Rose held up a hand. “I have no need of platitudes this morning, Sarah.” She stood and faced the maid. “And you need to consider whether you will go to Yorkshire with me in the fall.”
Sarah blinked. “Of course, I will, my lady. Do you not want me to?”
Rose reached for Sarah’s hand. “I absolutely do. But life will be quite different in the country. Not as many dinners and only the occasional dance at the village assembly rooms. It can be quite dull for a young lady.” Rose grinned slyly. “And I thought you had caught the eye of our new footman...”
Sarah’s face flushed hairline to collar. “Oh! Freddie! Yes, well, he’s sweet and all—and ever sotall—but Mr. Davis scolded both of us, said Freddie was too young and too new to be thinking of such things.”
Rose laughed. “I don’t see why servants should wait any later than anyone else.”
Sarah tucked her chin down. “Well, we do need to be settled in a place for awhile.”
“You have been here thirteen years.”
“Aye. But Freddie has only been here a few months.”
Rose released her hand. “Ah. Well... I still think it should be your choice. I did not want to assume anything. And if we get there and you are unhappy, you will tell me.”
Sarah bobbed a quick curtsey. “Of course, my lady.”
“I am going down to breakfast, then I have a dozen notes to write, and I need to see Mrs. Williams about that silly soiree—something about the rented chairs is going awry. I’ll meet you in the foyer at a quarter of.” Rose snagged Athena and curled the disgruntled orange cat in her arms as she headed downstairs. At the base, Davis was in the foyer, just outside the drawing room, with two vases of flowers balanced in his arms.
“Already? It’s not even eight!”
Davis gave her a curt nod. “These are numbers three and four.”
“A plethora of riches, Davis.”
“Yes, my lady, for the hothouse owners, I’m sure.”
Rose snorted a laugh and headed into breakfast. Athena leapt from her arms and dashed toward the back staircase, heading down to the kitchens. Rose brushed orange fuzz from her skirt, then laded a plate with toast, eggs, kedgeree, and fruit from the sideboard. Her father sat at the head of the table, drinking coffee and reading the folded paper beside his plate. His breakfast dishes had been cleared, except for a small plate with a piece of toast.
He glanced at Rose as she sat. “Good morning, daughter.”
“Good morning, Papa.”
“I heard you called me a coward.”
Rose stopped her fork halfway to her mouth, a bite of eggs balanced precariously. “Sir?”
His mouth twitched, and he couldn’t fight the smile any longer. “For hiding in my study.”
Rose completed her first bite, swallowed, then smiled her thanks at the footman who poured tea in her cup. She peered at her father, whose eyes crinkled at the corner, a teasing expression he turned frequently on his children. Edmund Timmons, Lord Huntingdale, had seen six children enter the Marriage Mart, had brokered secure and beneficial marriage contracts for two daughters, and advised two sons on their courtships. His relationships to all of the children were loving and supportive, but it had been apparent to the entire family that he heavily favored Rose—his eldest—and Albert—his heir.
Edmund had been the first to champion Rose’s takeover of his household management when it became clear she would not marry. In his words, “It would allow Lady Huntingdale to set aside something she is uniquely unqualified to handle and save us all a great deal of grief.” And it had been Rose who had pushed him not to give up after having what the doctors called a “hemorrhagic apoplexy.” He gave her credit to anyone who would listen for the fact that he no longer relied on a wheelchair or cane. Rose knew all too well the state of her father’s courage.
“I did indeed.” Rose spread jam on her own toast. “But having you in there, lurking behind a half open door, may have been beneficial in the end. Like having the king of the pride looming with an unseen ferociousness. I saw more than one gentleman glance at the door on his way in and out. All those Daniels checking out the lion’s den.”
Edmund snorted and took another sip of coffee. “Does your mother know yet?”
“Know...?”
“That Cecily has set her cap for young Philby?”
Rose straightened in surprise. “She told you?”
Her father chuckled. “She’s seventeen. She bounced in here as soon as she discovered he had sent more flowers this morning.”
“More?”
