CHAPTER TWO
“If madness is akin to genius, then according to the doctors, I must be Aristotle.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
“You should marry me, Rosalind. We’d make a good match.”
“No we wouldn’t. I love you, as you know, but like a brother, and you only think we’d suit because I’m quiet. But I like people, and you…well, you don’t.”
The man seemed unfussed by her negative response and briefly looked up from whatever he was writing.
“That’s not true. I like…lots of people.” But his eyes slid away, belying the truth.
Silence descended again, except for the scratching of quill against paper and the crackle of a wood fire. Rosalind watched her distant cousin scribble away and snuggled deeper into the elegant armchair.
She did love Benedict, especially as his company was always soothing and restful. He never expected you to entertain or amuse. Some called him miserable or churlish, but she knew the truth – Benedict understood the pleasure of silence.
Most people took Rosalind’s own quietness for shyness but that was far from accurate. Painful experience and a harsh childhood had tightened her spine to iron. Indeed, she felt no pressure to conform to others’ expectations, whether it be a ton matron wanting her to be a demure debutante or a man expecting her to amuse with witty repartee.
She loved noise but relished quiet contemplation. She loved people and talking but cherished being alone. She liked jokes and laughing but felt no need to falsify it.
And silence. She treasured silence. Except to Rosalind, it never really was quiet; there was always sound: the fizzle of flames in the grate, the soft rustle of pages turning, the cry of crows from the woods…
“I am not concerned by your…affliction.”
Rosalind winced at his choice of word. It sounded like she had a skin disorder or a dose of the pox. “I know, but I still won’t ever marry and you are well aware of my reasons. I will not foist myaffliction, as you would have it, on anyone.”
“Hmm, not well phrased of me,” he mumbled. “But I do owe you. You saved my life.”
“What a horrible reason to marry. Obligation. What’s brought all this on, Benedict?”
Signing the letter with a flourish, her cousin laid down his quill, closed the inkwell and raised soft brown eyes.
Rosalind glared in hatred at the inkwell. It was formed from two stag hooves, and however many times she had tried to accidently drop it, the thing always survived. In fact, the whole house had a cornucopia of stag furniture, but she supposed that was to be expected on an estate with so many acres of deer park.
“I have put provisions in my will for you, should anything ever happen to me, but even so, I don’t trust my brother. He’s a mean bugger.”
Rosalind peered at him in surprise: Benedict looked to be in robust health. “Are you planning on cocking up your toes soon? Do let me know and I’ll throw that inkwell on the fire.”
A vague smile flitted across his lips, which had to interpreted as a belly laugh coming from Benedict.
“These murders… I am concerned for your welfare, and you would be protected if you were my countess. Whether I was alive or dead.”
“I’m protected as your ward.”
“You have five and twenty years, a bit long in the tooth to be a ward.”
Glaring, Rosalind replied. “I looked after myself very well till you…released me. And if you should kick the bucket” – she turned from his pained expression at her cant – “I would be quite capable of looking after myself again. Your brother just needs firm handling. As to the murders, well, I’m sure Sir Hector has the situation under control.”
“Man couldn’t find a fox if it was farting in his face.”
“Really, Benedict! And you have the gall to questionmylanguage.”
Her cousin harrumphed and rose from his seat, striding purposefully towards the crystal decanters on the side table. Rosalind leaned forward and helped herself to a pink almond confit from the bonbon dish.
As his face caught in the light of the wall sconce, she realised Benedict needed a good shave. But then, he always needed a shave; the poor man must be constantly under the blade. His deep-brown hair was almost black in this light and his skin had an olive tone, even in winter, possibly from distant Mediterranean ancestry or the fact that he spent half the time outside with his beloved horses.
It really would be easier if she loved her cousin in a more…earthy way.
