The Old Maids' Club 02 - Pariah (6 page)

Bethanne nodded, and the nurse hurried on her way. That would mean one less worry for today’s tea.

She took a few steps to her writing table and removed the ledgers, setting them in a drawer. Then, turning, she scanned the parlor one last time. A few things were out of place, with a book and some embroidery nestled on an occasional table, and a coverlet still tossed over the back of the settee, but nothing that should raise Lord Roman’s suspicions.

The last thing she needed was for him to start asking her any more questions.

Once she was satisfied that everything was as secure as it ought to be, Bethanne edged into Aunt Rosaline’s view. “He will come in to join us shortly. Won’t you sit down?”

Bright eyes met her. “Truly? He’s coming to see me today?”

Bethanne bit down on her lip to stop a tear from forming and falling. “Lord Roman is joining us for tea, as you’ve asked him to do.”

“Lord Roman? Who is Lord Roman?” Aunt Rosaline narrowed her eyes, first in consternation, then in anger. “Christopher will call on me today. He promised. He never breaks his promises to me.”

After several failed attempts, Bethanne took her aunt’s hand and moved her to the settee. Then she sighed. “Aunt Rosaline—”

“
Lady
Rosaline. I am
not
your aunt. Why, you’re as old as I am. I don’t know who you are.” She tugged against Bethanne’s hand, refusing to move an inch.

“Yes, Lady Rosaline. But please. Why don’t you have a seat? We can wait for him over here.” She couldn’t bear to go through this routine again. Somehow, it felt heavier, more painful, each time she had to convince her aunt that Christopher Jackson would not come to call upon her.

For the moment, Aunt Rosaline complied. She moved away from the window and took up a position on the loveseat, patting the spot next to her. “He’ll sit here, beside me. Oh, it’s been so long since I’ve seen him!”

A knock sounded at the front door. Aunt Rosaline perked up in her seat, pinching her cheeks and brushing her hands over her gown. “Do I look all right? Oh, do tell me I look all right. I want everything to be perfect for Christopher.”

“You look lovely,” Bethanne murmured, ignoring the thudding trepidation pounding through her veins.

“Right this way, my lord,” Mrs. Temple said, coming back into the parlor.

Lord Roman followed behind her, bowing to Bethanne and Aunt Rosaline when he came into view. “Good afternoon to you, Lady Rosaline. Miss Shelton.”

Aunt Rosaline shook her head. “No. No, I’m expecting my beau. Christopher Jackson.” She looked from Lord Roman to Bethanne, then back again, a frantic sort of gesture. “He wrote to me. He promised he would be here today.”

Bethanne opened her mouth, resigned to begin the process of explaining to her aunt that Christopher Jackson would not be here today or any day, but stopped short when Lord Roman spoke.

“He’s been delayed, my lady.” His lips turned down in a half-frown, and he came further into the room. “He sent word with me, begging your forgiveness.”

“You…you know him, sir?” Aunt Rosaline sat up more fully, perching on the very edge of the loveseat. “Are you also returning from the wars?”

“I am.” He took a seat across from her in a blue-striped Trafalgar chair. “He asked me to deliver a message to you.”

Tears sprang to Aunt Rosaline’s eyes, and likewise to Bethanne’s. He was calming Aunt Rosaline in a way none of them had been able to do in years. How? And perhaps more importantly, why?

Running him off before he got too close would be much easier if he were not being so kind to her aunt.

“What word does he send?” Shaking fingers toyed with the lace flounce of Aunt Rosaline’s skirt.

“Jackson asked me to tell you of his love. That he would span heaven and earth, were it possible, to reach you, but he’s been assigned one final duty.”

Aunt Rosaline bit her lower lip. “And then he’ll come for me?”

Lord Roman nodded firmly, leaving no room for doubt. “As soon as he possibly can.”

“And then we’ll marry,” Aunt Rosaline breathed. “Oh, but please don’t tell my brother. He doesn’t approve, you know.”

“It will be our secret,” he assured her.

Bethanne turned her head to the side, brushing away her tears. Always more secrets. She’d had quite enough of them for one lifetime. Yet this one hadn’t really been a secret for a great many years.

When she faced Lord Roman again, he regarded her with a queer expression. She tried to decipher it, but then pushed the thought away. It didn’t matter what his look meant. What mattered was that Aunt Rosaline was calm, if only for the time being.

Bethanne smoothed her hands over her skirt, simply for something to do with them. “Would you care for a cup of tea?” she asked him. Then she busied herself with pouring and serving, all the while attempting to avoid revealing how flustered she was by his interaction with her aunt.

When she sat again, sipping from her teacup, she watched their interplay. Lord Roman Sullivan, somehow, was in the process of utterly charming the stockings off Aunt Rosaline, even on a day when she had been expecting Christopher Jackson.

It was the most befuddling thing Bethanne had ever seen. Every nerve ending in her body was screaming at her to send him on his way as soon as possible, lest he discover the truth about Finn. Yet how could she banish a man who was proving to be the one soothing influence in Aunt Rosaline’s life?

Before the sun began to set, Roman took his leave of the ladies at Round Hill. He rode back into town and returned the borrowed sidesaddle to the mews, then made one final stop before returning to Hassop House: the lumber yard. After placing his order, he let the proprietor know he’d be back in the morning to collect what he needed.

Darkness was creeping across the sky when he turned back to the lane. He rode up the hill with a light snowfall keeping him company. Just as he returned the beast to the stables and dismounted, the heavy clouds overhead unleashed a flurry.

