A Refuge for Rosanna

by Susan Karsten

  “Lift the latch, dare not drop, reach too far, a wall will stop.” The clues came easier once she began. Another problem loomed, however. She’d decided to hide the treasure in the bookshelves, but she hadn’t selected the treasure.

  Her eyes lit on a glass-fronted curio cabinet in the corner of the small room. A china dog collection crowded the shelves. Lady Winstead, the one who had probably collected them, must have had a serious predilection for dog figurines—there were fifty or more crammed in together.

  A small figurine of a beagle adorned with a miniscule golden collar caught her eye. That was it—just the right touch of whimsy. She lifted it carefully from among its crowded fellows and cradled it in her hands for a moment. Idly stroking the glazed head of the little statue, she hummed a tuneless song as her mind went far away. Back to the glen and the moments after Lord Winstead hugged and kissed her. She puzzled over his attitude after the embrace. Yes, she’d gotten rather emotional, but that didn’t really account for the subsequent chill emanating from him.

  Shaking her head to dispel those fruitless thoughts, she sat down to finish the clues. A rap came upon the door as she finished the last one. “Come in.” She called as she slid the stack of clues into the desk drawer.

  Melissa slipped into the room and closed the door with a click of the latch. “Oh, I’m so glad to catch you alone.”

  “I’m pleased you sought me out. What with you a married lady now, and me with a companion and another guest in house, I wondered if we’d even have a chance for a tête-à-tête.”

  Melissa perched sideways on the window seat, drew up her legs and circled them with her arms, leaning her cheek on her knees, regarding Rosanna for a moment before speaking. “I would love to hear the story of this house.”

  “Story? What story?”

  “Why you moved here, why you bought an estate, why you aren’t on the marriage mart. That story.”

  “You got my letter, didn’t you? I explained therein how I was done with London and that Uncle George helped me buy this place.”

  “Oh, Rosanna. We used to be so close. Don’t tell me there’s nothing more to it. I know you better than that. You were never one to seclude yourself from society, even though you didn’t want to marry after Clarence. There’s more to the tale.”

  Perhaps it was providential that Melissa asked. As Lady Russell, she would be someone who could confidentially direct a desperate young lady to the refuge planned for Honor’s Point. “You do know me too well. But you must be discreet with the information I shall share.”

  Melissa lowered her slippered feet to the floor and sat up straight, avid for the confidence. “I am the soul of discretion.”

  “This reminds me of academy days, when you and I shared our dreams and crossed pinkies. Solemnly swearing to keep all secrets. Funny—I can’t remember now what any of them were.”

  Smiling, Melissa agreed. “Those days seem so far gone, don’t they?”

  Rosanna crossed the room, opened the door a crack, looked out, then closed it, and turned the lock. She returned to Melissa’s orbit, and spoke in a hushed voice. “The story is, in a nutshell, I planned to establish a refuge for young ladies fleeing forced marriages of the distasteful variety. You certainly understand—the old men, the nasty first cousins, the rancid rakes.”

  Melissa’s eyes grew wide. “No! You’re bamming me. How on earth did you ever think you could keep it a secret?”

  “You’re smarter than me, Melissa. I never thought, until I arrived here, that I had no way of ‘inviting’ anyone to seek refuge without alerting the very people the young ladies would be running from.”

  “So that’s the story. I shan’t pry any more. Please do allow me to assist—perhaps with clothing for the fleeing young ladies? I’ve a trunk full of dresses along that I no longer want.”

  “How generous. Are you sure? A whole trunkful?”

  “They hold bad memories. I only brought them along because my father’s servants loaded the trunk without my knowledge.”

  “Well, then. That will be a boon for any young ladies who flee without luggage. I’ll have a servant remove the trunk from your suite.”

  “Excellent. For now, I have a secret of my own to share.”

  “My dear. There’s no obligation to unburden yourself.”

  “No, I want to tell. I myself was pressed toward an arranged marriage. No one too distasteful, but thank the Lord my Papa allowed me some latitude in the decision. Not that things didn’t get hairy. The unfortunate man tried to force me to the altar. There—I shall say no more.”

  “You poor thing. I can only imagine how distressing that must have been.”

