The Second Lady Southvale (3 page)

Rosalind remained on the terrace, gazing out over the rose garden. More fireworks exploded in the night sky above the capital, bursting in colorful brilliance in the darkness.

She felt rather than heard George’s light step behind her, then he was by her shoulder. ‘Rosalind, I trust you know what you may be getting yourself into,’ he said quietly.

‘I don’t understand….’ she began, intending to feign
innocence
, but then he put his hand gently to her elbow.

‘Don’t pretend with me, for there isn’t any need.’

She looked quickly away.

He smiled. ‘We’ve never been in love with each other, Rosalind, but we’re close enough for me to know that
something
very important has happened to you tonight. I’m man enough to take my disappointment on the chin, and I’m friend enough to want to warn you to take care. There are many obstacles between you and a man like Philip de Grey, and not the least of those obstacles is his love for his wife.’

She stared at him.

‘He wore his wedding ring only yesterday, Rosalind. Just remember that.’ He hesitated, and then kissed her cheek gently before turning and walking away.

Very little was said at the Carberry breakfast table the following morning. Rosalind’s father was in a dark mood as he read his newspaper, and her mother was on edge, waiting for the mood to spill over into an angry confrontation with John. No one mentioned the ball, and the laughter and conversation that usually followed the Fourth of July was noticeably absent.

John was suffering the after-effects of his overindulgence in cognac, and his face was gray as he poured himself his third cup of black coffee. His blond hair was tousled and his green eyes lackluster, and his brocade dressing gown was of a shade of mauve that did absolutely nothing to enhance his appearance. He looked exactly how he felt, dreadful, and his headache didn’t benefit at all from the bright sunshine streaming in through the window.

Rosalind sipped only coffee, too, but her lack of appetite had nothing to do with feeling unwell. She hadn’t slept at all after the ball, because she couldn’t stop thinking about Philip, and thoughts of him filled her head now. She ran her fingertip around the lip of her cup, gazing at the bowl of yellow pansies in the middle of the table. Her hair was pinned up loosely into a knot on the top of her head, and she wore a pink-and-white seersucker gown, short-sleeved, with a demure neckline. A light shawl rested over her arms, slipping slightly as she bent to stroke the head of her father’s favorite hound, which had
somehow
managed to slip into the room to hide beneath the table
ready for any tidbits either she or John selected for it.

Her mother looked, perplexedly at her. ‘Rosalind, my dear, are you feeling quite well this morning?’

‘Yes, quite well, thank you.’

‘You haven’t eaten anything.’

‘I’m not very hungry, that’s all.’ Rosalind flushed a little guiltily, for she knew that she’d soon have to tell them that there wouldn’t be a match with George Whitby, and why.

Mr Carberry rustled his newspaper and then abruptly folded it, placing it on the table as he eyed his son. ‘It’s no wonder your sister has no appetite this morning, sir; she’s still
recovering
from having to receive that damned Englishman!’

John drew a long breath, but didn’t reply. He studied his cup of coffee as if it were of immense interest.

The refusal to respond antagonized Mr Carberry into the long-awaited outburst. ‘I’ve had enough of you recently, sir, for you’ve been more trouble than you’re worth,’ he snapped.

Mrs Carberry sat quickly forward in a whisper of dove-gray taffeta, her eyes anxious. ‘Please, William, there’s no need….’

‘On the contrary, my dear, there’s every need. We’ve tried sweet reason, and we’ve tried endless patience, but it’s all to no avail.’ He fixed his gaze upon John again. ‘You’ve been
wallowing
in self-pity for more than a year now, and it’s got to stop. Your wild ways brought about the death of the woman you loved, and nothing can change that.’

John’s green eyes flashed toward him. ‘I’m well aware of that fact, sir,’ he replied stiffly.

‘Are you also aware that behaving the way you do isn’t going to bring her back?’

‘I won’t dignify that question with an answer,’ answered John shortly, his eyes no longer lackluster, but very bright and angry.

‘And what would you know of dignity, sir?’ demanded Mr Carberry relentlessly. ‘What dignity is there in staggering home night after night in your cups? What dignity is there in losing heavily at the gaming tables? And what dignity is there in
foisting
your damned Englishman upon us all at a Fourth of July ball? Your little prank ruined the evening, and I find that
unforgivable
!’

‘Philip’s presence hardly constituted the ruining of the evening,’ retorted John.

‘Not in your eyes, maybe, but then your standards have slipped somewhat of late, haven’t they? Well, I’m not about to put up with your base conduct any longer. It’s time you came to terms with Elizabeth’s death, and unless you do, you can look elsewhere for a roof over your head. Do I make myself clear?’

‘You do, sir,’ John replied in a clipped tone.

‘I expect to see an improvement straightaway, sir. Straightaway.’

Without another word, John tossed his napkin on the table and strode out. The hound slipped from its hiding place beneath the table to follow him. Its paws pattered on the polished floorboards and then the door closed.

