A Refuge for Rosanna

by Susan Karsten

  “I tried, Miss. But this partic’lar lord o’ the realm would not be gainsaid. He shoved past me claimin’ he met you in yon village and your conversation was interrupted.”

  “It’s not your fault, Perkins, so don’t look so sad.”

  “Thank ye, Miss. Is it true?”

  Not wanting to openly state Halburt’s lie to a servant, she bordered on prevarication herself. “Oh, yes. We were talking in the village tea shop, to be sure. Give it not another thought.”

  Once in the hall, she left off her gloves, bonnet, and parasol and moved toward the stairs. “Perkins, there’s a package for Dot in the carriage. Please take it to her room. Also, send Dot to my room. Miss Barton and I will be down in a nonce—if our neighbor inquires. He’ll need to be patient.”

  Rosanna untied her own boots, as she awaited Dot. She kicked them off, sending them across the rug and shuddering to a halt against the molding. “That man does plague me. Ooh.” She unbuttoned her spencer, took it off, and about to throw it to join the boots, halted when Dot entered. “Oh, Dot. Thank you for coming to help. I’d like to change into one of my white figured muslins. The one with the key border.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “I’ll wash off my travel dust while you get it out and check it over. One of my muslins has a small tear near the back of the hem. I can’t remember which.”

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Perhaps you can find it as well and see to mending it.” She turned away from Dot, loosened the round gown, one of the few she could doff on her own, before yanking it off over her head. She sank down onto the bench, clad only in her chemise, and took out her hairpins in front of the looking glass. She massaged her temples, elbows resting on the dressing table.

  “Headache, miss?” Dot snatched up the discarded gown, shook it, then draped it over her arm. She busied herself at the wardrobe, hung the dress and located the white one with the key design.

  “No, simply tired. My head gets tired from this,” she shook her heavy, dusky curls, “weighing it down.”

  “If we pin in a different place, it will ease the ache.”

  “Excellent, Dot. Did Miss Barton tell you that trick?”

  “No, miss, I learned that on me own. Have ye washed yet, miss?”

  “No, I’ll do that now, thank you for the reminder. I have a guest waiting below.” Grim, she soaked a cloth and wiped her face and hands, then bent over the bowl to splash up water. Drips cascaded down her arms as she reached for the towel Dot held out.

  The maid took the dampened towel and blotted a few drops Rosanna missed. She set it aside, picked up the requested white muslin dress and held it ready to assist.

  Fastened into the dress, hair repositioned with pins in new places, Rosanna felt a bit more inclined to think she could handle seeing Lord Halburt again. Twice in one morning posed a trial—but with God’s help, a surmountable one.

  “Dot, come with me, and sit in a corner chair.”

  Whispering a prayer for patience, she descended to the drawing room where Perkins placed the visitor. She wouldn’t say guest, because guest meant someone invited, didn’t it? “Lord Halburt, what a surprise. You must have raced home to beat me here.”

  “Ah, Miss Cabot, it is a veritable vision you present to me.” He clutched the front of his ornate waistcoat with one hand and threw the other over his forehead as if to swoon. “Who wouldn’t race—nay, move heaven and earth—to drink in your beauty?”

  Ignoring this overblown praise, she sailed past him and walked to the window. “Rain may come this day. Perhaps you’d best get home, so you don’t get soaked.”

  That thought clearly made the vain man gasp, but he recovered with his own notion. “If it rains, I’d merely stay here. Then I wouldn’t be caught out in it. Cozy indoors with a lovely lady friend. Nothing to dislike about that.”

  Itching to wipe the self-satisfied smirk off the man’s face, she rounded on him with a pointed question. “Why are you here, sir?”

  He tucked a thumb in his waistcoat pocket and struck a pose while speaking. “Why? What man needs a reason to seek out your fair face?”

  “Come now. What is it? Are you planning to ply me about the treasure hunt?”

  “Perhaps. But I have some other questions, first. Your friend, er houseguest—Ellie Moore—how fares that young lady? I noticed she did not accompany you and that wonder of dignity, Miss Barton, to town. Is she ill?”

