Page 3 of Miss Dramatic
“We’ve put you in the Rose Suite, for which you must not scold us. You have the best view of the River Twid, and you’ll have morning shade. You are among the first to arrive. Expect a tea tray before your trunks are carried up, have a stroll along the Twid, or indulge in a nap or a bath. Nobody will bother you until the buffet at seven. I trust all is well with Lord Nunn?”
The earl was an uncle of some sort to Lady Phillip. “His lordship is getting an education from his new understeward, and he seems to be enjoying the tutelage. I bring his fondest regards.”
“And Mrs. Riley is thriving?”
“She and the baby are well.”
Rose, by contrast, felt an increasing urge to flee, to plead a headache that could be cured only by an immediate return to Hampshire. The impulse was old and familiar, which made it no easier to resist. Timmens had been right—coming here was a mistake—but Rose need not admit the mistake quite so soon.
Gavin DeWitt did not dwell at Miller’s Lament. His property lay nearby, also along the River Twid, and Rose held out hope that his path would not cross hers again.
She held out equal hope that it would. Frequently.
“Mrs. Riley and her daughter are thriving,” Rose said. “Henry Wortham is making a respectful pest of himself, and Mrs. Riley is allowing it.”
Widows were to remarry. This was an unwritten law at every rung of the social ladder. Widows who bore their late husband’s posthumous child were most especially to devote themselves to recruiting a successor spouse, and Mavis Riley was making fast progress in the approved direction.
“That is wonderful news,” Lady Phillip said, releasing Rose’s hands. “Henry is a fine young man, and his prospects are good. Don’t let me keep you here catching up on the gossip. Away with you. Travel can be so taxing. Mrs. Williams will see you to your rooms.”
A sturdy, beaming housekeeper stepped forward. “This way, ma’am.” She trundled up a curving staircase, and Rose followed, pretending to interest herself in the house’s appointments. Miller’s Lament, like many country manors, had endured centuries of habitation, alternately coming up in the world and then traveling in the other direction.
In good times, a wing was added in the normal course, an attic fitted out. In bad times, the damp got in, retaining walls subsided. Miller’s Lament occupied a slight rise on an oxbow bend in the river. Human effort was doubtless necessary to encourage the river to maintain its course, else the house could find itself on an island after the next serious storm.
Colforth Hall lacked an encroaching river, but Rose’s home had its own stories. A priest hole here, a tunnel built for smugglers rather than servants there. Dane had taken the place for granted, and Rose looked after it as best she could.
Miller’s Lament was clearly enjoying an upswing. Every window sparkled, the carpets had the glow of new acquisitions, no cobweb dared lurk in a corner of the ceiling. All was light, quiet, and repose, with fragrant bouquets of sweet peas on the windowsills and sideboards.
“We’re doing right by the old place,” Mrs. Williams said. “Her ladyship has taken all in hand, and we’re to have a conservatory too, by this time next year.”
“The property is very attractive.”
“That’s the river for you. Gives the trees some purchase against the dry years, means the gardens and flowers will always flourish. This summer hasn’t been too bad for rain.”
“We should enjoy a good harvest in Hampshire as well.”
Rose could talk pleasantly about nothing all day and for half the night. She could steer any conversation away from the fraught waters of politics and back into the safer channels of the weather, churchyard news, or art.
Art generally put everybody on good behavior, or kept their mouths shut lest they betray their ignorance on the topic. Dane assuredly hadn’t troubled to take much interest in art.
“Here we are,” Mrs. Williams said, opening a door carved with twining roses. “Fine view of the river, pleasant breeze. The east side of the house is downwind from the stable this time of year. His lordship says the conservatory ought to go on that side to take advantage of the morning sun. He’s clever that way.”
For a marquess to realize the sun rose in the east was clever, of course. “It would be a shame to interfere with the lovely view available on this side of the house, wouldn’t it?”
Rose crossed the room to French doors left open to catch the breeze. The land fell away in the usual progression. A wide flagstone terrace stepped down into walkways running between flower beds in full summer riot. The roses were done for the year, but lavender, hollyhocks, hydrangeas, and daisies bloomed apace, while formal parterres—privet and various white blossoms—held the ground between the bottom of the garden and the parkland that ended along the river.
Peaceful, pretty, predictable.
“Shall I send up a tray?” Mrs. Williams asked. “Your maid is doubtless tarrying in the servants’ hall for a quick cup while we get your trunks sorted.”
Timmens was on reconnaissance, of course. “A tray would be appreciated, and then I might go for a stroll.”
“Lovely walks along the old towpaths, missus. Supper will be a buffet on the terrace at seven, weather permitting.”
Of course it would. Followed by cards in the library for those so inclined, but nothing so protracted or taxing as a tournament on the first night.
Mrs. Williams bustled off, and the quiet was a benediction. Two wrought-iron chairs graced the balcony. Rose took one and tried to muster a lecture on all the progress she’d made since putting off second mourning.
Another lecture, though when Gavin DeWitt might even at that moment be somewhere on the same property, sermonizing was beyond her.
