A Useful Woman (15 page)

“Very well.” She wondered if he realized that his relief showed in his face. She had removed the decision from him. “But you're misjudging her.”

“Probably. I misjudge a lot of people. It's my own bad character, I suppose.”

“You don't have bad character.”

She shrugged one shoulder. “I act badly, and that's all the world cares about.”

Casselmain wanted to argue the point. She could see it in his hesitation. He wanted to remind her that she could change her actions at any moment. She turned fully toward him, showing him plainly what she thought of such platitudes.

As a result, Casselmain said nothing. He just stood and bowed. Another point in his favor. He had always been fairly quick on the uptake.

“I should go condole with your father.”

“Yes, probably.” Honoria also stood, so he'd leave that much sooner. She was unbearably tired and there was the paper from the fireplace. She only hoped Rosalind was giving some good news to Mother; otherwise there would be no peace for anyone this whole horrid day.

“I do mean to be a decent husband while we're together,” Casselmain said. “It's little enough, I know, but I promise it all the same.”

“I know,” she told him, grateful he was willing to be so honest. “And I promise I will keep up your name and appearances. People think I don't care for them, or that I don't understand them, but I do know what must be done.”

“I never thought that you didn't care, Honoria,” he said quietly. “I'll leave you now.”

“Thank you.”

Casselmain bowed once more and she curtsied. He remembered to close the door behind himself.

As soon as the sounds of his footsteps vanished beneath the eternal clank and hiss of the conservatory's steam pipes,
Honoria turned to the mantle again and fished the scrap of paper out from the vase. More ash smeared her fingertips as she carefully turned it over. She squinted at it. The thing was barely the size of her thumb, so there wasn't not much to see—just a carefully written .
0
in red ink, and beneath it, another. But that and the faint grid of lines told her enough.

Jasper had been burning a ledger.

A Mother's Heart

She consents to become a victim of ambition and the slave to the world of fashion.

—
Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

Rosalind followed Lady Edmund, her sense of misgiving sinking deeper with each step. Despite this, she did not permit herself to hesitate. She did, however, glance over her shoulder in time to see Honoria rush from her room and down the hallway. Probably on her way to the conservatory's card room. What would she find there?

And what will you talk with Devon about?

Rosalind forced her thoughts away from this question. If Honoria's conversation with Lord Casselmain touched on anything to do with Jasper's death, Honoria would surely tell her. She could count on that, given the task she'd been set, that she'd agreed to.

What have I gotten myself into?

First, she had agreed to help Lady Blanchard, then the lady patronesses. These two promises at least were linked. Lady Blanchard was in distress and had been even before Jasper Aimesworth died. But had Rosalind now actually promised
Honoria she would look into the circumstances surrounding his death? What kind of a fool was she becoming?

Lady Edmund led Rosalind into her private sitting room. Through the threshold to the boudoir, where the lady's maid paused in the act of laying out several black dresses, doubtlessly looking them over to see which needed to be ironed or mended. She would probably be kept busy for the next several days re-dying some dresses and ordering others. A black bonnet waited on the dressing table, beside a neat row of black kerchiefs.

“You can go, Hiller.”

Her maid left without comment, closing the door behind herself. Lady Edmund gestured Rosalind to the tapestry chair beside the fireplace. No fire had been lit yet today, but despite that, the room felt stuffy, as if it had not been properly aired in some time.

“Now, Miss Thorne.” Lady Edmund settled herself gracefully onto the tapestry sofa. The death of her son had done nothing to alter the woman's bearing. She held herself as straight, proud, and determined as when Rosalind had last entered her house. “May I inquire what it was Honoria wanted to speak with you about?”

“It was said in confidence, Lady Edmund.”

This was very clearly not what the other woman wanted to hear. “Miss Thorne, Honoria is deeply distressed over her brother's death. When Honoria is distressed, she forgets herself. It is my duty as her mother to protect her from public comment during this difficult time.”

“I understand perfectly, Lady Edmund, but I still cannot answer you.”

Lady Edmund glared daggers at her. Rosalind brushed that off, and fairly easily. She had been glared at by experts. “Will you assure me that Honoria does intend to carry forward with her planned engagement to Lord Casselmain?”

Here, at least, Rosalind could tell the truth. “I believe that she does. She has not said otherwise.”

