100. A Rose In Jeopardy (3 page)

The fair sex was a very sensitive subject with Lord Brockley just at that very moment.

Relations with his wife, Lady Brockley, had never been particularly cordial, but after the deplorable incident of just a few days ago, she had gone, most unnecessarily, in Algernon’s opinion, on the warpath and forbidden her husband entry to the Mayfair house.

Lord Brockley had been reduced to sleeping at his Club, which had led to his spending a great deal of time in the smoking room there and thus the plan to travel down to Hampshire and take possession of New Hall.

“New Hall – new start, your Lordship! What could be better?” Algernon had suggested, thinking that the more miles they could put between themselves and the furious Lady Brockley the better.

In spite of the sweat that was dripping from him in the sweltering interior of the coach, Algernon gave a little shiver as he remembered the expression of icy fury on that Lady’s aristocratic countenance and the sheer hatred that blazed from her steely eyes as she ejected both him and Lord Brockley from the front door of the Mayfair House.

“Where is our son?” she had hissed at her husband. “You have driven him away, you useless man! What have you done, you and that despicable friend of yours, to cause him such distress? Get out! And never let me see you here again.”

Algernon had tried to protest that it was surely her beloved offspring, Lyndon Brockley, who was at fault and why, he, Algernon, could hardly see at all out of the eye the young man had so impetuously shoved his fist into!

But Lady Brockley was having none of it and the elegant blue door slammed irrevocably shut behind them.

Algernon sighed.

What could he do, when young ladies found him so irresistibly attractive?

He knew that he always looked very dapper in his evening dress, especially the frock coat very cleverly cut to disguise a waistline that had, alas, begun to expand a little in recent years.

And the combined effect of his good tailoring, well-brushed hair and perfectly tweaked moustache had indeed worked its magic on the slightly tipsy young person in the blue dress, who had fallen into his arms on the stairs after dinner at the Brockley’s Mayfair house a few nights ago.

A most charming creature and pure chance that she just happened to be engaged to Lyndon, Lord Brockley’s son.

If only young Lyndon had then been a little more attentive, he might have been the one to catch her, when her foot became tangled in the train of her dress and the one who should have pressed his lips against her delicious young mouth.

“Merriman!” Lord Brockley’s angry voice recalled his companion to the jolting coach. “I cannot continue. I require some liquid refreshment. Immediately!”

One of the reasons why Algernon had remained so close to Lord Brockley for so long, was his willingness to fit in with whatever his Lordship wanted to do.

Now, as he peered out of the window, he could see that they were driving by houses and shop fronts.

“I think we must be in Winchester,” he said. “Let’s pause at the nearest hostelry.”

He reached up and thumped on the roof, shouting to the coachman to take them to an inn.

He was very thirsty himself and a flagon or two or even three of the finest local ale would not go amiss.

As the coach lurched to a halt, Algernon hurriedly fastened up the top button of the riding breeches he had worn for this journey into the country.

He had not worn them for ages and they really were far too tight for him now and most uncomfortable around his middle if he had to sit down for a long period of time.

But one must look the part of a country gentleman if one was to make the right impression on the pretty young girls who might be found in this rural locality.

Girls, like the delightful example he could see now, as he stepped out of the coach.

A slender little thing in a dark gown with the most sublime head of golden curls over which she was holding a parasol, was just walking out of the inn yard and up the High Street.

Lord Brockley stumbled down from the coach.

“Come on, Merriman,” he said impatiently. “Leave off chasing the girls for just one day, can’t you? This place looks most inviting.”

He peered into the interior of the inn and sniffed appreciatively at the mixed aromas of beer and roast beef.

“Merriman, we need go on no further,” he insisted with great determination. “I have had enough of travelling and botheration. We will stay here and have a good dinner and go on to New Hall later when we are fully refreshed.”

With a lingering glance at the graceful silhouette of the lovely golden-haired girl, now folding up her parasol and disappearing into a shop, Algernon Merriman tipped his hat over his forehead to disguise his huge black eye and followed his companion into the inn.

