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“No. He did not. I’m sorry, Mama, I’m going to bed.”
“You are not moving until you tell us every detail of that meeting.” The Baron said, his voice hard. “Starting with where you met this gentleman.”
Rosaline breathed in deeply, then pasted a smile onto her face. “I met him through Cordelia. You know, the lady that you consider an inappropriate friend, Mama.”
Judging by the look on the Baroness’ face, she would not be categorizing Cordelia as “inappropriate” anytime soon. Rosaline took her opportunity and raced up the stairs. She’d run out of energy, and perhaps that was why she didn’t hear the pat-pat-pat of following footsteps.
“You weren’t telling the truth.”
Rosaline flinched. “You shouldn’t follow people around, Edmund. It’s inappropriate.”
Edmund was fourteen, and as awkward and lanky as most boys his age. He was uncomfortably aware that many of his friends were set to go on to great schools and universities, whereas he was stuck with his disinterested Mama and well-meaning older sister as his tutors. He was a clever boy and excelled in languages and Mathematics. It was just a pity his talents would never be nurtured. Colleges and tutors were expensive, and their son’s education was not high on the Wyres’ list of priorities.
He was sharp as flint, and twice as stony. He rather saw himself as the man of the house – their father having fallen dreadfully, completely short – and tried his absolute best to boss his sisters around. He didn’t succeed, but he tried. It was almost endearing at times. He was going to be tall one day and was shooting up like a bean sprout. However, his body hadn’t quite caught up, and he looked rather like he’d been stretched out at the moment, all thin arms and legs, gawky and graceless like a foal.
Edmund folded his arms, stepping into his sister’s room. “I can tell when you’re lying, you know. You aren’t telling the whole truth about that man.”
Rosaline pressed her lips together, turning her back to fold some clothes left on her bed. “This isn’t your business, Edmund.”
“It is my business, I’m your brother.” He walked around the bed, forcing Rosaline to look him in the eye. “What are you doing?”
She sighed. “I’m going to save us, Edmund.”
Edmund blinked. “A man like the Duke is not going to marry you. It’s obvious to everyone. Dukes just don’t marry penniless girls. If they do, they’re always marvelously beautiful and alluring, and no one talks of anything else for years. It’s a tremendous scandal. I mean, people still talk about Mr. Brummell marrying Miss White, and she hadn’t a penny to her name. It’s been years now, but some people still turn up their nose at her.”
“Perhaps – and you’ll need to wrap your head around this one very carefully, Edmund – I don’t intend to use my hand in marriage to better our circumstances. Perhaps I don’t actually want to marry the Duke.”
“Well, I can’t see how else you would ‘save’ us. It’s not as if ladies can do much in the world, besides marry. It’s not fair, but there it is. Please, Rosaline, don’t do anything foolish.”
She smiled weakly, reaching out to pat Edmund’s cheek. The poor boy was really suffering with a case of teen-aged spots and pimples.
“I’ll be fine, Edmund. I know what I’m doing. Somebody has to do something for us. I know you rather fancy yourself as the man of the house, but I’m the eldest, and you ought to be thinking about school and getting nervous around girls. Let me handle this. Give me a little more credit, won’t you? I have aplan.”
“Is it a good plan?” Edmund asked acidly.
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You can’t have everything at once, Edmund. I like to just make things up as I go, don’t you know?Now get out, I want to go to sleep. I need to gather my strength to convince Mama to let me visit Cordelia tomorrow.”
Mrs. Atwood’s thin eyebrows shot up towards her receding hairline when she saw Rosaline on her doorstep. The butler who’d opened the door had been reluctant to let her in and had duly fetched his mistress for a consultation. Mrs. Atwood scanned Rosaline’s figure, dwelling on her darned dress, long out of fashion.
Mrs. Atwood was wearing a vibrant canary-yellow dress. The color did not suit her in the least, but Rosaline happened to know that canary-yellow was the most fashionable (and therefore most expensive) color on the market. Canary-yellow fabric was everywhere, and the Baroness had tried to buy some from a disreputable trader for a ridiculously cheap price and ended up with yellow-green fabric that seemed to be exactly the color of vomit.
Running her hand complacently over her narrow waist (secured by layers of stays and corsets, Rosaline was sure) and smiled coldly.
“Why, Rosaline. What brings you here? Does your mother know?”
The implication there was clear. Rosaline smiled.
“Yes, Mama knows.” She didn’t add that her mother had been happy to forgive the Atwoods anything, if they could put her children in the way of such rich and influential men. “May I see Cordelia?”
Mrs. Atwood made a vague ‘come in’ gesture and turned back to her drawing room. She walked quickly, not looking back to see if Rosaline was following. “She is in her bedroom. I am taking my afternoon nap, so please do not disturb me.”
It was hardly a warm welcome, but it was good enough for Rosaline. She ducked past the disapproving butler and met Cordelia on the stairs.
The stairs were thickly carpeted, a variety of colors mixing to give the impression that somebody had dropped a plate of food down the stairs, with the vegetables and meat sliding slowly down the stairs, leaving streaks and splotches of color as they went.
It was hideous, but another show of wealth. There was no stair carpet in Rosaline’s house, only bare stairs which would splinter your feet if you weren’t careful. Those stairs had destroyed many an expensive pair of embroidered dancing slippers before they learned to walk carefully downstairs.
“Ithought it was you!” Cordelia gasped. “Does your mama…”