“Good. That will help restrain her actions until the worst of this is over.” Lady Edmund glanced toward her boudoir and the black dresses lying on the bed. “You must think me quite unfeeling, Miss Thorne.”

Again, this was something she could answer truthfully. “No, Lady Edmund. That is not at all what I think.”

“I would not blame you if you did. But I have lived a long time in the world, and I know the world does not reward sentiment. It will expect a proper funeral show, and appropriate mourning decorously stepped down at regular intervals. Nothing else will be tolerated, at least not for long, so that is what I must provide. Honoria will not, and my husband cannot.”

Rosalind looked at Lady Edmund, with her proud demeanor and her blunt declaration of social responsibility. In that moment, she felt suddenly and strongly sorry for the woman. Lady Edmund was right that her daughter would be no help with any expected arrangements. Honoria was too far gone in her own grief and anger. As for Lord Edmund . . . he might very well be drunk as Honoria suggested. That left Lady Edmund entirely alone. Probably she had felt herself to be alone for many years now.

“I cannot spare you much time,” Lady Edmund went on. “But I wished to speak with you regarding the matter of my previous invitation for you to stay with us. I wanted to be sure you know that it is still on offer.”

Which meant she was still holding out her bribe of the house and pension in return for being named Lady Blanchard's successor to Almack's board of patronesses. Rosalind looked at her hands, folded neat and still in her lap. The gesture was so reflexive, she hadn't even been conscious of arranging them that way.

“I do thank you, Lady Edmund. And I . . . it seems wrong to speak of this now.”

“You may speak to me with perfect freedom, Miss Thorne. Unlike my daughter, my feelings are well regulated.”

“Honoria's regard for her brother does her great credit.”

“Yes.” The single word made for a frigidly polite acknowledgment. “But that is neither here nor there. This matter will cause talk and attract vulgar curiosity. We must put an end to that as soon as possible. I'm certain I am not alone in this opinion?” It was a question.

“Far from it, ma'am,” murmured Rosalind. “I am given to understand that many others on whom this tragedy touches hold that view.”

“And may I take it you've spoken with those others about this?”

“I have,” Rosalind acknowledged. “And I can tell you that I did have the opportunity to speak with Lady Blanchard regarding your interest in being named to the position of lady patroness.”

For just a moment, Lady Edmund's calm mask slipped. A light came into her eyes, along with the coldest, hardest hope Rosalind had ever seen. The back of her neck prickled.

“Lady Blanchard seemed to feel that it was a distinct possibility,” Rosalind told her. “She, in fact, spoke with great approval of your candidacy and its chances.”

Even as she spoke, Rosalind was aware of a fresh shiver crawling up her spine. This was wrong, all of it. That Lady Edmund should aim for such a position, and that Lady Blanchard would be willing to help her to it. The women knew each other, but did not like each other. The games of social success and triumph that Lady Edmund played were the very sort Lady Blanchard avoided whenever she could. Why was this thing happening? And why was it happening now?

Lady Edmund pulled a black kerchief from her sleeve. She pressed it against her mouth and against her temple. “I had not believed . . .” Lady Edmund began, but she stopped herself. “I had expected her to demur for rather longer. But of course, of course, now things have changed.”

“Yes,” agreed Rosalind. “However, while you are in mourning, it will be more difficult for you to present yourself in any public fashion.”

Lady Edmund busied herself with folding her handkerchief into a tidy square. Her mouth was moving silently, and her brow furrowed. But Rosalind's years in noisy, crowded rooms had developed in her the skill of guessing what was said by watching a lady's mouth move.

. . . 
ruined it all
, Lady Edmund said silently.
Cannot have ruined it . . .

“Fortunately we have barely begun the little season,” Lady Edmund reminded her aloud. “And it is my son who is dead, not my husband. There is time to indulge in a respectable period of mourning, and yet still join in with the proper season once it begins. Especially as this was an accident.” She paused. “I imagine Lady Blanchard was greatly shocked. Lord Casselmain said she found Jasper's corpse.”

“Yes. She did, and she was. Terribly shocked.” Rosalind found she could not meet the other woman's eyes.

“Did she . . . no. We will not speak of it further.” Lady Edmund stood. “I must bid you good morning, Miss Thorne. There is a great deal to be done here, and I am sure to have other callers.”

Thus dismissed, Rosalind rose to her feet. “I will speak with Lady Blanchard further on the subject, and let you know what she has to say as soon as I can.”

