“Mummy,” she called out, her voice small in the vast room.
Her mother stood by the window in her ball gown, the pale silk shimmering in the firelight. She wore a mask, and her hair hung loose down her back. But when she turned, her beautiful face was wrong. Twisted, caved in on one side. Dark liquid pooled at her feet, spreading across the Persian rug like spilled ink.
“Run, Rose,” Mummy whispered. But it wasn’t her voice anymore. It was the voice of something else, something that made Rose’s skin crawl with terror.
She tried to move, tried to scream, but her feet were rooted to the floor. Behind her, she felt eyes watching. A presence that made her want to disappear entirely.
Rose woke with a gasp, her heart hammering against her ribs.
Sunlight streamed through the gaps in her bedroom curtains, chasing away the nightmare’s chill. She clutched the delicate lace-trimmedcoverlet to her chest, her skin damp with perspiration. Twelve years, and the dream still came to her. Always the same. Always leaving her hollow and shaken.
The door opened quietly, and Prudence appeared with the morning tea tray, her kind face immediately creased with concern. “My lady? I heard you scream. Was it the dream?”
“Yes. The same as always.” Rose pushed herself upright, accepting the cup of tea Prudence offered. The warmth helped steady her hands. She shook away the dream. It was of no consequence. Just a silly nightmare that had followed her into adulthood.
But she wasn’t fine, and they both knew it. How could she be when she’d never remembered what really happened that night? The doctors said it was natural for a child to forget trauma, but Rose sometimes wondered if the not-knowing was worse than the truth.
Despite twelve years passing, Rose still found it impossible to understand how anyone could murder a mother, leaving a little girl orphaned. Taking away a little girl’s mother over a petty rivalry was unconscionable. Lord Ashford had paid for it with his life. Rose took small comfort in that, even though she’d heard the man had left three children behind. Two sons and a daughter who had already lost their mother, leaving them orphans. Her naturally sympathetic nature made it impossible to think ill of them. They’d been as much victims as Rose. She sometimes wondered what had become of them but would never have asked her father. He forbade her to speak of her mother’s death.
Prudence moved to the French doors that opened onto the balcony, pulling back the heavy blue brocade curtains and tying them with silken cords, but leaving the sheer inner curtains loose to flutter in the summer air. “The sun’s quite cheerful today. That should help.”
Rose smiled despite herself. Prudence had a way of assigning moods to the weather that never failed to amuse her. “You’re right, as always.”
This was the south of England, after all. There were many ways to describe rain, mist, and clouds. Not today, however. July brought sunshine and warm weather. And all the lovely roses.
Rose threw back the coverlet and slipped from beneath the linen sheets. She pushed aside the pale blue silk drapes from her carved wooden four-poster bed. Prudence helped her into her robe before Rose crossed the room, the powder-blue Aubusson rug soft under her feet.
She walked out to the balcony and gazed out at the rolling Sussex countryside, sighing with pleasure. Golden fields of wheat and barley and clusters of ancient oaks and elms lay beyond the manicured gardens of the estate, with paths that wove between lush rose beds and ivory trellises. A narrow lane wound past the estate toward the village, where the only hint of life was distant smoke from the chimneys of early risers.
Sounds of birdsong and the humming of bees in lavender pots replaced any lingering effects of her bad dream. Breezes brought scents of freshly cut grass and honeysuckle growing on her balcony walls.
How she loved summertime.
Rose let out a contented sigh. “I’m awfully glad to be home. The Season exhausted me. I’m afraid the city’s not for me.”
The Season had been mortifying in every way. She’d not anticipated being a wallflower, but night after night she’d sat alone, wishing someone would fill in her dance card. But it was like she was poison, the way the eligible men stayed away. Or worse, whispered about her when they thought she couldn’t hear.
That’s the Wentworth girl. You know, the one whose mother…
Her father’s reputation is hardly pristine…
I’d not go near her. Not with what I know of her father…
“It is nice to be home, my lady,” Prudence said sympathetically. As always, Rose’s lady’s maid was immaculate in a simple navy dress, her golden blond hair pinned neatly under her starched cotton cap.
Movement caught Rose’s eye. A lone man on horseback traveled up the road toward Wentworth Manor. Who could it be this time of morning? Perhaps someone inquiring about work. Prudence had mentioned that Mr. Thorncroft, their head gardener, had dismissed a lad the day before. Mr. Thorncroft was beside himself about the aphids on the roses, and the boy had been an unworthy opponent to the tiny, terrorizing bugs.
The man halted his horse in the driveway. He dismounted gracefully and handed the reins to a stable boy, rolling his shoulders as if he had come a long way. Although leanly built, his shoulders and chest were substantial. He was tall too; she guessed him to be over six feet. He plucked a flat cap from his head and ran fingers through dark, thick hair as he turned in a full circle, clearly taking in the grounds.
There was something rugged and untamed about him, yet elegant and proud too. His face seemed skillfully carved from a piece of driftwood—high cheekbones, deep-set eyes, and a long, thin nose all perfectly symmetrical. She could not see the color of his eyes. If she hadn’t known better, she would think he’d been raised as a nobleman. It was the proud jut of his chin and straight posture, perhaps, that gave her such an impression.
However, he wore only a loose linen shirt, rolled up over his thick forearms, and a dark brown, fitted waistcoat that emphasized his muscular frame. As did his dark, fitted trousers that clung to muscular legs. His worn riding boots were covered with a coat of dust. A plain leather satchel hung across his chest.
Goodness. The morning was warm already. She set aside her hot tea but continued to watch the stranger who had arrived on horseback.
Mr. Thorncroft appeared from behind one of the manicured hedges to greet him, holding out his weather-worn hand.
Ah, yes, he was here about the gardening position.
