“Lord Stratfordshire,” Mr. Higgins said, standing uncomfortably near. His breath reeked of garlic and onion. The man was a known hermit, and gossip stated he only ventured into society at the command of Rose’s aunt. “Tell me, do you think the summer will be dry?”
Colin clasped his hands behind his back. There were few things that tired the marquess more than small talk, especially that of the weather. Yet, his upbringing inclined him to humor the stranger. He offered a nod. “I believe rain has come near every afternoon this week. Has it not? Is that not a good start, Mr. Higgins?”
“Exactly what I told Mrs. Grant.” Mr. Higgins wiped his nose, flicking his thumb around a spot near his left nostril for a disturbingly long moment. He wheezed, combing his thin gray hair many times over. “And what of gaming at Andover? Have your pheasants cultivated enough offspring?”
The marquess’s mouth dropped in surprise; he had never been asked about pheasant offspring. Hunting was a common enough topic, but Colin did not know how best to reply. He had never kept tabs on the hatchlings near Stratforshire.
A door opened from across the room, and Mrs. Ainsworth clapped her hands. “Please forgive the delay.”
Colin’s eyes wandered behind the hostess.
Rose stood at his mother’s side. Her hazel eyes glistened, and lines of worry scattered her expression. Colin’s mother gripped Rose’s arm. The duchess’s light eyes were wrinkled near the edges, and her lips twisted into a pucker.
Colin shifted his weight. His mother’s anger, though imperceptible to most, was unmistakable; her wrath only kindled on limited occasions, and Colin recognized the expression. The duchess did not upset easily. Her few occasions of fury were sparked by earnest concerns. First and foremost, the duchess was a mother. She was instinctively protective. From his experience nearly breaking his back falling from the roof as a child, or the time a nurse had raised a voice needlessly, he knew what anger looked like on his mother’s features and he saw it now.
Colin gulped. What on earth could have transpired between the three women?
“Now, we will proceed with the program, beginning with a vocal selection by Miss Anna Porter and accompanied by her sister, Miss Eliza.” Mrs. Ainsworth resumed her position on the sofa.
Rose trembled, and a single tear slipped down her cheek.
The duchess lifted a hand to Mrs. Ainsworth shoulder and leaned in. Colin strained his ears to hear her. “But first—I am afraid Miss Grant has suffered a terrible headache. I will send her home in my carriage. Please carry on with the program. I will return momentarily.”
Prudence sighed. “Already? I would have thought you might last longer, child.” She turned, and her lips smacked together. Her whisper carried well across the room. “Poor dear has the constitution of a kitten.”
Colin gritted his teeth, watching Prudence in disbelief. She did not rise to meet her niece; she did not even protest Rose’s departure. The woman was unfeeling and, worse, contented to humiliate her niece in a time of discomfort.
Colin hurried across the room, offering his arm to Rose.
Her tear-filled eyes lifted, and her lips parted. “Thank you, Lord Stratfordshire.”
“I am sorry for your headache.” Colin felt useless. He doubted Rose had a headache at all, and if she did, it was the result of something far heavier. “Will you allow me to help you to the carriage?”
Rose sniffled, dipping her chin.
The duchess stroked a gloved hand across Colin’s shoulder. “Yes, please escort her, Colin. I will have Mrs. Ainsworth’s footman retrieve our carriage this instant.”
“Come, this way, Miss Grant,” he said, leading her back through the reception hall and into the foyer. The rooms, filled with liveliness and laughter only moments ago, were now silent. Their footsteps echoed along the stone steps and floors. “I know it is not my place to ask—”
A single sob split between her lips. She shook her head, but her voice remained shaky. “Please, Lord Stratfordshire. You are kind to inquire, but it is only a headache.”
Colin turned, facing her fully. Her watery glance seemed to plead; she did not wish him to press her further. Her distress was too fresh. Colin placed a hand over her fingers that rested on his other arm. “I am sorry to see you go, Miss Grant.”
Her lips curved, and another set of tears slipped down in response. “Thank you. I look forward to seeing you again, hopefully before too much time has passed. If ever you are near Grant Estate, do stop by.”