  “Distressing, yes, but now I am married to Lord Russell and all is right with the world.”

  35

  At the breakfast table the next morning, Rosanna reviewed the treasure hunt clues, chortling now and then as she pictured her guests struggling to solve them. Were they too hard? She didn’t think so. Besides, if made too easy, what was the fun in that?

  Footsteps sounded behind her and she shoved the slips of paper into her lap and drew the folds of her morning dress over them. She turned to see who joined her, and gasped when Lord Halburt, hat in hand, approached her.

  “Where’s Perkins? How did you get in here?”

  “Good morning to you, Miss Cabot.” He smacked his gloves into his hat and placed it under his arm. “Nowhere in sight, your butler. All the better for me, no?”

  Alarmed at his choice of words, her hand closed around a sharp fork, in case it was needed. She choked out a few polite words for this intrusive cad. “What brings you to Honor’s Point so early? The party isn’t for hours.”

  Halburt’s face settled into its normal smugness. “I have some outstanding news. It will affect your numbers.”

  “My numbers? Have you found that you cannot attend after all?” That would qualify as ‘outstanding’ in her opinion.

  “No, my fair one. My news is that Walter Scott’s groom arrived this morning. The great man will be at Halburt Arms by mid-afternoon—earlier than expected. What say you to his joining your dinner party tonight?”

  “Oh, my! Such a famous man, will he want to come to my humble party?”

  “Miss Cabot, don’t be silly. First of all, the man has to eat, second, I wouldn’t miss your dinner party for the world, and third, he’ll champ at the bit when I tell him of the legendary and mysterious treasure of Honor’s Point. Mr. Scott is mad for legends.”

  “Does he travel alone? Is his wife along? What of my plans? The table will be uneven.”

  Preening, Halburt took his time answering. “I’ve been informed he is accompanied by his 17-year-old daughter, Sophia. So have no fear about your numbers being even.”

  With the menu planned, and the treasure hunt prepared, Rosanna had only to inform Mrs. Good of the two additional guests requiring two more place settings. “In that case, I shall be delighted. Such a maven for treasure should love the evening I have planned. Now, please show yourself out, as I am very busy.”

  “As am I. What with a noteworthy author and poet arriving as a houseguest. Adieu, Miss Cabot.” He preened on his way out.

  ~*~

  Though happy to leave society behind without an afterthought when she’d gotten the approval to move to her own estate, Rosanna brought her London wardrobe to Honor’s Point.

  She enjoyed choosing between two new evening dresses, neither of which she’d ever worn before. The first option, made of butter yellow silk, featured three scalloped flounces. The neckline lay off the shoulders and a filmy fichu lent modesty to the fashionably low neckline. Hand-painted fabric roses tinged with pink lay nestled around the flounces. The colors did wonderful things to her complexion.

  She leaned toward choosing the other dress, however. Shimmery violet taffeta, its matching gauzy net overskirt fluttered around her when she moved—the effect suggestive of an elegant butterfly. Heavy embroidery of glistening magenta and silver threads stiffened the
fashionable bodice, and she had a silvery-toned filet for her hair.

  She held the gowns up before her one at a time and waited for her companion’s opinion. “Miss Barton, which one? This, or this?”

  “Neither will clash with my dress.” Barton examined herself a bit before the mirror, already dressed for the evening, clad in a new peacock blue dress. The finest lightweight wool served well for her longstanding sensitivity to cold. “But I do think you’ll have other chances to wear the yellow, so I say the purple.”

  “Violet, Miss Barton. That sounds better than purple.”

  “You are so clever with words.” Her companion chuckled. “I’ll see how Dot is coming along with Miss Moore’s hair.” She departed with a promise to send Dot to help Rosanna dress for the dinner party.

  While waiting, Rosanna studied her face in the mirror. Deeming her complexion a bit pale she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips. That will have to do. She did not want to dwell upon her appearance this evening. Once dressed, she made a habit of forgetting about her looks.

  Dot entered after a tap on the door.

  “Dot, the dresses are on the bed. Go look.” Rosanna found it charming when Dot oohed and aahed over the gowns.

  She clasped her hands under her chin. “Miss Cabot, these are so pretty, how will you decide?”