Because I have to maintain my entrée into this house. Because I promised your daughter that I would help her.

Lady Edmund pulled on the bell rope. “But you have not yet said whether you will be staying with us. It is a little irregular, but I'm sure . . .”

“I thank you for your offer of hospitality, Lady Edmund. However, I have already accepted an invitation from Lady Blanchard.”

“I see. Well. Perhaps that is for the best.”

Rosalind meant to turn to go, but memory of the letter from Jasper she carried in her bag made her hesitate. “Lady Edmund, may I ask you a question?” When the lady nodded her assent, Rosalind went on. “Did you tell Jasper you intended to seek the patroness's position?”

Lady Edmund frowned. “No, I didn't mention it to either of the children. Why do you ask?”

“It is the details that will help us all through this affair,” answered Rosalind easily. “Thank you for your time.”

“Miss Thorne,” said Lady Edmund, “I have said how very much I trust and value your judgment. I should be very disappointed to find out you might put past personal disappointments ahead of what is right, and what is to your future advantage.”

What reply could she possibly make to this? The situation was beyond all those bounds that were understood and respected. While she might sigh over the limitations etiquette imposed, Rosalind also relied upon it. Without those boundaries to provide definition, she did not know who or where she was.

And isn't that the problem?
murmured a soft and strangely shrewd voice in the back of her mind.
Hasn't that always been the problem?

“I understand you, Lady Edmund,” Rosalind said. “And I thank you for your candor.”

She smiled politely and Lady Edmund smiled back with equal politeness before the footman opened the door to bow Rosalind out.

Rosalind let herself be shown down the stairs toward the front entrance hall. She passed the front parlor, where the servants still carried out their preparations under the funeral man's direction. She barely noticed them. All her thoughts were occupied with a new question.

If Lady Edmund had not told Jasper she sought the patroness's position, how had he discovered it? Could that be what took him to Almack's to meet his ultimate fate?

Suddenly, gaining access to Jasper's rooms seemed very, very important.

All Necessary Preparations

It will soon be the hour when the committee are to meet . . . my dear, your fate will then be decided.

—Marianne Spencer Stanhope Hudson,
Almack's

The bells were tolling seven and the February dark had settled in for its extended stay as Rosalind returned to Little Russell Street. Firelight and candlelight shimmered in the house windows, mingling with the steady glow of the streetlamps that had just recently been erected as part of a city plan for general improvements.

There was no question of Rosalind's decamping to Blanchard House that evening, or even the next. Since her visit was to be open-ended, she had to put matters at Little Russell Street in order before she left. Deliveries had to be canceled. Money must be put down on account with tradesmen and she had to leave a forwarding address. Otherwise, her assorted creditors might believe she had chosen to emulate her father and flee rather than meet her obligations. That required a thorough review of accounts and a careful rebalancing of income and outlay. A letter to her landlord informing him of her intentions was likewise advisable.

Mrs. Kendricks met Rosalind in the narrow foyer to take her outdoor things. She, of course, noticed Rosalind's distracted expression.

“Is everything all right, miss?”

“No, Mrs. Kendricks, I don't think it is.” Everything that had occurred during her call on Honoria and her family had left Rosalind profoundly unsettled. She wanted a moment's peace to sort it all out, but at the same time, she wished for an excuse to call 'round at Blanchard House so she could find out what had happened at the lady patronesses' meeting. Had Lady Blanchard raised Lady Edmund's name to the others yet?

Mrs. Kendricks paused in the act of shaking out Rosalind's bonnet. “Is there any way I can be of help?”

“No,” began Rosalind, but she stopped. “Yes . . . No.”

Mrs. Kendricks waited. Rosalind hung her head in embarrassment. “Something is wrong,” she said. “I knew that. I knew that Lady Blanchard needed help. But now . . .” She took a deep breath and told Mrs. Kendricks what had happened at Tamwell House.

Mrs. Kendricks stood silently for a long moment. “I think you'd best come in to dinner,” she said at last, and Rosalind couldn't help smiling.

“I think that's an excellent idea.”

The table in the little dining room was already laid and a modest fire burned in the hearth. Rosalind remembered how she'd gritted her teeth when the agent had first showed her through this house. She was used to the grand town residences that Father rented and the sprawling country homes of her friends from school. Here, she felt that if she stuck her elbows out too far, she'd knock holes in the walls. At the same time, her mind had run frantically back and forth over the tiny sums
at her command, and she told herself she was deeply fortunate to be able to afford this much.