“I would be glad to.” Colin inwardly cringed. He sounded so stiff, so formal. “That is—I shall call on you in the coming week.”
She wiped at her tears.
Colin startled, reaching for his handkerchief. “Here, do take this.”
“But I could not—”
“Please.” He locked eyes with her. The tears had changed her hazel eyes to a deep green. Colin’s heart thudded against his chest. He longed to understand her, more than he had wished to understand anyone. The intensity of his desire surprised him. What was it about Rose that affected him so fully?
She accepted the handkerchief. “Thank you.”
He took in a slow breath, surveying her serious expression.
“Miss Grant,” the duchess said, bursting through the reception hall. “As I said, not a word about”—her stare landed on Colin—“the carriage.”
Colin’s brows furrowed, and he widened his stance. His mother had never been a skilled liar. “The carriage? Not a word about the carriage?”
Rose retreated a few steps, curtsying to the duchess. “Your Grace, I shall not mention your generosity to a soul.”
The duchess managed a smile. “Now, Colin, you must return to the music room. The program has started, and I wish to have a final word with Miss Grant…about her dreadful headache.”
He bowed and left, determined to uncover whatever atrocity had befallen Rose.
Chapter 6
After morning light entered her room, and despite her attempts to fall back asleep, Rose laid in bed, staring at the red-bellied bullfinch perched upon the ledge of her window. His song—soft and broken, yet unfailingly beautiful—ignited an ache in her chest. She had always considered herself like the finches, at times small and insignificant but forever cheerful and contented.
Her rosy image of the world had been shattered at the musicale the previous night. Aunt Prudence had cast her net about Rose, determined to humiliate her and bring her song to silence. That, or end her existence altogether.
Rose was grateful when she did not see her aunt at the breakfast table. Her grandfather, however, was in one of his difficult moods.
Lord Josiah Grant was not a man to be trifled with. He cared for a breakfast of poached eggs and buttered toast—not a thing more. He pushed his plate forward, and he tapped his fingers on the table. “Mrs. Blackburn. Where is she? I distinctly told her I did not wish for plum pudding. Where is my usual spread?”
Rose stood from the table in response. Her appetite had been scarce to begin with but had fled the instant her grandfather had begun spouting off complaints.
The day had only begun, but her eyes were swollen and red from a night of tears. Worse, her head pounded with each tinkling of her fork against the china. “I will find her and ask her to bring you your usual, Grandfather.”
He let out a puff of air, pushing his tongue into the side of his wrinkled cheek. “Tell her I will not stand for such disobedience.”
“As you wish,” she said, stalking toward the kitchen.
She took a shaky breath and leaned against the archway of the kitchen. Her grandfather’s mood only discouraged her further. Was there no happiness to be found at Grant Estate? Was Rose bound to a life of misery, locked between a miserable man and a frightful aunt?
“Mrs. Blackburn.” Scolding anyone, let along those that lived to serve the Grant family, seemed wrong. She could not do such a thing, especially to Mrs. Blackburn. The cook hadn’t a mean bone in her body.
Mrs. Blackbur
n turned her head. “Miss Grant, how are you this morning? Off to the gardens already?”
Rose surveyed the open door and the flood of light. Motes sparkled across the rays. “My grandfather—”
“The plum pudding.” The statement came with a soft sigh. The cook shook her head and dusted her hands together. She took up a spoon and began mixing a bowlful of flour and spices. “I knew he would be bothered by the gesture.”
Rose swallowed. “Then why did you persist in going against his wishes? His nerves wind tighter and tighter. Please do not test him, Mrs. Blackburn.”
The woman dropped a wooden spoon to the counter. “The chickens—seems a dog got into the eggs again. I had only enough for the pudding, and I hoped he would not mind the change for once. Plum pudding was his favorite, at least before the accident.”
“I see.” Rose crossed her arms, rubbing her hands against her suddenly chilled arms.
