A Refuge for Rosanna

by Susan Karsten

  “Mr. Bramstock, I have a simple question for you. On my walk today, I spied something unusual.” So busy prefacing, the query slipped her mind, replaced with intruding thoughts about her guest, Elspeth, and how the situation would play out. “Umm.”

  Barton pointed to the little notebook. “Miss Cabot, the list’s in there.”

  “Oh. That’s right.” She opened it, and gathered her thoughts. “Bramstock, what is the building over to the northeast from here? I could only make out the rooftop through the trees.”

  Bramstock bowed his head and crossed his chest. “Miss, I believe you must mean Mr. Peter’s cottage. That’s the direction it be. Mr. Peter, a recluse. All he does is walk the paths around hereabouts. So sad.” The man brought a clenched fist up to his chest.

  Whatever was so distressing, it must be tragic to bring such poignant words out of the stalwart steward. “Thank you, Bramstock. That will be all.”

  He hunched his head and shoulders in a half bow, and walked out, the picture of sorrow.

  However curious this made her, Rosanna did not want to encourage the staff to regale her with gossip by asking numerous questions about the neighbors. They might get in the habit and pry into her secrets. No need for them to learn how or why she came into possession of Honor’s Point. Best the secret stayed between Uncle George, the family solicitors, and of course, Miss Barton, and herself.

  5

  Mr. Bertrand Clough, the local vicar, paid a call at Honor’s Point the day after Miss Mordant’s letter arrived. He was the first member of the community to pay a visit.

  Not sure what to expect when Perkins announced the rosy-cheeked minister, Rosanna served him tea like any other caller.

  He took a sip, then balanced the cup and saucer on his black-clad knee. “I’m here not only to welcome you to the neighborhood, Miss Cabot, but to ask whether we can expect your attendance Sunday next?”

  Taken aback by the phrasing of the question, she glanced at Barton sitting nearby, and caught a coy smile on her face. No help from that quarter. The question rattled Rosanna. Coming from populous London, calls and personal questions from the clergy were an uncommon experience. But Rosanna had nothing to hide, so she answered, “I wouldn’t miss it, Mr. Clough. Why, Miss Barton and I never forego church attendance. That is, if we are well. And we are both very well, thank you.”

  “Wonderful. It blesses the whole neighborhood when the leading citizens come to divine services. That, of course, is merely a side benefit. It’s much more important that we value God and give Him due worship. Do you agree, Miss Cabot?”

  “Indeed. Worshipping in spirit and in truth builds up the soul. After all, the Savior is our only comfort in life and in death.”

  Barton smoothed the sleeves of her dress in a preening motion and chimed in. “We’ll both be there, rain or shine.”

  Barton’s unprecedented show of feminine interest in the minister baffled Rosanna. The man was pleasant enough, though quite old, in her opinion—even older than Barton, surely.

  The visit lasted the acceptable twenty minutes and Mr. Clough departed, bowing his way out with additional expressions of welcome.

  ~*~

  Rosanna’s neighbor to the south, Lady Jessamine Brook, also paid a call later the same day. She was a fortyish widow, and a most pleasing guest. Even on such short acquaintance, she regaled Rosanna and Barton with a few humorous tales of recent and past situations upon which she brought her healing arts to bear.

  The faded blonde with her self-deprecating stories showed that she was not afraid to laugh at herself. Lady Brook explained her interest in the healing arts. “I’m amazed what’s to be done with simple remedies such as oatmeal or eggs. To think, a sliver can be drawn out with the membrane of an eggshell.”

  Rosanna found the topic fascinating and her fingers itched to make notes, but feared it would appear rude. She hoped to remember it to write down the remedy later. As mistress of an estate, she must learn a few rudimentary cures.

  “The neighborhood’s surely thankful for your presence,” Barton said.

  “You’d think the days of witch-fearing were still upon us, the way most of the cottagers take on when I bring a simple tincture. My, my, some of them act as if I’d poison them or else carry on as though I’m a sort of magician.”

  After Lady Brook departed, Rosanna reflected on how much she had enjoyed the visit. “Lady Brook’s lovely, isn’t she?”