The gown in the window of Palmer’s Modes for Ladies was the most beautiful Rosella had ever seen.

It was a pale ivory silk evening dress with a wide flowing skirt, a blue velvet sash and narrow bands of velvet ribbon decorating the bodice.

As she stood on the hot sunny pavement and gazed at it, she thought that it looked like a beautiful white lily growing in a shady corner of the garden.

It was certainly a very pleasant sight after the hustle and bustle of
The
Peacock Inn
, where she had just left the carriage.

She had felt quite uncomfortable alighting there, a young girl all on her own and it seemed as if all the ostlers and pot-boys had stopped their work to stare at her.

And then a large covered coach had arrived with two rather disreputable-looking middle-aged men inside – and one of them, a stout fair-haired man with a moustache, had winked at her, which she did not like at all.

A loud jingling noise called Rosella to the present moment, as the door of the dressmaker’s shop opened.

“Lady Rosella! What a very pleasant surprise. Will you come inside?”

Mrs. Palmer, who ran the shop, peered at Rosella over her little half-moon glasses.

Rosella folded up her parasol and stepped into the shadowy interior of the shop, which had a pleasant smell of woollen cloth and freshly ironed cotton.

Mrs. Palmer brought a chair for Rosella and offered her a glass of lemonade.

Rosella accepted gratefully and, as she was sipping the cool drink, Mrs. Palmer spoke of Lady Beatrice and what a sad loss she was to the town and local villages.

“Her Ladyship will be so missed,” she sighed.

Rosella explained about the money her aunt had given her to buy a gown and Mrs. Palmer’s eyes lit up.

“I saw you looking, your Ladyship, at the model in the window! You will be needing a pretty evening gown like that, as I am sure you will have many balls to attend, now that you have become a young lady.”

She hurried into the rear of the shop and came back with an armful of silks of all different colours.

There were endless purples and violets and lilacs, yellows and golds and several different shades of pink, ranging from the palest of pearly sheen to a bright vivid colour like a fuchsia flower.

Mrs. Palmer slid the large bolts of silk onto a chair.

“There!” she said. “And if you cannot see what you like, my Lady, I have plenty more to choose from.”

Rosella could not help reaching out to touch one of the bolts of silk. It was the colour of a pink rose petal.

“Ah!” the dressmaker smiled. “What good taste you have, my Lady. And may I suggest this for the trimming?”

She then pulled a bunch of cherry-coloured velvet ribbons from a box.

“I-I’m not sure,” Rosella hesitated.

The colours looked quite perfect together, but she could not imagine herself wearing them.

All her dresses at New Hall were either white or pale blue, most suitable for a young girl. And, now, since her aunt’s death, she had grown used to wearing the dark colours of mourning and even though it was her favourite colour, she had never worn a pink gown.

“Why – but you have just the complexion to carry off this combination.”

Mrs. Palmer extended a hand to Rosella.

“Come to the mirror over here and I’ll show you.”

The dressmaker unfurled several yards of the pink silk and folded it round Rosella and then held up the bright ribbons at her waist and neck.

Rosella gasped.

In the mirror in front of her, she saw a tall and beautiful woman with lengths of golden hair tumbling over her bare shoulders and dressed in the glorious colours of a midsummer rose.

“Who – ?” Rosella whispered, looking over her shoulder, for she thought that this woman must have come silently into the shop and come to stand beside her.

But, of course, it was herself there in the mirror, just a slim shy girl trying out some silks for their colour.

She stared at her reflection and suddenly the mirror seemed to ripple in front of her and instead of the cramped dress shop, she could see a vast gloomy hall and a huge chandelier winking with candle flames hanging down from a high vaulted ceiling.

The beautiful woman stepped back, her pink skirts ruffling around her feet and Rosella saw that she wore a black velvet mask covered in tiny diamonds over her eyes.

And all round this woman shadowy figures moved, joining hands and then parting, as if going through all the steps of a dance.

