he called on her at midday with a view to going out for a hot dinner and she blurted out the sorry tale. ‘There might be a perfectly rational reason.’
But she didn’t tell him about the blankets in the bed. That would be so very embarrassing and she hardly dared think about it. I might tell Polly, she thought. She would have a view on the matter and wouldn’t in the least mind discussing it.
Sonny took her to a café on Savile Street not far from her house and they both ordered steak pie. They sat in silence for a time and then he said, ‘You know, Rosalie, there are different rules for different people. And you ought not to make a judgement on what your father does or doesn’t do. He might have had this Mrs Sherwood staying with him, but I’m sure that if he did they would have considered carefully whether or not there would be speculation or gossip.’ He gave a little shrug. ‘And if indeed it was she, then she might have had good reasons for travelling with him.’
Rosalie scowled. ‘So are you saying,’ she said in a tense whisper, ‘that it’s all right for a man and woman to stay alone in the same house if neither of them is married to anyone else?’
‘No.’ Sonny waited for the waitress to finish serving them. ‘I’m not saying that it’s all right, but your father is a widower. Would you condemn him to be celibate for the rest of his life?’
He looked at her, waiting for her to express shock at his words or to stand up and leave the table. But she did neither of those things.
‘So when do proper rules apply?’ Her voice was restrained.
‘When it’s a very young woman or a woman who has never been married,’ he said. ‘It’s especially important for a young woman to be chaste, if she and her family want her to marry well.’
She stared at him and toyed with her fork. ‘Does that not apply to young men?’
He shook his head and cut into the pie crust. Then he grinned. ‘I’m afraid not.’
She grimaced, and they both continued eating. Then Sonny remarked, ‘Of course, you are behaving quite out of character by being here with me in a public place. What would your mother have thought – or what will your father think if you should tell him?’
Rosalie wiped her mouth with her napkin. She sighed. ‘If Mama had still been alive, then I wouldn’t be here with you, would I?’ She gave a pensive smile. ‘I wouldn’t even have met you, or Polly. I would be living a different life altogether.’ She looked at him. ‘I suppose we have to accept the life we’re given. There’s no point in railing against it.’
‘But on the other hand,’ he said softly, ‘we are at liberty to make changes.’
‘Is that what you are going to do? Is that why you’re travelling abroad?’
He nodded. ‘My aunt, who brought me up, said that it was entirely up to me what I did with my life, and because I want to paint I’d like to go abroad to gain experience and study the truly great artists. If this commission proves successful I might earn enough money to do just that.’
Rosalie had a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘So you might not come back for a long time? Or ever?’
‘I shall come back in the spring,’ he said. ‘And come to see you.’
‘Will you?’ she said softly, and didn’t draw her hand away when he clasped it.
‘And depending on what you have done with your life – whether you have gone away to live with your father or have decided to make your own plans ...’ He paused.
‘Yes?’ she breathed, her lips apart. ‘What then?’
‘I have no money, Rosalie,’ he said quietly. ‘Only enough for myself to live on.’
She swallowed. ‘I went to see the lawyer about a possible inheritance,’ she whispered. ‘When I’m eighteen. In January.’
He smiled and gave a little shake of his head. ‘An heiress!’
‘No. No, not really. I don’t suppose it will be much.’ She hesitated. ‘But it might be enough to allow me to be independent.’
‘Good! Wonderful! That’s what I like to hear, Rosalie. You are making up your own mind about your future.’
It wasn’t quite what she meant. She was trying to say that if he declared himself she would say yes, and they could live off her inheritance, if there was one. It would be his in law anyway if they should marry. But he didn’t appear to understand what she was saying. He just looked and sounded delighted that she was making decisions about her life.
When they had finished their meal, she asked him if she could see his studio and his work.
He was reluctant at first. If any of his friends heard that he had been entertaining a young woman in his room, there would be some jibes and speculation as to who she was. And then he thought, what of it? He would be leaving at the end of the week and by the time he came back the matter would be forgotten. And no one in his circle knew Rosalie in any case. If ever it was mentioned I could always say that it was only Polly, and then they would know it was harmless.
‘All right,’ he agreed and wondered what she would say when she saw her portrait leaning on the wall, about to be packed to show his prospective client.
But her eye was immediately caught by a sketch on the easel. It was of a servant girl, but with her own sorrowful face, gazing down at a heap of dead grouse. How is it possible to create such expression, she thought, with just a few pencil lines?
‘When did you do this?’ she murmured.
‘Last night. It was so vivid in my head that I had to put it down on paper. It’s only a rough sketch,’ he said. ‘It needs a lot of work.’
She glanced round the room at the canvases leaning against the walls, the chairs, the cupboards, as if in an exhibition. And then she saw her portrait and took in a breath. She put her hand to her chest. ‘That’s me!’ She was astonished. ‘When did you do that?’
‘Just after we first met,’ he said sheepishly. ‘In Albion Street, when I asked you if you’d let Polly work for you.’
‘I gave that dress to Polly,’ she murmured.
‘I know.’ He gazed at her. ‘But the colour was so vibrant I thought it was probably once one of your favourites.’
She nodded. It was, but how did he know? ‘What are you going to do with it?’ she asked, her eyes on the portrait. She thought it was like looking in a mirror.
‘It’s going with me.’ He reached for her hand and held it. ‘Not just to show the countess who I hope will want me to paint her,’ he said quietly, ‘but also because I can’t bear to be without you and this will remind me of how you are.’
Rosalie moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘Take me with you,’ she whispe
red. ‘I want to come.’
He drew her towards him and gently kissed her cheek. ‘No,’ he answered. ‘I can’t do that. I don’t want you to risk making a terrible mistake and then regretting it for the rest of your life.’
She shook her head. ‘I won’t.’
He kissed her again, this time on her mouth. ‘I’ll come back in the spring, and if you’re still here waiting for me I’ll paint you in sunlight with a smile on your lips, and not looking sad as you were when I saw you for the first time.’
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
On Monday evening all the guests had left, and Howard and Luke were relaxing in Luke’s study with a glass of whisky after supper.
‘A good shoot,’ Luke said. ‘I think everybody was satisfied. Even old Burnham, and he’s a hopeless Gun.’
Howard laughed. ‘Amos takes him to a low butt to give him an easy shot.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Luke smiled. ‘Flatter the Gun!’
‘Or else he fires beside him but doesn’t claim the bag,’ Howard went on. ‘He sends his dog off to retrieve the birds and tells Burnham that they’re his.’
Luke was silent for a moment, sipping his whisky. ‘Rather like with Edwin,’ he said. ‘Except that Edwin knew they weren’t his and that made him angry. He’s going to be away for a long time, you know.’
‘Yes,’ Howard said quietly. ‘I know.’
‘I’ve written to Clemmie and explained what happened.’
They both sat gazing at the fire flickering in the grate. It wasn’t cold, but Luke always liked the comfort of a fire even in the summer.
‘It’s a pity we missed the twelfth,’ Luke said after a while. ‘I understand there was good sport at Goathland.’
‘But it was wet that week,’ Howard said. ‘We’ve had glorious weather. Just perfect, and next week promises the same. Sir, I’d like to discuss something.’