  Barton again brushed down her sleeves, in a self-satisfied way. “Indeed, I am delighted in such a neighbor. Lady Brook exudes Christian charity and love. And those qualities are what make her charming, even though some would call her past her prime.”

  Barton’s veiled criticism of Lady Brook caught Rosanna’s attention. Did a reason exist for jealousy? Interesting—human nature was endlessly fascinating.

  ~*~

  Late one afternoon toward the end of that same week, Perkins tapped on the sitting room door, and entered to announce the arrival of another neighbor, Lord Halburt.

  Rosanna wasn’t expecting any calls, but she set her notebook aside and Barton hastened to stow away her needlework.

  The butler performed a bow.

  A handsome young man sailed past him and halted a few feet inside the door. His dramatic stance held the distinct flair of a pose. Burnished gold hair fell without apparent effort into one of the latest styles. A wonder of the Creator’s art, his face boasted a noble forehead, chiseled nose, clean jaw, and vivid green eyes. His muscular and noticeably well-proportioned physique, clad in the fashionable garb of the day, edged him toward perfection.

  Though accustomed to meeting a variety of men, each one interested in her sizeable inheritance, after moving to Honor’s Point, Rosanna expected encounters with handsome, conceited fops to be a thing of the past. She didn’t imagine meeting that type here in the country. Thus, the unexpected sight of a posing Adonis caught her with her guard down, and she stared, mouth open.

  Barton conveniently coughed. “Water, Perkins, water.”

  The butler departed.

  Lord Halburt approached the ladies to make a lavish bow. Then he stood, resplendent, as if expecting praise.

  Rosanna regained her composure and invited him to sit down by indicating a nearby chair. She introduced Barton while her mind whirled, trying to think of what to say and the proper tone to achieve. She wanted to be a good neighbor, yet didn’t want to encourage any male callers, however dazzling their appearance. “How kind of you to call on me, Lord Halburt. Such a pleasant neighborhood we share. Your estate is to the west of Honor’s Point?” That blather came out of her mouth when she opened it. Such a chatterbox I am!

  “Yes, the Halburt and Winstead estates have marched next to each other for almost two centuries.”

  Hmmm. Talk of estates sharing boundaries often led to thoughts of joining properties through marriage. She chose not to respond, but instead pursed her lips and tilted her head to the side. Maybe he’d think she was odd and leave.

  He rattled on, filling her silence. “Enough of old history, though. Quite astonishing the way Honor’s Point went on the block. Had no idea Winstead was so far into dun territory.”

  The man was certainly frank with his opinions. So, she’d be bold as well. “I hope other neighbors or friends of the family don’t resent me for being the one to buy the estate.”

  “No, no, not your fault. Floating on the River Tick for years, he was. The son tried to get things back to good heart, but it was never enough. Too many poor harvests, and it got away from him.”

  “Best not to speculate.” Barton’s starchy interjection served to bring the man’s flow of words to a halt. “Here’s Perkins with the water. Exactly what I needed.” Barton dutifully sipped.

  Rosanna smiled at her handsome neighbor and noted how often extreme good looks didn’t go hand in hand with sterling character. How gossipy he sounds. She deflected his interest away from the property to avoid giving rise to questions about Rosanna’s arrival as the
new owner, and to discourage any prying into her motives for buying the estate. “Would you care for tea? I can order more hot water.”

  “Why, thank you so much, but not this time, Miss Cabot. I am sure such a fine young lady as yourself is quite taken up with establishing yourself here in your fine home. I’d not like to tire you. Merely the honor of meeting a lovely and fair flower such as you is enough for a first encounter.” He stood and bowed over her hand. “I anticipate many more opportunities to bask in your glow, but alas, I must depart.”

  Intense relief that the flattering man was leaving swept through her, and grateful that he didn’t actually kiss her hand, she smoothly withdrew it from his grasp and hid it in the folds of her dress. So many of her insincere suitors had slobbered over both her hand and her fortune. She’d had enough of all that to last her a lifetime. “Thank you for calling on me, Lord Halburt, so neighborly of you.”