Stuart reached up to unsaddle the horse. “You ought to spend the night in the main house tonight, my lord.” The groom lifted his chin toward the onslaught and grimaced. “It’s going to be a spiteful storm tonight, it seems. Don’t want you to be buried beneath all of this on your way to the dower house.”

It was safer for him to be in the dower house, though, and away from—away from everything. Or, to be more precise, away from
everyone
. Roman gave a half-hearted smile for the groom’s benefit. “I’ve seen far worse than this. I’ll be fine.” He took a lantern from a peg near the door.

“All right, then,” Stuart said. “But if we don’t hear from you by luncheon tomorrow, I’ll send a search party out after you.”

Roman chuckled. “Noted. Don’t count on having the opportunity to rescue me, though.” Pulling the collar of his coat up around him, he headed out into the weather before turning to face Stuart again momentarily. “I’ll need a cart prepared in the morning. Have it ready by an hour after dawn.”

“That I will, my lord. And a good evening to you.”

With a nod of acknowledgement, Roman pushed through the rapid snowfall, holding the lantern aloft on his way to the dower house. Since the smaller building was not in use for its intended purpose, Roman had decided, upon accepting his father’s suggestion, that it would be perfect to use as his quarters while he served as Hassop House’s steward.

This arrangement kept him within a good walk from the main house and stables, so he could oversee the entire staff at his leisure.

It likewise kept him far enough away from them that they wouldn’t hear his screams in the night.

When he stepped inside the dark house, he immediately pressed the door closed and turned the lock. Carrying the lantern with him, he went through the entire house, checking every door and window to be certain they were still locked, then ran through the routine again.

Once Roman was satisfied that he was safely locked inside where no one would be endangered, he took the lantern to his chamber.

He’d chosen this particular chamber not for its size or view or any other particular comforts, but for its lack of windows and dearth of doors. Indeed, he’d requested that the footmen at Hassop House remove everything from the chamber apart from a bed, an armoire, a chair, and a desk. No weapons. Nothing he could potentially wield as one. Then he’d insisted they add locks that could only be secured from inside the chamber. Not just one, but two.

He didn’t care that they looked upon him as a madman due to that request. How could he be bothered by the truth?

With a breath, he bolted both locks.

Only then did he allow himself to relax, even if only slightly.

Roman changed out of his clothes, carefully removing the glass vial from his pocket and tucking it safely amongst his cravats in the armoire. He put on a fresh pair of trousers and a shirt, since he had no intention of sleeping any time soon.

He sat upright at his desk, whiling away as many hours as possible by reading. This time, he’d chosen a text on crop rotation. Something nice and boring. Nothing that should bring on any unpleasant memories. When he finished the entire tome, he pulled out his watch fob to check the time. Not yet five in the morning. What the devil was he going to do with himself until dawn?

He tried reading one of the more interesting passages again, but within moments, his eyes were drifting closed. Too soon. He couldn’t risk falling asleep yet.

But he couldn’t stop himself.

Finn flapped his hands about in the tub, sending chutes of water splashing out onto Bethanne and Mrs. Wyatt as they bathed him. The kitchen floors resembled a pond. He smiled up and giggled uncontrollably at Bethanne when she brushed the latest stream away from her face. His laughter was contagious. Soon, all three of them were laughing so hard they could hardly catch a breath.

They were nearly done with their task. They were also nearly as wet as the boy.

“We’ll all find our deaths from the chill if you don’t stop, Finn,” Bethanne scolded, without any true heft to her tone.

He slapped his hand down on the water, splashing them again and letting out another breathtaking squeal of laughter.

“I’ll hang our gowns to dry by the fire tonight, Miss Bethanne.” Mrs. Wyatt poured a stream of warm, clean water over Finn, rinsing away the suds. “You should go ahead and change out of yours while I finish up with him. We can’t have you taking ill.”

“No, I suppose you’re right.” Bethanne pushed back from the tub and straightened her soaked gown. “I’ll go and change, and then I’ll meet you in the nursery to help put him down for the night.”

Mrs. Wyatt waved her on her way, too occupied with scrubbing Finn’s hair clean to take the time to speak, as Mrs. Temple carried in a mop to deal with the water on the floors.

Before heading upstairs to her chamber, Bethanne poked her head into the drawing room. Aunt Rosaline sat at the bench before the pianoforte, still in her red velvet gown, staring wistfully down at the keys as Joyce read to her from the most recent gothic novel she’d acquired. The usual pang stabbed Bethanne’s heart at the sight. She forced the tears to subside and slipped away, before her aunt noticed her presence and became agitated because of the change.

On the occasional table beside the stairs, a letter rested on the silver salver.
Jo’s handwriting
. Bethanne snatched it and hurried up the steps to her chamber.

If not for the chill in the air, she would have taken a seat at her vanity and read the letter before changing clothes. Such a course of action didn’t seem to be a stroke of brilliance in the given circumstances, however, so she rushed through the process of disrobing and putting on a dry dressing gown and wrapper. Once she was in dry clothes, she stoked the fire in the grate. Finally, when she was dry and somewhat warm, Bethanne took a seat and broke the blue wax seal of Jo’s letter.

As expected, Tabitha’s husband, Lord Devonport, would be bringing both Tabitha and Jo to visit. Unless weather caused a delay, they’d arrive at the cottage the day after tomorrow. Brilliant. Maybe with Jo and Tabitha’s help, Bethanne could sort out a solution for her newest bout of problems. Tabitha, at least, would have a better idea of what might or might not work in terms of dealing with her father, and Jo had always been good with figures.