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21
“My lady, you have a caller.”
Rosalind didn’t even look up at Watkins. She was kneading a ball of dough on the worktable in the kitchen with mixed results. Bread wasn’t really her area of expertise, but she found her interest in pastry to be lagging since her—Argument? Dismissal?Fit of weeping?—with Torrington.
She paused, sinking her fingers deep into the dough, feeling the familiar sense of loss, but it was much more muted now.
“I’m not receiving. Tell Lady Richardson I’ll call when my schedule permits.” Her mother had called at least three times in the last week, but Rosalind wasn’t up for a barrage of questions about her marriage. She wasn’t about to sit and sip tea with the woman who was responsible for this entire mess. After Rosalind’s escape from Torrington and his unwelcome confession to her, her husband had not tried to speak to her again. In the last fortnight, Torrington hadn’t attempted to approach or engage her in conversation. In fact, she’d barely seen him. He stayed out most nights or in the study with Bijou. Rosalind spent her time at Pennyfoil’s. They were well on their way to having a perfectly civilized marriage of convenience. Many couples lived separate lives. Her marriage to Torrington was no different.
Rosalind felt better. The longer she kept Torrington at arm’s length, the stronger she became.
After a time, with proper distance between them, Rosalind thought they might resume the physical aspect of their relationship on a limited basis. After all, Torrington still needed an heir. She enjoyed sharing a bed with her husband. But that was all they would share.
Watkins cleared his throat. “It is Her Grace, the Dowager Duchess of Averell, my lady.”
Rosalind dropped the ball of dough, giving it a look of disgust. Too much flour. The bread would be dense and chewy. Barely edible. “Her Grace?” She wiped her hands on her apron. Even Rosalind wasn’t so bold as to turn away a duchess, especially not Cousin Amanda. Perhaps she brought word that Romy was finally on her way home from Italy. Or possibly Leo was coming back to London. He had to leave America at some point.
Rosalind ran up the stairs, handed her apron to Watkins, patted her hair, and sailed into the drawing room.
Cousin Amanda sat on the sofa in a gown of soft pearl gray, giving the appearance she was sitting in a misty cloud. The loss of Marcus Barrington lingered in every line of her body, like a heaviness which caused her shoulders to sag slightly no matter how much she might wish otherwise.
Rosalind had done the right thing in regards to Torrington. The evidence was before her.
“Ah, there you are, Rosalind. I hope you don’t mind, but I asked your butler for tea.”
“Of course not.” She came forward and kissed Cousin Amanda’s cheek. “How lovely to see you.”
“But unexpected.” A wry smile tilted her lips. “You thought Winifred had come once more to speak to you. She is smarter than you give her credit for. She asked me to call instead.”
Rosalind’s smile faltered. “I see. I can’t imagine what Mother can be concerned about. She got what she wished. I’m married to Torrington.”
Cousin Amanda laughed, a light, airy sound which flitted around the room like fairy dust. “Yes, a terrible fate indeed. Torrington is quite marvelous. Winnie did well in matching you to him.”
“Not in my opinion, Your Grace.”
“I recall, Rosalind, when you were a child, that Andromeda made a trousseau for your doll.”
Rosalind frowned at the abrupt change of topic. Surely, Cousin Amanda hadn’t called to merely reminisce about Rosalind’s childhood.
“You complained, stringently, that there wasn’t a black dress included. You stated, very stubbornly, of course, thatallwives must have a dress in black for when their husband died. I believe you insisted to Romy that she rework your doll’s wardrobe toonlycontain that color.”
Unease filled her. “Theodosia reminded me of the incident. I don’t recall it with any great clarity,” she lied.
“Your mother wore black for an extended period after Lord Richardson’s death. Far longer than necessary. Years.” Her lips pursed. “You came to live with us at Cherry Hill for a time so that Winnie could... recover from her grief.”
Rosalind’s mother had nearly been sent to an asylum. Her physician had called it a complete and utter break of the mind due to shock. “She went mad, Your Grace, in her grief over my father. I think we can admit that to each other.”
The dowager duchess looked away for a moment. “She loved him very much, Rosalind. And she had been so young when they wed. Barely more than a girl. Winnie didn’t even know how to run a household. Nor did she have your practicality. Richardson was everything to her. A father figure. A husband. A lover.” Cousin Amanda laughed softly and turned back to face her.
“My father was a flirtatious, elderly rake.”
“Gently reformed, Rosalind. A leopard doesn’t change his spots, not when those spots are sixty years old. He might have strayed on occasion, but not with his heart. He loved Winnie.”
“She gave up her entire life to nurse him. He would demand she fetch him a pillow. Ask her to cut his meat. I was there, Your Grace.”
“When Richardson became ill, Winniechoseto nurse him because she wanted to spend every last moment with your father. I suspect what you recall most is Winnie’s collapse. It is a pity you cannot remember the joy your parents had between them that resulted in you.”
Rosalind’s fingers shook against her skirts, wishing she could shred the muslin. “She should have chosen a man closer to her own age. Instead, she was a grief-stricken widow before the age of twenty-five. That’s what my father’s heir hurled at her while Mother...” A tear threatened to fall from one eye, and Rosalind blinked it away. “She sobbed hysterically and begged to join my father.” It had been terrifying for a child of seven to witness, seeing her mother awash in anguish as she pleaded with God to allow her to leave this life and join her husband. “When they dragged her away, I ran into the kitchens. I made a spice cake.” A tear finally spilled down her cheek. “No one even came to look for me. Or cared where I was until you and Cousin Marcus came. I was alone.”