  He laid his hand on his breast. “Surely we’ll be friends and see each other many a time. I shall bid you good day, for now.” He made another theatrical gesture and departed.

  When she was sure he was gone, Rosanna retrieved her notebook and scribbled a new list.

  “What are you writing now, my dear?”

  “Oh, Barton, nothing to concern you right now. But what does concern me are the words that man was spewing.”

  “Words? What in particular bothered you?”

  Rosanna flipped closed the cover of her notebook and slid it into her workbasket. “Several. I didn’t like the sound of ‘first encounter’, or ‘we’ll be friends.’ Do you understand why?”

  “I’m afraid I do, dear. You thought you were done with swarming gentlemen, didn’t you?”

  6

  Rosanna eagerly anticipated Saturday morning and hoped for a respite from visitors. She breakfasted in her room and expected Barton to arrive any minute to help her dress.

  The lady’s maid entered with a mended robe over her arm. When she finished putting the garment away, Rosanna patted the seat next to her on the settee.

  “Sit by me for a time. Let’s talk. Do you like it here so far, Barton?”

  Barton sat. “Indeed, I do. It’s vastly charming and so peaceful.”

  “Good, I’m glad Honor’s Point is to your liking. Since I am promoting you.”

  Barton’s hand flew to her throat. “Me?”

  “From now on, you shall be my companion rather than lady’s maid, and known as Miss Barton.”

  Avoiding eye contact, Barton placed a curled finger against her chin. “Are you certain? I’m content as I am.”

  “Very sure. You’ll accompany me to social events, dear, and shopping trips, charity work, and the like. Even here, I must guard my reputation and keep on the right side of the tabbies.”

  “Oh, yes. No gossip must arise about you, my dear. With an officially designated companion, you’re beyond reproach—above criticism.”

  “Since you’ll go everywhere with me, you can’t be occupied any longer with the time-consuming task of dealing with my wardrobe—mending, laundering, dressing, and polishing. Those will be the duties of the new lady’s maid.”

  “New maid?” A shadow of concern slipped across Barton’s brow. “Are you absolutely sure? I’ve enjoyed being your maid.”

  “Yes, of course. But don’t you think you’ll enjoy the position of companion?”

  “Yes, but will a new maid know how to take care of your things?

  “Miss Barton, you’ll train her, of course. And you and I together will select the new maid. I’ve told Mrs. Good to find some likely girls from the existing staff. You stay here, I’ll go tell Perkins you’re ready to interview.”

  “Right now?”

  “Why wait?”

  Miss Barton’s dazzled eyes went wide, and she brought clenched hands beneath her chin. “I suppose.”

  “I do. I will also inform Mrs. Good of your new title and position.” Rosanna made a hasty exit, having absorbed enough doubt. Scampering down the stairs she hummed in anticipation of her plans.

  Perkins sat snoozing on the hall bench.

  “Perkins?” She spoke softly.

  He shot to his feet. “Yes, miss? May I be of service?” He yanked down his coat and stifled a yawn.

  “Indeed. You perhaps recall that I requested some candidates for promotion to lady’s maid? Yes, well, Miss Barton is waiting in my rooms to interview them.”

  Perkins went below stairs to rally the appropriate female servants.

  Rosanna slipped out the front door. With Miss Barton occupied interviewing maids, a chance to investigate another path presented itself. As entertaining as interviews could be, a solitary walk held more appeal today. A companion could be a blessing many times, but for now, Rosanna longed to be alone.

  Tying a bonnet’s silk ribbons, she descended the steps, and justified her actions because she needed—no, required—a distraction from Miss Elspeth Mordant’s impending arrival. The refuge would be established imminently, by virtue of Elspeth’s coming, and an odd anxiety roosted within her. She planned to banish the unease with some brisk exercise.

  Headed in the direction of the mysterious cottage seen earlier in the week, she tried to remember what Bramstock, the steward, said. Mr. Peters, or Mr. Peter? No matter, she’d find out soon enough. The path wound through gentle, hilly woodlands, rolling up and down, until at length it came out at a clearing beneath the rocky outcropping seen from afar.

