“Oh, no,” he said, “never. I hear you are a candidate for instant angelhood when you die, Rosamund.”
“From the same source as you heard of Leonard’s age, I suppose,” she said.
It was decided at the breakfast table that Valerie Newton and her fiancé, Mr. Michael Weaver, would go boating too so that they could take two boats instead of loading down the one.
Annabelle did not really want to go, Rosamund discovered when they went upstairs to get ready. The girl wandered into Rosamund’s bedchamber when the maid was still dressing the latter’s hair.
“It is far too early in the year to go boating,” she said.
“But it is a lovely day, Annabelle,” Rosamund said, “and quite calm.”
“There is a walk of a whole mile to the lake,” Annabelle said.
Rosamund laughed. “I think I can drag my aged bones that far,” she said. “I’m sure you can too.”
“I have never really enjoyed boats,” the girl said.
Rosamund dismissed the maid and turned around on the stool to look at her niece. She frowned. “For a girl who is to be betrothed in less than a week’s time,” she said, “you do not seem very happy, Annabelle.”
“Because I do not want to go boating?” Annabelle said. “How silly.”
“He is a very handsome man,” Rosamund said, “and very amiable. You do like him, don’t you?”
“Lord Wetherby?” Annabelle said. “Of course I do, Aunt Rosa. And even if I did not, I trust the judgment of Mama and Papa and Grandmama and Grandpapa.”
Rosamund did not pursue the point. She drew on a warm pelisse and a bonnet and led the way downstairs. It was just Annabelle’s nature, she supposed, to show very little enthusiasm. She had scarcely seen the girl smile since her return from Lincolnshire.
And yet she was to marry Justin. How could she not smile every moment of every day? But it was not a thought to be pursued.
Valerie linked her arm through Rosamund’s as they left the house. “Do walk with me, Rosamund,” she said, “and tell me what you have been doing for the last eight or nine years. Goodness, is it really that long? I’m a veritable old maid, aren’t I? It’s a good thing that Michael did not realize that.”
The sky was a clear blue. The grass had lost its winter lack of luster and was a fresh green. Trees were budding into the bright green of early spring. The sun gave warmth, tempered by the freshness of the season. It was a perfect day for the outdoors. A perfect day in which to be in the country walking and boating and conversing with friends. It was a day to be enjoyed.
Rosamund ignored her tiredness. She had slept only in fits and starts the night before, and when she had dozed off she had had vivid and bizarre dreams. But she felt better this morning. She had adjusted her mind to the situation in which she found herself.
She had considered leaving Brookfield in order to return to Dennis’s house or to go somewhere else—anywhere else. But she could not do so. Dennis had come all the way to Lincolnshire to fetch her home so that she would be able to be part of these celebrations. And if she avoided the awkwardness this time, it would have to be faced numerous times in the future. Besides, she could not afford to go somewhere like Bath or Tunbridge Wells.
She had to stay. And if she had to stay, then she would have to see Justin daily. And soon—in less than a week, in fact—she would have to listen to the announcement of his betrothal and probably the plans for his wedding. Those were simple, unchangeable facts. There was no point at all in fighting against them or in giving herself sleepless nights or in pining and remembering and indulging in what-ifs. No point at all.
And so that morning she had smiled at him and bidden him a good morning and taken a seat across from him at the breakfast table. She had looked directly into his eyes whenever she had spoken to him or he to her. She had conversed determinedly with everyone else and even flirted a little with Josh. And she had survived. The worst was over and she would continue to survive.
The Earl of Wetherby walked with Annabelle.
“Early spring,” he said. “Is it not a lovely thought that winter is over at last?”
“Yes,” she said.
“The trees are in bud,” he said, “and the birds out in force.”
“Yes,” she said.
A one-sided conversation always lacked a great deal in profundity, he thought, looking down at her. He wondered if after a few days she would relax enough to smile at him. Strangely, he thought suddenly, he could not remember ever seeing the girl smile.
She looked up and met his eyes, seemed to realize that there was a conversation to sustain, and began to talk.
“Yes, I do love spring,” she said. “Aunt Rosa and I found some snowdrops in the grass before we came to Grandpapa’s. I love the roses later in the year. I wish it could always be summer and the roses blooming.”
She was really very lovely, he thought, as they chattered on about nothing in particular. More classically beautiful than Rosamund, with a fuller figure. But then, of course, she did not have that intriguing upper lip that Rosamund had, the first feature that had attracted him to her. And she did not have Rosamund’s dancing eyes and ready tongue and ever present humor. She was far more dignified than her aunt— and far less fun.
