Miss Mayton cleared her throat. “Chapter two,” she said.
Rosalind sipped her tea and contentedly listened to this new story Miss Mayton had found for them. The duke had just insisted that the governess begin dining with him at table. During their dinners, he posited all sorts of ways his dead wife might have ended up in the well. Perhaps she was thirsty and had leaned over the side and then fell in. Perhaps she was running from a mad dog and accidently gone over the side. Perhaps a devilish ghost had led her there in her sleep.
The governess found herself torn—naturally, the duchess might have ended in the well for any of those reasons. And yet, the housekeeper kept telling her that the duke had strangled his lady and threw her in. Who to believe?
Miss Mayton closed the book with a satisfied sigh. “We are left to wonder, are we not?”
By way of her approbation, lovely little Bess was gripped with a series of explosive and noxious fumes.
Cordelia and Viola ran to the windows to get them open, and then Juliet opened the door for good measure.
Madame Tussaud rose and said, “I am very tired, I must retire.” She staggered from the dining room murmuring, “Jamais de ma vie—je suis sans voix.”
They’d all turned to one another and nodded approvingly at the lady’s parting words, as they were so perfectly apt.Never in my life—I am speechless.
Rosalind was not a bit surprised. Of course the ladywouldbe struck speechless, what with all the entertainments they had offered for her benefit. When her carriage wheel broke, Madame Tussaud could not have had any idea that her evening would pass by so engagingly.
They all speedily agreed that they must visit Madame Tussaud and her wax figure display at the Lyceum. After all, she had become quite the friend and they all felt that nobody could need more propping up than a French royal sympathizer. It could not be comfortable to find oneself on that sort of a losing side. The English might have done away with a nobleman from time to time, but never so many at once!
The following morning,Rosalind and her sisters were all looking forward to breakfasting with Madame Tussaud, but the innkeeper told them she’d set off in a hurry just before the dawn broke.
Now, their carriage trotted at a brisk pace, poised to enter the great city of London.
Rosalind had opened her window, on account of Bess’ continuing stomach troubles, and watched the world go by.
Ever cognizant of what went on around her, she had taken in some lessons from Beatrice’s adventure in Town. The primary thing she had decided upon was that Beatrice’s list of requirements had been all well and good, but far too long.
Beatrice had been determined to find a gentleman with the courage of Beowulf, the strength of Hercules, the derring-do of Robin Hood, as gallant as Sir Gawain, having the depth of feelings of Shakespeare, and the stalwart heart of Henry the Fifth.
If one were to require so many attributes, then the fates might throw their hands up and deliver the likes of Van Doren, who had none of them.
Rosalind had decided that a lady must boil the thing down to its essence. What was the single thing that was most important to Lady Rosalind Bennington?
It had been the work of a moment to define it. Her gentleman must be daring and courageous, brave, and dripping in valor.
It really was the most sensible thing, as she was rather daring and courageous herself and a lady could not be happy with a man she could defeat before breakfast.
Had it not been she who had valiantly approached that hornet’s nest to knock it down with a broom after one of the creatures had stung Juliet? Of course, she’d not got it knocked down and had ended up with far more stings than Juliet had ever got, but it had been the spirit of the thing.
Was it not herself who had pronounced the music tutor a sour-face for never smiling? Of course, she had missed several desserts after the fellow complained to the earl. Worse, that old sour-face had smiled at her ever after, as if he were forever thinking of her punishment. It had so discomposed her that she never did learn to read music. But again, it had been the spirit of the thing.
Had it not been Rosalind who had stolen down into the kitchens late one evening to secretly and silently prepare her sisters’ favorite treat? Bread and butter, sprinkled with sugar? They called it faerie’s tea and it was the remedy whenever they all caught colds. That she had somehow sprinkled the bread with salt rather than sugar had been unfortunate, but again it had been the spirit of the thing.
She was bold and would require an even bolder gentleman.
As she had such a short list of requirements, Rosalind was certain the fates would be pleased and her daring gentleman should present himself in all haste.
“How odd that we should be on our way to London and Beatrice is not in our carriage,” Viola said.
“She could not be, though,” Juliet said. “Van Doren must be making moon eyes at her at all times and will not be parted from her.”
“They will follow us soon enough,” Miss Mayton said, “and be directly across the street. Van Doren has bought the house he rented last season.”
“Oh yes,” Cordelia said, “Right across the street. Beatrice mentioned that she liked it and it was done.”
“I hope he does not mean to make me any trouble,” Rosalind said. “It’s all well and good that Beatrice is delighted with him and I am so gratified that my sister is happy, but he does continue on with his lectures tous.”
“Less so, though,” Miss Mayton said, “as he is always so distracted by Beatrice.”