  “No, sirrah. She had something else to do. Here, at the house.” Why did I even answer this fop? He talks so much, it must be contagious.

  “What occupies that fair maiden? She’s mysterious.”

  “That is none of your affair. I’m afraid you love a mystery a little too much for your own good. Mundane matters kept her home.” More to get rid of him than to please him, she threw out a bone. “I will take the time to consider holding a treasure hunt here at Honor’s Point. When you pin down the dates of your guest’s stay at Halburt Arms, please inform me.”

  “You’ll accommodate me, then?”

  “Sir, please don’t put it that way. I will consider entertaining your honored guest, if I am able to see my way clear. If I have no qualms or conflicts. I must study it out. Please, no more on this topic.” Dealing with this man would add steel to her spine—she needed it. She glanced at Dot, who, with downcast eyes, must have heard this whole idiotic exchange.

  “Then, if we can’t discuss your delightful plans, before I leave you, I insist you take me on a stroll about the house.” The man’s voice dropped to a wheedle. So undignified.

  “I suppose, but the servants are cleaning, and I don’t want them disturbed. We may just peek into some of the rooms.”

  “Oh, that will be a treat!”

  “Dot, please escort me.” The man was a child in Adonis’s clothing—would he leave soon—please? She led him to her study, and, blocking his entry with her arm across the doorway, allowed him only to poke his head in through the crack of the door. “I have private correspondence sitting out and surely you wouldn’t expect me to let anyone to be privy to that.” She closed the door with a snap, wishing she could catch his chiseled nose.

  “And here is the dining room. Have you seen it in daylight?” She allowed him to enter the room and she stood back while he goggled. If I didn’t know better, I’d think him a poor man, not a wealthy, titled lord. He reeked of covetousness—a form of poverty, no matter the earthly wealth.

  He spoke with reverence. “These panels, these paintings, these cabinets—divine.”

  Sickened by his lust for material goods, she next took him to the library where he oohed and aahed over the leather ranks in the dim shelves. “Do you read, Lord Halburt?”

  “No. But I collect valuable books. Lord Winstead’s father sold me some priceless tomes toward the end.” He stroked the spines of a few books, then extracted a cloth from a pocket and studiously wiped his fingers.

  “Charming. Now we shall look at the ballroom, and that will be final stop on your tour.”

  Giving the man no choice but to follow, she swept out.

  Dot scurried to keep up.

  Rosanna entered the ballroom and stood off to one side of the door.

  Halburt came in, gazed around, then swooped over, grabbed her, and capered out on the floor twirling her and prancing like a buffle-headed clunch.

  Rosanna yanked free, and lifting her arm, pointed to the door. “Our tour, as well as your visit, is over. The butler will show you out.”

  “I meant no ill. Say you don’t hate me. I couldn’t bear that, dear beauty.”

  “This isn’t about hating, or not hating, this is you leaving. Good-bye.”

  She visualized his tail between his legs as he slunk out. She gave a rueful snort at his impetuosity which appeared to come without an upper limit. She had little hope this was the end of his nonsense. The thought of arranging a treasure hunt at this man’s request held no appeal. But she would enjoy entertaining a world-famous author—a once-in-a-lifetime oppor
tunity.

  20

  Rosanna released an exhalation as Perkins gave the front door a firm latching. “If he appears here un-invited again, please don’t admit him, unless you check with me first.”

  “Sorry, Miss. He barreled in, shoving past me afore I could say boo.”

  “I understand. Simply do your very best to keep him scarce. Now on a happier subject, please serve a light lunch for three in the morning room in half an hour.”

  “Oh, there you are, Miss Cabot. I’m so glad you’re home.” Ellie entered the hall on quiet feet. She wore a simple blue and white striped day dress and raised brows. “Did I hear Lord Halburt’s voice a moment ago?”

  Rosanna first wrung her hands lightly, deciding how much to say. But then, with a swoop of the arm, she linked hers with Ellie’s, and guided her to the morning room. “We shall have lunch in a nonce. Let’s visit while we wait, and I will tell you all about my day.”

