CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
“My Bertie tried to encourage a love of wine in me, but I do still like a glass of ale. There are some things that you cannot leave behind, no matter how hard you try.”
Mrs Tadlow. Widow, mother and ten-year resident of Ingleford Lodge.
Lucas had been knocking on her door regularly for the past three hours. And now Rosalind could hear him talking with Mrs Mereworth.
But she had to give him time. It would take a while to absorb, a while to realise all of the consequences.
At first, he may hear her words and sympathise, but with time, he would see the limitations. Did he really want a woman that sometimes saw unspeakable things? Hadn’t Lucas seen enough horror? A woman that the people may gossip about. A woman that would not want children. God, she hadn’t even broached that…
Lucas would deny all this, of course. He was so bloody noble. He’d say it wouldn’t matter; he’d try and change her mind; he’d still say he loved her, even if he cringed inwardly in revulsion.
Blinking, she pulled the bed sheets up to her neck. She didn’t want to be there when he came to realise the reality, and so had locked herself in her chambers. To let him come to terms with it. To let him grasp how awful it migh–
“Rosalind Trewent, come out and let me hold you. Let me caress your nape and cover your sweet body with kisses.”
Blackmail, it was blackmail, and she wasn’t falling for it. He was appealing to her weak, lustful side, but she had dressed in her most unflattering thick woollen nightgown, precisely so she would not be tempted to ever answer the door.
Instead, she picked up the book Mrs Mereworth had lent her and began to read the second chapter ofMiss Pikesworth’s Guide to Etiquette. If anything could combat weaknesses of the flesh, it was Miss Pikesworth.
She could hear Lucas’s low murmur but refused to listen, and instead concentrated on the underlined and annotated sections in the book. It wasn’t Mrs Mereworth’s writing, so she flipped to the front to see if it had belonged to a relation. There was an inscription:
To dearest Lily,
Happy Birthday
So you may be the perfect wife
Lovingly, George
Frowning, Rosalind realised that the notes were in the same hand as the inscription. What a horrible birthday present from a husband! She would have been a veritable crosspatch if someone had gifted her withthat. It was also possible that the husband would have been badly injured by the book flying through the air.
Hearing voices again, she could stand it no longer and crossed to the door, placing her ear close.
“Truly, Major,” Mrs Mereworth was saying, “I would leave her until morning. She can be very stubborn but usually no more than a day or two. Benedict is already at the inn. Why don’t you join him tonight? I know for certain it’s venison pie here again, so you might as well.”
Then, silence. Rosalind pressed her ear harder to the door but heard nothing more; she wished people wouldn’t nod or shake their head when she was trying to eavesdrop – it was most vexing.
Suddenly a voice spoke next to her ear as though he knew she was right there, listening. It made her jump. “I will see you in the morning. I love you, Rosalind. All of you. Your darkness and your light. Your silence and your laughter. There is nothing,nothingthat could diminish my love.”
At the sound of footsteps fading down the hallway, she hugged herself close and savoured his words.
“What do you suggest I drink, Stone?”
“Has Rosalind told you about her…erm, past?”
“Yes.”
“Probably the Ole Grim, then.”
“Was that what I had last week, O’Carroll?”
“No, that was Barnstormer.” The landlord’s wicked grin widened. “This is much worse.”
“A tankard of Ole Grim then and anything, absolutely anything, that isn’t venison.” Or colcannon, he silently added.
“No rat pie, Major? Do ya remember that? Small village in east Portugal.”