And now the woman turned away, as if someone was approaching her and, as she lifted her hand to take the mask from her face, Rosella saw the figure of a tall man step out of the shadows, and she felt her heart swell inside her with a feeling that was half-excitement and half-fear, so that she could scarcely breathe.

“What is it, your Ladyship? Are you all right?”

Mrs. Palmer’s voice sounded faintly in her ears, but Rosella could hardly hear her, for now her head was full of the sound of violins and other strings, playing a swirling, passionate tune that made her heart beat even faster.

And then the mirror rippled again, the pink-clad figure faded away and Rosella shivered as the shelves and the counter of the dressmaker’s shop spun around her and the low ceiling seemed to loom down over her head.

The floor was rocking under her feet and suddenly there was a bump and her cheek was pressed against the rough wool of the carpet.

From very far away, she could now hear someone calling her name and then she felt a burning sensation in her nose and she realised that she had fallen down in a faint and that Mrs. Palmer was holding a vial of smelling salts in front of her face.

“Oh – ” Rosella gasped, struggling to sit up. “Oh, I am so sorry.”

“Please, my Lady. Don’t rush or you will bring on another faint.”

Mrs. Palmer put her arm round Rosella’s shoulders and held the glass of cold lemonade to her forehead.

“This hot weather is so trying,” she added, looking very anxious.

Rosella closed her eyes, attempting to recapture the strange scene in the mirror.

The music still echoed in her ears and, now that Mrs. Palmer had removed the smelling salts, a mysterious, cool scent, like river water, was filling her nose.

But the vast hall and the candles had all vanished, along with the woman in the glorious pink gown.

“Shall I send for your carriage, my Lady?” Mrs. Palmer asked, bending over her.

Very slowly Rosella rose to her feet.

“Thank you, Mrs. Palmer, but I am sure I will be able to walk to
The Peacock Inn
. It is only just down the High Street and that is where my carriage is waiting.”

Mrs. Palmer bent down and gathered up the folds of pink silk that lay shining at their feet.

Somehow the sight of the silk made Rosella feel uneasy. It was her favourite colour, but it was almost too beautiful to look at and she could not help but think of the strange vision she had just seen in the mirror.

Mrs. Palmer insisted that she should walk with her, in case she became unwell again.

“No, please don’t trouble. The fresh air will revive me, I am sure.” Rosella said. “Thank you so much for looking after me. I will come back in a few days’ time and choose a new dress for myself.”

She then put up her parasol and walked out into the bright sunlight on the High Street.

The voices of the passers-by seemed very loud and the dust that the passing horses kicked up from the road as they trotted by stung her eyes.

It was good to be outside again, but Rosella was still not feeling quite herself.

She could not get the dreamlike vision she had just experienced out of her mind and she longed to go home and lie down on her bed, close her eyes and see if she could conjure up that vast gloomy hall and the soft light of the chandelier again.

When she arrived at
The Peacock Inn
and walked under the arch that led from the High Street into the yard, there was no one about.

The carriage was there, next to the wall, but the horses had been put away in the stable and the coachman was nowhere to be seen.

Suddenly Rosella was startled by a load roar of excited men’s voices from inside the inn.

She could hear cheers and shouts of “yes, by Jove! He’s done it!”

Everyone must have gone inside, so she walked up to the door and looked in and all she could see was a crowd of men with their backs to her.

Gentlemen in well-cut riding coats, brawny ostlers in dusty leather aprons and baggy cord trousers and stable boys with straw in their hair, all jostling to get the best view of a table in the corner.

Suddenly the place became completely silent, as if everyone was holding his breath in anticipation.

Rosella heard the rattle of dice being shaken and thrown over the table and another huge roar filled the inn.

“He’s got the luck of the Devil!” someone shouted.

There was a scrape of chairs from the corner table and Rosella saw the gentleman with the moustache, who had winked at her earlier, sitting there playing dice.

He stood up now, his round face flushed red with excitement.

“I’d better stop,” he cried with a loud laugh, “or I’ll bankrupt the lot of you! What a marvellous run of luck. Fifty pounds on a few throws of the dice!”

He scooped up a pile of coins from the table.