  Once in the morning room, Rosanna latched the door and pressed her ear against it, listening. No reason to distrust the staff, but she didn’t want to be overheard. “Dear Ellie.” She paused, looking for the right words, then moved further into the room. “I’m not sure why, but Lord Halburt’s annoying curiosity included several questions regarding you.”

  “Questions? About me? Why?”

  “I don’t know. On the face of it, his queries weren’t too specific, or suspicious. But there was something that didn’t sit right with me. He’s annoyingly nosey.”

  “What did he ask?” Ellie’s face blanched and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Nothing terribly unusual. Questions such as, what were you doing this morning, and why didn’t you go with me to the village.” Rosanna wanted to brush it off, and downplay the potential threat of a snoopy neighbor, but in good conscience, had to inform Ellie.

  “Ooh, that is worrisome. He is so curious, he might have suspicions about my presence here.”

  “Perhaps. But let’s not rush to judgment. The man is such a nodcock, who could say what he’s thinking?”

  “It sickens me that such a vain, nosey man can threaten my peace of my mind so. That’s why I must hasten to complete my work.”

  “How is your writing progressing?” Rosanna glanced at the clock and hoped Miss Barton would tarry.

  “Fairly well. I am two-thirds of the way through my manuscript. I intend to become the next Mrs. Radcliffe.”

  “Mrs. Radcliffe? Her books are certainly popular. I’ve always known you liked to write, Ellie, but I recall you were a poet. Don’t I remember you mooning around at academy with reams of poems flowing from your hands at all hours?”

  Ellie snickered. “Yes, that would be my recollection as well. But you see, as a mature woman now, I must write what I most likely could sell to a publisher.”

  “Must write?”

  “I must write so that I can pay my way in life. As of now, I can’t access my funds. I won’t live off your kindness for years on end.”

  “You have always been so clever. I am sure you will succeed.”

  “Thank you for your vote of confidence.”

  “Contrast your intentions to publish with my disastrous scheme. Here I create a refuge, have no way to announce it, and then I don’t even think of the futures of the women who might come.”

  “Darling Rosanna. Don’t blame yourself for those little oversights. How would you have known? You simply wanted to help out of the goodness of your heart. I, for one, am grateful.”

  “Your coming here is a blessing to me, so enough of that. I suppose covering the old ground of my errors will not get us anywhere. What type of novel are you writing?”

  “I am penning a romance. A close reading and study of Mrs. Radcliffe’s style provided me with a starting point. I’ve analyzed what I think are the secrets to her success. My story, therefore, is full of mysterious castles, dungeons, and near-disasters, such as maidens dangling from cliffs and the like.”

  “The novel—such an exciting development in literary style. Do you have a pen name selected?”

  “Not yet. It will be Mrs. somebody, as that is the fashion. Who knows if those authors are married—or even women?”

  Rosanna smiled, and laid her hand on Ellie’s arm. “I will think of some pen names for you—it will be fun for me. Mrs. Sanderton? Mrs. Wellstone? My contribution to the success of London’s next publishing sensation.”

  “You’ve not read one word of my novel but thank you for your confidence. Once complete, I shall have to clear the hurdle of locating a publisher.”

  “Let’s cross that bridge together, Ellie. Perhaps Mr. Clough or even Perkins would consent to go in disguise to proffer your manuscript to the highest bidder?” Rosanna could barely contain her snorts of laughter at the mental pictures thus created.

  Ellie’s laughter trilled. “It might help to have a man present the manuscript. Even with the success of Mrs. Radcliffe and her sort, a dim eye is still cast upon authoresses. Some even publish under names such as ‘a lady’ or under male pen names. Back to Lord Halburt. I don’t suppose he could have any knowledge of my scribbling penchant, so why was he asking those questions?”

  “He is a first-class snoop and a gossip. Perhaps he pokes and pries on a regular basis. I’ll find a subtle way to ask Perkins or Mrs. Good for more information on the insufferable man’s habits. But it won’t do to raise their curiosity about you, either.”

  ~*~

  Peter kicked at a loose stone on the path. Eager to unburden his guilt, he found his feet taking him to his old home. Honor’s Point, the most beautiful estate in the county, perhaps the entire south of England, drew him like a magnet today, but it wasn’t any longer due to a frustrated desire for the property. It was a desire to set things right between him and Miss Cabot.

