Page 54 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
In no time at all, Rosamund’s eyes were closing.
Only vaguely did Rosamund note that the bottle of laudanum her mother had given up to her remained on her own bedside.
A great heavinesslay upon Rosamund’s heart.
How long had she been asleep? The slant of the sun told her the end of the day was not far off.
Someone had left a plate of dry biscuits on the bedside and a carafe of water, from which she drank gratefully.
Her head ached. In fact, there didn’t seem any part of her that wasn’t in pain. Was this what grief was like? Misery so heavy that it threatened to squash the life from you? Your heart so bruised that every beat hurt?
She could barely raise herself upright, but she didn’t want to stay under the covers any longer.
Rosamund reached for the bell pull and noticed again the laudanum. It had calmed her mother when she’d been overwrought. Unstoppering the bottle, Rosamund was tempted to place some on her own tongue. Just this once, to see if it helped.
Somehow, her mother had gotten hold of another bottle. How had that happened? Surely, Lord Studborne hadn’t given it to her?
But, perhaps he had. After all, it had been he who’d given her the first.
Rosamund pushed the medicine away. Her mother had told her she didn’t want the drops anymore, but the craving for them must have been too strong.
It wasn’t a path Rosamund wanted to go down.
Instead, she ate two of the biscuits and gave one to Pom Pom. Then, she swung her feet over the side of the bed.
She glanced towards the connecting door. Was her mother still there, or would they have moved her? Either way, Rosamund didn’t want to see her again—not as she was now. Her mother hadn’t been the easiest person to live with, but she’d always been full of life.
The body that was left was not her. It would do no good to kiss that cheek or put her arms around her mother’s shoulders. She couldn’t feel anything anymore.
With a shiver, Rosamund reached for her dressing gown.
Benedict hadn’t come near her that morning, though all the household must have known what had occurred. Did he hate her so much—to be unable even to pass along his condolences?
The thought brought ready tears, but she pressed her hands to her eyes. She wouldn’t cry for him. She’d behaved badly, but if he'd truly loved her, he’d have been willing to forgive.
Benedict was clever and kind, and she’d wanted to give him all of herself, but he was too much in his uncle’s shadow—wanting to please him, wanting his approval.
Even for his own happiness, Benedict wouldn’t defy him. Wasn’t that the way of it? Easier to blame Rosamund for deceit than to admit his feelings for her and face his uncle’s disapproval.
Rosamund sniffed, rubbing her nose on her sleeve.
She deserved someone willing to take risks, didn’t she?
She was worth that.
Slowly, she made her way to the dressing table and sat down. The reflection in the mirror didn’t look like her at all. She was too pale; her eyes too shadowed.
She tried smiling at herself but it was impossible. Her mouth contorted but it wasn’t a smile. It felt as if she’d never manage one again.
Taking up the brush, she passed it through her hair.
There was only herself to think about now. No one else to disappoint or let down.
One thing she knew: she couldn’t marry Lord Studborne.
However vulnerable she felt, she was strong inside, and she’d find her own way, somehow.
As soon as her mother’s funeral was past, she’d make arrangements. She’d enough coin to take the train from Weybridge to London, and for some time in private lodging. Then, it was only a matter of finding an agency employing young ladies of pedigree. There would surely be something suitable for her. Elderly ladies were often in need of companions. It would give her somewhere to go while she worked out a plan for the longer term.