Tonight, she welcomed the small table, the stack of correspondence, and the warm little fire. While Mrs. Kendricks brought in Scotch broth, ham and gravy, and onion tart with steamed pudding to follow, Rosalind opened her letters with an enamel knife and, against all ladylike propriety, she read as she ate.

Isabella Yates was already back in town and inviting her to call as soon as she had time. Fredericka Tillman-Edwards was furious that her mother had decided to spend the little season at their country house. Fredericka was certain she was being sabotaged, since it was her fourth season and her chosen beau, Augustus Finley, still hadn't come up to scratch. Mrs. Tillman-Edwards didn't approve of Finley, and she might just be keeping Fredericka in her room until she was ready to admit she needed to set her sights elsewhere.

And the bill from the shoemaker for repairs.

And the bill from the grocer.

And the bill from the chandler.

Mrs. Hugo Beal, whom Rosalind had known when she was Aurora Hartwell, was in town and asking Rosalind to call. She had her younger sister's trousseau to arrange and wanted to get to the warehouses before all the best goods were snapped up for the season's new ball gowns and walking costumes.

And the bill for lamp oil.

And the bill from the milliner.

Elizabeth Oakfell would be here next week and would Rosalind remember to call? She had such news as could not be communicated in writing.

Rosalind laid down Elizabeth's letter and stared at the walls.
She listened to the wind in the eaves and the ticking of the clock. So many letters, so many lives. What would she write back to any of them? What could she tell them about her own life and what had been happening to her?

Nothing. Or at least, very little. But that didn't mean she couldn't write, and pay her calls. Her well-born friends and acquaintances would be as eager as the Littlefields to talk about Jasper and tell her what they knew of him and his dealings. One of them, or one of their brothers, or their husbands, ought to be able to supply additional details about his life of late, which might just lead in turn to his hidden enemy.

“Shall I take your plate, miss?”

“Yes, thank you, Mrs. Kendricks.”

“If you're determined to go to Lady Blanchard, you'll be wanting to look over your dresses right away.”

Mrs. Kendricks's phrasing, and her tone of resignation, brought Rosalind's attention fully back to the present day. “Yes, thank you. We'd best start on that first thing tomorrow. I'm afraid I'll be leaning on you rather heavily these next weeks, Mrs. Kendricks,” she said. “And I will particularly require your assistance when we're in Blanchard House.”

“Meaning I'll be keeping my ears open.” Gossiping below stairs was, of course, frowned upon. It was understood that no good servant spoke of the master, or the master's business. It was, however, universally acknowledged that this understanding was breached far more often than it was upheld.

“Unless you've already heard something?” asked Rosalind.

Mrs. Kendricks didn't answer at first; she simply kept loading the dinner dishes onto her tray.

“I've heard nothing new yet.” Mrs. Kendricks covered the dirty dishes with her towel. “But I worry. I have for a long time.
I've held my peace because we've always done so well by Lady Blanchard's friendship.”

It was because Rosalind had been welcomed into Blanchard House that the other girls, the ones whose letters lay in a scented stack on the table, could continue to accept her into their homes and lives. If she lost Lady Blanchard, then the rest would fall away, no matter how useful she made herself. This last year was a testament to that fact.

That made it all the more imperative that she listen to Mrs. Kendricks's concerns. The woman had honed her instincts sharp. She could read the hidden currents lying under the still surface of a great house. Failing to pay attention to her was to risk falling into the depths.

“What is it that worries you?” asked Rosalind.

Mrs. Kendricks looked away, and Rosalind watched her calculate how much to say. “Lady Blanchard saved you. This is true and everybody knows it. But I have to ask myself, what did she save you for?”

Rosalind felt her brow furrow. “She saved me because she's my godmother, and she saw it as her duty.”

“That's as may be,” said Mrs. Kendricks, “but why's it you she calls on now? Especially when we've gone almost a year with barely a word from her.”

Rosalind wanted to protest that the silence had been entirely necessary. First of all, Rosalind had left Blanchard House over Lady Blanchard's protests. Neither Rosalind nor Lord Blanchard had mentioned that it was Lord Blanchard who had asked her to go. After that, for their separate reasons, both she and Lady Blanchard had to wait until Lord Blanchard's temper had thoroughly cooled regarding Sir Reginald's outrageous behavior. Rosalind also waited for her own shame to dissipate, but in vain, it seemed.