  His reasons for keeping his identity from her appeared sound at first. But in retrospect, he wasn’t proud of the unnecessary deception. She’d done nothing to deserve his deceitfulness. Thus resolved, he pointed his boots in her direction.

  Safe to presume she’d be home by now, done with lunch, and ready for any afternoon visitors. He planned his words as he strode on—toward an improbable yet important meeting. Why this sense of destiny? It was a simple visit, albeit a slightly uncomfortable one, since he’d be apologizing for his idiotic masquerade.

  A good thing, too, to get it out of the way. He’d be at Lady Brook’s dinner party with Rosanna tomorrow night—a formal affair, with no chance to convey his regrets in that public setting. Better now.

  Allowed entry by a broadly smiling Perkins, he was bade to wait in the drawing room. Ah, there was his once-favorite armchair. To sit, or stand, waiting for his hostess? No idea how long she’d be, he chose the chair, and soon dozed in the warm sunlight streaming through the French doors.

  “Ahem. Lord Winstead? Are you awake?”

  Abrupt in departure from a fleeting dream about fishing, he leapt to his feet, cheeks warm. “Yes, yes, fully awake. Miss Cabot.” A bow seemed in order—perhaps that would raise his level of credibility. As he bent over, arms in perfect gentlemanly position, he berated himself—how could he allow sleep to overtake him like that? Her opinion of him was low enough already.

  “Perkins said you’d called, but I was delayed. Training my new maid. Dot, make your curtsey, and please do sit over there for a time.” Rosanna gestured toward the farthest corner of the room, then seated herself in a pretty blue and ivory damask armchair near the window.

  Such spirit, and that color she wore—he’d never liked violet before…but it was decidedly exquisite on her. He tore his gaze away, suddenly shy in her presence. He knew what needed to be said, however, and he wouldn’t shirk his self-imposed duty. Not after coming all this way. “Mother liked beauty, but comfort stood high in her criteria as well when choosing home furnishings. Do you like that chair? It was one she favored.” There, that brought the subject into the arena.

  “It’s very charming.”

  Her voice sounded curt. He neede
d to go forth with his plan. “You’ve made a good choice with this home. I hope you’ll be happy here.”

  Miss Cabot’s fingertips came up, covering her lips for a moment, then she dropped her hand, clenching it in her lap. “Surely you haven’t come to comb over that sore subject?”

  “No, absolutely not. I am here for a completely different reason. I owe you an apology.”

  “La, sir. For what?”

  Did he detect a tremble? Fear? Or simple embarrassment? “For deceiving you, upon our first few meetings.”

  “Deceit. That is a sin.” Her fingers flew up again, and her cheeks flushed.

  What a darling. “Indeed.” Lowering his voice, he tried again. “I shan’t try to excuse it. You’re right. It is a sin to deceive one’s neighbor.” One as pretty as you, for certain. “When you stopped on the road, I was experiencing a wretched day—one of my worst. Having trouble accepting my newly reduced circumstances.”

  “Oh, my lord, you don’t have to tell me this.” She fluttered her delicate fingers, still blushing. “All’s forgiven.”

  “But I do want you to understand, I bore no ill motives. The moment got away from me, shall we say? And then, the time you came to my door, and of course, when I came upon you in the woods, I couldn’t find the words. I simply let you continue to believe I was some sort of rough cob of a tenant.”

  “Rough cob, you? Never did I think that. Well, almost never.”

  He gave a bark of laughter at that. “So kind of you to let me off the hook this way. What can I do to repay you for my misdeeds toward you?”

  “Let’s cry friends. And if there’s ever an opportunity to repay me, I shall not hesitate to seek your aid.”

  Ah, could she be any sweeter? No, and he’d die before he caused her one more bit of distress. “I shall wait on bated breath for a chance to be your champion.”

  “How well do you know Lord Halburt?”

  Egad, was she asking about that annoying cur because she liked him? “Well enough.” There, that was diplomatic.

  “I suppose you’ve known him since boyhood, growing up together, living on adjoining estates.”