  “I have chosen the violet. Yes, that one. Put the yellow away for another occasion.”

  “Yes, miss.” Dot moved with efficiency, and soon had the dress put away.

  “Now, Dot, what shall we do with my hair? Chignon, topknot, or a Grecian?”

  “Miss, with this filet, a bun with wisps escaping. If that’s what you called Grecian, then Grecian.”

  Rosanna enjoyed having her hair brushed and dressed by the young maid. Dot had a natural gift for the work, and she didn’t make the mistake of chattering too much, like some youthful, nervous servant girls would.

  Style complete, the maid held a brooch, first above the left temple, then the right. “Miss, may I suggest this pin for your hair? On the side of the filet?”

  “The right’ side is perfect, Dot. Now, please assist me with the gown.” Rosanna stood up, and let her robe slip off her shoulders, revealing a silk chemise. Dot whisked it away and moved to retrieve the gown. With Dot’s help, Rosanna soon wore all the requisite layers, fastened and arranged. Next, the maid held out an open jewel box.

  “I shall not wear any more jewelry. The brooch and filet are enough. After all, this is a simple country dinner party.”

  Dot latched the jewel case and slipped it into the dressing table drawer. “Yes, miss.”

  Rosanna almost danced down the stairs. She met Ellie in the main hall. The diminutive redhead wore a deceptively simple, shimmery green evening gown. Nothing elaborate, but styled with skill and flattering to her coloring.

  “You look darling, Ellie. ’Tis a regret no swains will be here for you tonight. Only Halburt.”

  “Oh, him.” The corners of her mouth turned down. “I pray he doesn’t actually have any intentions—toward either of us, for that matter. He does cast a wide net with his foolishness. I can only hope his flirtatious demeanor is a mere habit. His attentions carry a perfunctory air, don’t they?” Ellie gave a shudder then rushed on, not waiting for an answer. “Swains. I believe I’ve had enough to last my life, and if I never attract another, that will suit me fine.”

  Rosanna hooked arms with Ellie. “Yes, I tend to agree. Let’s go await the guests. We have about ten minutes. I must tell you some news. Where were you all day?”

  “Squirrelled away writing, I’m afraid. So thankful Dot came to help me, or I might still be scribbling. Did you need me?”

  Rosanna steered Ellie down the last flight of stairs and into the drawing room where a fire crackled in the hearth. “No, no. I only now realized I hadn’t seen you at all today.” Turning to face Ellie, Rosanna put a gentle hand on each shoulder. “You know I pulled together tonight’s dinner party for my guests, the Russells. We’ll have two additional guests, however. Walter Scott and his daughter.”

  Ellie’s hand flew to her neck and fluttered there, while her eyes grew round. “Walter Scott? You can’t mean the poet. The famous Scottish poet? He’s really here? I thought all that was mere flummery on the part of Lord Halburt.”

  “I do mean that very man. Halburt has been corresponding with him about some antiquities, and the great man, on his way to London, accepted Halburt’s invitation to break travel at Halburt Arms.”

  Ellie’s hand went up to her throat. “Such a famous wordsmith. I’m meeting the author of The Lady of the Lake. Oh, my. I must sit down.” She then sank back to rest against the settee and fanned her face.

  “Yes, yes, do sit. Here’s some cold water.” Rosanna poured from a pitcher conveniently placed nearby on a tea tray. “Here you are.” She proffered a glass to Ellie. “So glad tea’s been brought in. Now if the guests want tea, it’s already here.”

  Ellie sipped, set the glass down, and still rattled by the news, spoke in a hushed voice. “What do you have planned?”

  “The clues for a treasure hunt are prepared. The treasure is hidden. I can only hope this satisfies Halburt and he quits pestering me. It’s too bad Lady Brook is away. She’d be the perfect one to repress Halburt’s impetuosity.”

  “What other gentleman would badger a neighbor for a complicated entertainment? He has been markedly odd about it, hasn’t he? Lord Halburt is a spoiled man.”

  “He’s sure to be in high alt, with his noted guest, who apparently also shares Halburt’s love of mysteries, old things, legends, and treasure.”

  36

  Peter’s stomach clenched as he waited. His tension mounted with each added guest, announced with pomp by Perkins.