Mrs. Blackburn nodded. “I will speak to him straight away, Miss…” She paused, meeting Rose’s eyes. The cook frowned, and her voice turned gentle. “Rose, what has happened? You look as if you’ve had a row. Has your aunt been plucking away at you again?”
The weight that Rose had tried so hard to discard settled once more against her chest, pressing harder and harder against her sluggish heartbeat. She shook her head, albeit much to hesitantly to be considered convincing. “No. I am only tired.” Tired of trying to please my aunt and grandfather. Tired of singing a song that no one else understands.
“Then you still have a headache?”
Rose bit her bottom lip. Hours of crying did make for a slicing ache. “Yes, quite.”
Mrs. Blackburn opened a cupboard and retrieved a tincture. “My mother used to give me this whenever I had such a malady. Take a swallow as needed.”
“Thank you.” Rose pressed the bottle to her chest and smiled. There was still kindness in the world, despite the difficulties ahead. The beam of light from the open door lengthened, warming the front of her. “Perhaps I shall take that walk after all, Mrs. Blackburn.”
“Take care, Miss Grant.”
Rose meandered through the kitchen garden, stopping at the well. She wished for a carefree afternoon with her mother and the opportunity to hear her mother’s laughter once again. The memory, usually one of happiness and comfort, only deepened the ache within her ribcage, and Rose forged onward along the path she had ridden with the marquess. She paused at the pond and creeks, the towering oaks and path along the duke’s lands.
But each beloved place seemed unexpectedly hollow, meaningless.
Jealousy plagued Prudence—and why shouldn’t it? Rose’s father had been a clear favorite of the family, in terms of inheritance and general respectability, and now, Rose’s grandfather still preferred Rose over Prudence.
As if the unfairness was not enough, Aunt Prudence remained unattached and in her forties. Shamed by a duke, rejected by London society despite her noble upbringing—bitterness seemed an expected result.
Rose closed her eyes, holding back emotion. For so long, Rose had made exceptions for Prudence, reasoning away her aunt’s dark heart and obvious slights. Perhaps that was the most tragic bit of the situation—Rose’s wasted effort, her needless attempts at winning Prudence’s affection.
Footsteps padded through the dry grass, stopping only feet away from where she sat. “Rose?”
She looked up at the young man standing above her. A ribbon of relief threaded through her pain. “Paul Garvey, how ever did you find me?”
He sat in the grass beside her. His dark eyes seemed almost as empty as Rose felt. “I had to, and so I followed the sounds of your sobbing.”
“My sobs…?” Her eyes widened, and she ran her fingers over her moistened cheeks. She had not noticed the tears nor her whimpering. She lifted her cuffs to her eyes, wiping furiously. “I had not realized…”
Paul pressed his lips together. “I’ve come to speak with you about your aunt.”
She winced. He could not possibly know about the corset. “What about her?”
He tapped at her arm, commanding her gaze to his. “Rose, I’ve just had word about her plans for you. I had to tell you. Something must be done. My father is friends with her driver. Apparently, the driver overheard her discussing something with Mr. Higgins.”
“I’ve already found out about the corset, Paul. You do not need to warn me.”
“The corset?” His eyes held more questions than answers, and a line near the center of his brows deepened. “I know nothing of that. I am speaking of Mr. Higgins and the marquess.”
Rose stood, turning away from him. Self-preservation kept her from fleeing but facing him straight on felt near impossible after her scare the previous evening. “Tell me quickly.”
He took a moment, seeming to collect his thoughts. Then he stood, stepping directly behind her. “She means to ruin you, Rose—with the help of Mr. Higgins. Your aunt seems to think you’ve caught the eye of the marquess and future Duke of Andover. She means to have Mr. Higgins compromise you in order to prevent such a union.”
In order to prevent such a union. The absurdity of the assumption rattled Rose’s anger. Lord Stratfordshire had been warm, perhaps even expressed interest in furthering his acquaintance with her. But why did Prudence have to jump to such a conclusion? And how could Prudence seek to destroy Rose’s reputation and foreseeable future? How could anyone think of such an abominable scheme?
