Page 59 of Miss Dramatic
“They are actors,” Caroline said, “but this conversation is dramatic even for thespians.”
“She’s upset with him. Mrs. Pevinger gets the same exasperated air with Mr. P when he offers a free pint to the winners on darts night.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Because Tansy P and I are friends, and… Good Lord, she’s having the last word.” Mrs. Drysdale was storming off in the direction of the house, while her husband remained on the path, his expression one of bitter exasperation.
Rose was bitterly exasperated, bewildered, and… overreacting. “I’m fine,” she informed her reflection in the vanity’s folding mirror. “Gavin was preoccupied, and it’s not as if we can be lost to all decorum.”
Though they had been. For a few, luscious hours, they had been lost to everything but shared pleasure. If anything, intimacies with Gavin DeWitt were lovelier than ever, which should not have been possible.
His touch was magic, soothing and tender, then naughty and bold, then…
“I’m fine,” Rose said again, trying for some calm. “I shall be fine. Gavin has a lot on his mind.”
The words were out of her mouth, the same futile phrase she’d used to excuse Dane’s relentless neglect of her and his home.
The bedroom door opened, and Timmens bustled in. “Oh, there you are. Been looking high and low. Let’s get you into a proper walking dress, shall we? The company will leave for the village in thirty minutes, though when has a gaggle of Society ladies ever done anything on time?”
Timmens marched straight for the dressing closet while Rose remained on the vanity stool. Two hours of Lady Iris’s herbal sermons, Miss Peasegood’s incessant prattling, and Lady Duncannon’s braw, bonnie tippling would send Rose straight to Bedlam.
“I’m not accompanying the ladies on their walk. I needn’t change.”
“Nonsense.” Timmens emerged with a burgundy velvet frock that was far too hot for a summer afternoon, though it was hemmed for walking. “The fresh air will put some roses in your cheeks.”
Rose assayed her appearance in the mirror. Her cheeks were quite rosy enough. “You can put the dress away, Timmens. If I were to hike into the village to buy hair ribbons I don’t need and swill cider that could fell a dragoon, then I wouldn’t wear half mourning to do it.”
“You are a widow.” Timmens’s tone presaged tempests of the sulking variety. “This is a lovely dress. Your late spouse brought the velvet home from London himself, if you’ll recall. I thought you might be missing him.”
I should sack her for her meanness.Rose had attributed such thoughts on previous occasions to passing exasperation, the irritability that accompanied months of enforced mourning rituals, the annoyance any employer might occasionally feel toward an outspoken employee. Timmens was loyal, if irksome, and she was mostly competent.
I should sack herhad nearly becomeI shall sack her. But one did not sack servants of long standing when far from home, and Timmens was not responsible for Rose’s present upset.
“I had plenty of opportunity to miss Dane when he was living, and that was his choice. Put the dress away, Timmens, and leave me some privacy. I am inclined to take a nap.”
Timmens drew herself up, the dress folded over her arm. “Best not, ma’am. You get all out of sorts and inside out with your days and nights when you start napping.”
And who had urged naps on Rose without ceasing as the best medicine for grief? Rose had complied, simply to have some solitude in the middle of the day.
“Very well. I’m for the library, then. The company of a good book appeals. I’ll select my own ensemble for supper. You may do as you please with your afternoon.”
Timmens looked as if she’d continue the battle, then her air became martyred. “I’ll tend to the mending, then. Enjoy your book, ma’am.”
Rose’s wardrobe needed no mending, though perhaps Timmens had taken to tearing her own hems. The maid retreated into the dressing closet and commenced banging drawers open and closed, one of her favorite tactics for continuing a disagreement.
And that was all just…fine. Domestic service was demanding and not very remunerative, and Timmens had got on well with both Mama and Dane, and Timmens wasn’t the true problem.
Rose took herself out into the corridor and aimed for the library, which was likely to be deserted. Lord Tavistock had purchased a quantity of books while on the Continent, and Rose had yet to investigate his collection.
“The problem,” Rose muttered to the gryphon carved on the outside of the library door, “is that I am falling in love again—or maybe I never really fell out of love—and Gavin acted just as politely chilly at luncheon as he did up in Derbyshire. And that…”
His behavior had hurt her. The distant politeness had bewildered her, frightened her, and reminded her all too well of how Dane’s shifting moods had racked her nerves. Jolly one moment, morose the next. Abjectly apologetic, then snide and dismissive.
The memories, combined with her present shaken nerves, made a bilious combination. Perhaps some poetry…
“Except that I never cared for ruddy poetry.”
“Mrs. Roberts?” Lady Tavistock, looking composed and kindly, had appeared with the exquisitely bad timing of the concerned hostess, and Lady Phillip was at her side. “Are you well?”