  Perkins swooped in followed by a group of three, presumably the last arrivals for the party of ten. “Lord Halburt, Mr. Walter Scott, Miss Scott.” The butler swept his arm to the side, and then bent from the waist, bowed as he backed out of the room and shut the door on his way out, still bent over. The man must love his job.

  Peter observed the arriving guests as Halburt brought the Scotts around to introduce them. His tension rose in waves as the trio neared.

  “Lord Winstead—you did retain your title, correct? No matter, please meet the esteemed literary lion, Mr. Walter Scott, and his lovely eldest daughter, Miss Scott.”

  The Scotts glanced at each other, dumbfounded.

  Even though his spine felt leaden at the snub, Peter responded to the embarrassed guests with courtesy. “The pleasure is mine. Wonderful to meet such an esteemed guest and you, too, Miss Scott.” The young lady simpered and fluttered her lashes, before Halburt ushered them on to meet someone else.

  As Halburt brushed past, trailing the Scotts, Peter laid a staying hand on the man’s forearm. “My title is intact. No act of Parliament has been writ against me, and I am no criminal. No further reference need be made by you regarding my familial misfortune. I’ll thank you to guard your tongue in company.” Peter released Halburt’s arm with emphasis, then brushed his hands together and turned away. As he surveyed the room, he noted the world hadn’t stopped turning, and indeed, no one other than the Scotts heard Halburt’s verbal slap.

  Small groups chatted, sipped punch, and waited for the call in to dinner.

  Awkwardness gripped him, this party held a high potential for embarrassment. He stood near the fire, ostensibly conversing with Lord Russell, whose voice only skittered around the edge of his consciousness. Peter nodded, raised his eyebrows, and offered a semblance of a smile. He allowed himself a glance at Rosanna.

  She stood with Lady Russell, Miss Scott and Miss Moore near a harpsichord on the other side of the room.

  What if she learned of his misdeed? They may have told her. He sensed something disturbing would happen here tonight and if he got through this evening unscathed, he’d be surprised.

  For starters, Rosanna’s appearance in his line of sight distressed him in the region of his heart. And
why did his blood course so strongly through his veins each time his gaze landed on her? Awareness of her pained him in its intensity.

  She dazzled him. What possessed him to accept this invitation? Trapped in the same vicinity not only with her, the unattainable woman he’d compromised in the glen, but there were the Russells. They’d been kind, but he hadn’t bargained on having to mingle with them here at Honor’s Point. How much would they have told their dear friend, Rosanna? “Hmmm?” He dragged his attention back to Lord Russell.

  “I said, have you known Halburt for very long?”

  “For as long as I can remember. He grew up on a property adjoining this one.” Peter kept his remarks brief.

  Lord Russell’s lips quirked in displeasure. “Has he always been so, um, impetuous? He won’t stop nattering about some treasure hunt.”

  “Yes, I heard him. Bordering on nagging, what?” Peter sighed with relief when Perkins entered the room to announce dinner. This evening couldn’t pass fast enough for him. He stood back while couples formed for the ritual of walking into the dining room according to rank.

  Lord Halburt, though of equal title with Lord Russell, decided to seize precedence—barging forward to place Miss Cabot’s hand on his arm. Next came the Russells.

  Peter roused himself and bowed to Miss Moore, then held his arm out for her to rest her hand upon. Part of Peter’s mind noticed her exquisite beauty, but his senses didn’t reel when he looked at her. When he looked at Rosanna, however, his world tipped, emphasizing nothing would ever be the same.

  Walter Scott and his daughter, Sophia, followed along, then came Miss Barton and Mr. Clough bringing up the rear.

  The party of ten sat around a table laden with gleaming silver, fine china, and lit by tall candelabra. Mr. Clough anchored one end of the large table, Rosanna the other. Soon, a prayer was offered and the serving of the first course began.

  Seating arrangements could have been worse for Peter. As it was, he sat between Miss Barton and Miss Moore. He made small talk with his table companions. The gilded walls and painted ceiling of the lavish room were duly noted and complimented by the other guests. Peter rarely dined in this room when his family owned the house. His parents entertained guests here, almost never using it for family meals. If he could just get through this evening without any overt embarrassment, he’d never accept such an invitation again.