Rose spun on her heels. Heat blossomed in her chest. “Paul, are you sure of this? When does she mean to enact this plan?”
“My father did not say, but he sent me to warn you.” He shifted his weight, and his voice lowered. “I worried you would not believe me. You have always seen the good in Prudence, much more than anyone else could.”
Her lips trembled, and she shook her head. “No, I was as blind as my grandfather. I refused to see the truth. I followed her every direction, but Paul, I am no longer blind. I am painfully—so very, very painfully—aware of her designs now. She is evil, and I cannot stay here any longer. Grant Estate no longer holds the promise of happiness, no matter how I hope or try to wish it.”
Paul folded his arms. “I do not know whether to mourn that you are leaving or cheer you on in your escape. Perhaps I may do both?”
She collapsed in his arms. “You’ve been my dearest friend. I will miss you.”
“Where will you go?” he asked, pulling away to look at her. “You have no relations in London. You cannot take up employment.”
Rose swallowed. “I have an aunt in Andover. I will leave tonight, if you will help me.”
Paul’s eyes widened. “Then you must pack, straight away. Meet me in the kitchen gardens after midnight, and I will have a wagon waiting.”
She spun around the open field, taking in each rock and tufted mound. She would miss this place, if only for the memories it had given way to.
Despite what she had previously imagined to be true, recollections were not embedded in trees or wishing wells or halls where laughter once rung; they were more than fields of flowers or portraits hanging by her grandfather’s door. Sentiments were more than flashes of faces and infinitely more powerful than time and separation.
Rose clutched at her chest. She would take them all—the good and the bad, the joy and the pain—but she would not turn back. There was only one thing left to do, and so Rose hurried to the corner bedroom at the top of the stairs.
As always, she stopped a few feet short of the door. Her mother’s portrait. Tears built behind her eyes. Rose traced her mother’s features until each slant and curve of her mother’s face etched into her memory; she would carry the picture with her.
“Rose, is that you?” her grandfather asked from the other side of the cracked door.
He always sensed her nearness before she entered the room, and though her grandfather’s treatment seemed to sway as drastically as his moods, Lord Grant was as close to a father as Rose had known. His loving touch and soft words were, after
her mother’s passing, all she saw of familial love.
“Yes, I have come to see you.” Rose wiped at her eyes, glancing once more at her mother’s face. “If that is conducive to your schedule?”
He sat in a chair near the window, pressing his wrinkly fingers to the glass. He turned his head toward her voice, but his eyes were clouded, aimless. “I suppose I may be able to pencil you in, granddaughter.”
Rose halted, and her recently repressed tears threatened once more. How appropriate it was that she find him in good spirits before her parting. She sat in an opposite chair and looked down below. “Shall I describe the view then?”
“Mmm, yes. I have been picturing the absurd—wild turkeys running about, the gardeners’ neglect, and my daughter scolding the lot of them, turkeys included.” Lord Grant chuckled at his own amusement. He leaned his forehead to the window. “I can feel the warmth though.”
Rose cleared her throat, hoping to disguise her emotion. “Not a turkey to be seen, Grandfather. Further, the gardeners are hard at work. If you’ll strain, you can hear the—”
“Clipping of the hedge sheers.”
She swallowed and placed a hand to his knee. “Exactly so. The roses are blooming, and I found such a pretty patch of wildflowers on my walk yesterday. I could have sat in the field for hours, smelling them. My mother would have.” Her voice cracked on the word ‘mother’. Rose hung her head.
Lord Grant remained silent, but he gripped her hand and reached his other to touch her face. “Ah, just what I imagined—wet with tears. You are not one to cry, my dear. What has happened?”
She had already contemplated, but ultimately decided against, telling him about the corset. Instead, she brought his other hand to her cheeks, falling on her knees before him. “I have something I must tell you, and I hope you will understand.”
“You are leaving me.”
She gasped, shaking under his touch. “I do not wish to leave you, but I must. I cannot stay here any longer.”
The Fairest Heart (Once Upon A Regency Book 1) Page 6