It was really only the fact that the Blanchards were leaving London that made it possible for Rosalind to return to her former footing in the household.

Wasn't it? She remembered her own confusion about the sudden and entirely unexpected accord between the two ladies over the matter of the patroness position. What had happened between them during this past year that brought them together now? It was not new friendship. But what was it?

Rosalind lifted her letters up so Mrs. Kendricks could draw the cloth from the dining table to shake out and fold over her arm. “You will please listen carefully to any talk you hear when we go visiting Blanchard House, or anywhere else,” said Rosalind.

“If I do, will you listen to what I find?”

“I promise.”

“I will hold you to that, miss,” her servant answered. “Now, the fire's going in the parlor.”

It was. Rosalind tried not to think about the cost of the coal for the second blaze, not to mention the price of the oil in the lamp that was also lit. She settled herself at her desk to sort her letters—separating the bills from the social correspondence. Mrs. Kendricks arrived with a pot of tea and Rosalind's favorite cup. Rosalind brought the account books out of the drawers, arranged her work neatly in front of her, and then found she could not raise a hand to begin.

Something was nagging her, something she'd forgotten to say, or do, or ask. She shook her head. She must trust it would come back to her. In the meantime, there were, as always, letters to write.

Rosalind trimmed her quill, unstoppered her inkwell, and addressed herself to her social correspondence.

Dear Isabella: I was so glad to get your letter, and I'll be glad to call as soon as may be. I have barely caught my breath since Jasper Aimesworth's tragic death . . .

Dear Fredericka: I am quite well, but you must imagine we are still reeling here from the suddenness of Jasper Aimesworth's death . . .

Dear Elizabeth: How wonderful to hear from you. Of course I'll be glad to help with the trousseau. Have you heard about the terrible accident at Almack's yet? Oh, it is beyond words . . .

The letters were near copies of one another. Each contained a sketchy (and only partly accurate) account of what had happened, laced with many exclamations of shock, and much speculation over Jasper's character and habits. Each, in the language of society, was an invitation to an extended gossip on the subject of Jasper and the Aimesworths.

Lady Jersey was going to be livid when she found out Rosalind had been talking freely about the tragedy. Lady Blanchard would be shocked. But this was as necessary as talking with George and Alice. These friends would have all the gossip about Jasper. If there were debts, or bad company, or a woman in his life who might have led him into danger, it should not take long to discover. The gently bred ladies might not be meant to know of such things, but their husbands, sons, and brothers all did, and the ladies had sharp ears as well as busy tongues.

But there was also the question of where to tell her friends to direct their replies. Rosalind paused in her work, and turned this over in her mind. If she did return to Blanchard House, and if Father reappeared as he did the last time she was living there, it
would be a complete disaster. There was no guarantee that he would again choose the evening of a quiet supper at home to make himself known. If he made his threats in front of company, she would not be able to keep the thing quiet a second time. Not only would she never find out what had happened to Jasper, but the precarious foundation she had built under her life would collapse. She would fall, and this time she would fall farther than ever.

Rosalind laid down her quill and unlocked the central drawer of her desk. Here was where she kept her purse, and her bank books. In the back, underneath all the other papers, waited one battered letter. Rosalind unfolded the plain paper, and read:

I'm sorry. It will not happen again.

C.

The letter had arrived the day after Father's scene. It was the first, last, and only communication Rosalind had had from her sister since Charlotte had left the house. There was no date or direction inside the letter, no hint of where it had come from. Only that brief apology and promise.

Rosalind had been angry and confused. She'd gotten Mrs. Kendricks to talk to the footman and the man at the post office, even while Rosalind herself prepared to leave Blanchard House. But those inquiries yielded nothing. She had told herself the letter made no difference. She still needed to leave, of course, because after her abandonment, and all the years of silence, there was no way to trust Charlotte to keep any sort of promise, and because of all the things Lord Blanchard said afterward.

But the fact remained that Father had not returned since
then. Was that luck? Or was it Charlotte's doing? She had no way to tell.

Rosalind folded the letter away and locked the drawer. She picked up her quill and dipped it in the ink. She addressed the unfinished letters in front of her, and in each one, she told her friends that they should direct their answers to Blanchard House.