  A humble stone cottage stood near the far side of the clearing. Approaching without caution, she knocked on the door. After all, she owned this land. She lifted her hand to knock a second time.

  A man came around the corner of the house. He stopped abruptly.

  It was the same man who’d helped her the day she arrived. The day she almost fell out of her own carriage. He wore a waistcoat over a fine lawn shirt, open at the neck.

  “It’s you! I mean, hello.” She walked toward him, her hand held out. “I am Miss Cabot, the new mistress of Honor’s Point, and I have come to call…er, to see you, rather, to find you. No, that’s not it. I came to see what this structure was. I saw it from a hilltop.” She turned and pointed, “Over there.”

  “I’m Peter. At yer service.” The man performed a modest bow and sidled toward the door of the cottage.

  “Oh. Peter. Yes, that’s what I was informed. How does it happen that you are tenanting on my property?” She stopped speaking and the words echoed in her own head. They sounded toplofty and unkind, even when said out of innocent curiosity and in a sweet tone. Thoughtless, though, when the steward said there was something amiss. Something sad.

  He ceased edging toward the door and seemed to grow in height. His face took on a distinct glower. “I’m no tenant. The cottage belongs to me. Miss.” He forced out this last unwilling word as if to mollify her.

  To tone down her unintended insult, she carefully gauged her response. “Have you owned it long?” She tipped her head toward the cottage, brows elevated.

  “Aye, it’s been in me family for years.”

  If it were possible, his manner stiffened even further. She moved to a different subject. “The terrain here is so conducive to taking strolls, and I’ve not yet explored the half of it.”

  “Few ladies venture this far.”

  He might be scandalized by her solo rambles—that might account for his marked unease. The seclusion of the spot dawned on her, and she realized the impropriety of this interchange. “So, we are neighbors. Very good. I shall leave now. Sorry to intrude.” He didn’t respond, and she turned to go, careful to project an unoffended air. Raising a hand in farewell, she walked back the way she came.

  It took effort not to rush away. Trembling, face hot, and mortified with embarrassment, she forced her feet to keep a sedate pace and soon reached the shadowed shelter of the woods. A corner of the estate must have been sold off in the past. Perhaps she’d research the history of that in the future, when she had time. Once in possession of the solution to the mystery of th
e roofline, and her question answered, she’d let it drop and stay busy with her own household affairs.

  Curiosity still had its hold on her, however, because new questions emerged. Why did such a fine-looking man live in a humble cottage? He didn’t sound like a member of the ton when he spoke, but he possessed the definite aura of genteel breeding. He dressed not in typical laborers’ garb of smock and breeches, but in the rustic wear of a country gentleman. One with pockets to let.

  ~*~

  Dash it all! A diamond of the first stare lands on my doorstep? What a foolish notion to imagine one might escape the world. He’d had his time of seclusion. The appearance of Rosanna Cabot in his vicinity changed it all.

  Her beauty and sweetness arose in his mind’s eye when he contemplated her. He didn’t want to admire her, but to be honest, he admitted thinking of her a few times after their brief encounter on the road. Her eyes, dusky curls, and sweet femininity made an attractive package.

  Don’t let Rosanna Cabot cut up your peace. He straightened and went into the cottage to search for his remaining suit of passable clothes. He’d have to get them all brushed up anyway sooner or later. He hated to admit he wanted to be presentable for the young lady.

  Drat, who’s knocking now? Peter emerged from the small back bedroom to find the door ajar and a man’s head sticking through the opening. A man, dressed all in black, stepped into the front room. His austere apparel put one off, but on closer inspection, his rosy cheeks and warm expressive eyes belied the severity of his garb.

  “I’m Mr. Clough, vicar of the local parish.” He glanced around, as if to get his bearings. “I know you.”

  “You’ve got the advantage, then.” Surliness mantled him after his encounter with Miss Cabot, and he failed to mince words. Even though the man’s collar indicated status as a man of the cloth, gracious words eluded Peter.

  “You’re the chap my sister used to call Petey.”

  “Your sister? To whom might you be referring?” Displeased at yet another intrusion into his privacy, it took effort not to scowl.