AllFreeNovel
Share Us
14
Rosalind marched down the path in the park, one of the few amusements she was permitted since Mother had put a stop to visiting Pennyfoil’s. She’d sent him a note, of course, but had failed to disclose the reason for her absence.
Pennyfoil, in his reply, hadn’t questioned her, only saying that he would keep things well in hand should she return.
Should she return.
It was almost as if he knew Rosalind’s presence at Pennyfoil’s might be limited in the future. Frustration had her stomping her feet, stirring up clods of dirt around her ankles. She would not give up Pennyfoil’s. She would fight Torrington tooth and nail to keep her partnership with Pennyfoil.
She halted, turning to face the maid who dogged her every step. “Wait by the carriage.”
“But miss—”
It was Gert who trailed behind Rosalind. The maid Jacobson was busy tupping. She wondered if her mother knew aboutthat.
“Go.” Rosalind pointed at the carriage. “You can report my behavior to Lady Richardson when we return.”
Nodding, the red-haired girl ducked her chin and turned back.
Rosalind scanned the park. It was early. Most of society was still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. If anyone did happen to catch sight of her, it was doubtful they would care that Lady Richardson’s plump, nearly on-the-shelf daughter was exploring the park by herself.
Yes, but now I’ll never be on the bloody shelf.
Mother was already planning a wedding. She had wanted a lavish spectacle that all of London could admire, only moderately smaller than the ceremony that had united Romy and Granby. Mother had been rather disappointed when Torrington had declined.
Strolling toward a small copse of trees facing the Serpentine, Rosalind inhaled the muddy, wet scent of the river. The hem of her skirts grew damp from the dew still lingering on the grass.
Rosalind didn’t care.
She stopped abruptly, one hand reaching out to grab hold of the wide tree trunk before her. Her fingers stretched over the gnarled bark, tracing the jagged lines with the edge of her glove as she stared at a pair of geese floating by on the water. A leaf blew by Rosalind, lifted by the wind. The air spiraled about the leaf, pulling it down toward the grass before tossing it into the pond where one of the geese nipped at it.
I’m that leaf.
Rosalind detested feeling powerless. She was upset with her mother, of course. But there was a great deal of annoyance reserved for Torrington. Not to mention her fear.
She was very sure that once wed to Torrington and in close proximity to his gloriousness every single day, she might—become lost.The very thought had Rosalind considering fleeing her mother’s house and escaping to the Continent. Surely if she appeared in Italy, Romy would welcome her. Granby probably wouldn’t.
In the midst of a crisis these last few days, and with both Romy and Theodosia gone from London and no one else to confide in, Rosalind had done what she always did. She’d retreated to the kitchen and started to bake. In the last few days, the staff had benefited from the decadent custard, a ginger spice cake with pears, and two cherry tarts. The tarts had only made her think of Torrington.
Feeling peevish, she made sure that Jacobson was served the tiniest slice of everything.
“Is this about your father?”
Rosalind’s eyes closed.
Lord Richardsonhadbeen an elderly rake. Partially reformed at best. All she remembered about him was that he had been an older gentleman who giggled quite a bit and sometimes fondled the maids. He’d often said Rosalind was a ‘sturdy little thing’ while he hugged her. And always, Mother had floated in his wake, adoration on her face. He’d liked tickling Mother, which Rosalind could see now was likely more sexual in nature. They’d probably read his bawdy book collection together.
Rosalind frowned. It was rather cringeworthy to consider her parents reading those books. Worse to consider what Mother had becomeafter Lord Richardson’s death.
“I cannot survive this. My heart is shattered into a thousand pieces.”
Not her mother’s words. No, this time it was Cousin Amanda, prostrate with grief over the death of the Duke of Averell. Inconsolable.Frozenwith such anguish she couldn’t move from the sofa where she sat next to Rosalind’s mother.
Rosalind hadn’t needed another example that grief made one powerless. Or that loss consumed you. But one had been received all the same.
She’d taken one look at the two women, both mourning, and run to the kitchens where she couldn’t hear them weep. Her hands had flopped about, determined to bake something, do anything which would stave off her own grief at the death of Cousin Marcus.
Lemon blackberry cake. Proclaimed his favorite.