Mrs Carberry looked reproachfully at her husband. ‘Was there any need to be quite so unkind, William?’ she asked.

‘He needed a plain talking-to, my dear, it was long overdue.’ He picked up his newspaper again, rustling it noisily as he made much of selecting a certain page.

Mrs Carberry exchanged a glance with Rosalind, and then said nothing more.

Rosalind wanted to go to John, for she knew how desperately keen his grief over Elizabeth still was, but rushing after him now would only make matters worse as far as her father was concerned.

Her mother looked at her. ‘What do you intend to do this morning, my dear? Is George calling on you?’

‘No, he isn’t. Actually, I thought I’d go for a ride.’

‘A ride? Rosalind, when are you going to give George an answer?’

Rosalind hesitated. ‘I already have, Mother.’

Mrs Carberry gasped. ‘You have? Oh, my dear….’

‘I’ve declined him, Mother,’ Rosalind went on quietly. Her mother stared at her, and Mr Carberry put down his newspaper for a second time.

‘You’ve what?’ he demanded.

‘I’ve declined George’s proposal.’

‘May I ask why?’

The time wasn’t right to tell them about Philip. ‘I’m just not in love with him, Father.’

‘Love? What has love got to do with marriage?’

‘A great deal, as far as I’m concerned.’

‘It’s never been mentioned as a criterion before,’ he said, ‘and if it’s so important, why have you waited until now to say anything?’

‘I – I didn’t realize it was so important to me before, Father.’

He sighed and sat back in his chair. ‘You do know what a good match you’ve turned down, don’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘George Whitby is heir to—’

‘I know, Father, and I’m sorry. I know you wanted the match to come about, and I truly meant to go through with it, but now I just can’t. I want to marry for love, not just for fondness and regard.’

‘Fondess and regard were good enough for your mother and me.’

Rosalind fell silent, for until Philip de Grey it had been good enough for her, too.

Her mother studied her. ‘Is your mind made up on this, my dear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then there’s nothing more to be said. We’re disappointed, of course, but the times have long since gone when parents forced their daughters into unwanted marriages.’

Rosalind smiled gratefully at her for not pushing the matter, but for several minutes afterward she could feel her pensive glances. Did her mother suspect a little of the truth?

Mr Carberry excused himself from the breakfast table shortly after that, declaring himself to be thoroughly displeased with both his children. As the door closed behind him, Rosalind expected her mother to say something, but she didn’t. Several minutes later it was time to change for the ride.

Her maid was waiting. Hetty was a competent, flaxen-haired young woman with a shy smile and china-blue eyes, and she spoke with only a slight hint of her Viennese origins, having lived in America for the last ten years. She’d been Rosalind’s maid for three of those ten years, and knew her well enough to guess that a momentous event of some sort had happened. Usually Rosalind would have confided in the maid, but not this time; it was all too private and important to be shared with anyone except Philip himself.

Hetty brought the emerald-green riding habit and laid it gently on the pink silk coverlet of the bed. A few minutes later Rosalind was ready to leave. She studied her reflection in the gilt-framed cheval glass. As she drew on her gloves, she was conscious of a quiver of nervous anticipation. Would it still be the same this morning when she met Philip? Would the magic of the night before seize them both again? Or would the clear light of day make all the difference in the world? She stared at her image. Maybe for him it already had made all the difference in the world, and he wouldn’t even keep the assignation.

She heard her horse being led around to the front of the house, and Hetty quickly brought her her riding crop. Then she left the room, but as she reached the top of the staircase, she halted in dismay, for John was waiting for her in the entrance hall below, and he was dressed for riding.

He was leaning back against a console table, his arms folded and his eyes downcast thoughtfully. He wore a maroon riding jacket and beige cord breeches, and his top hat, gloves, and riding crop lay on the table beside him.

Hearing her at the top of the staircase, he glanced up and straightened. ‘I heard you ordering your horse earlier and
thought I might join you.’

‘I’m not doing anything exciting,’ she replied, injecting what she hoped was just the right note of discouragement into her voice.

‘My nerves are too ragged for excitement.’

She gave a weak smile and went slowly down, wishing she could think of something to deter him.

He watched her. ‘At the risk of sounding boringly repetitive, I have to say yet again that you look quite delectable. George will be the envy of Washington with you as his wife.’

She was about to tell him she wasn’t going to be George’s wife, but he turned away to pick up his top hat and tap it on. Then he donned his gloves, picked up his riding crop, and offered her his arm. ‘Shall we go?’

They went out into the sunshine, and as John assisted her to mount, she turned to look at him. ‘I’m sure you have other things you’d much rather do than ride with me….’

‘Don’t you want my company?’

‘Yes, of course, it’s just….’

‘I’m looking forward to riding with you, Sis, so don’t say anything more.’ He grinned, patting her arm before turning to take the reins of his own horse, which had been led out with hers.

She sighed inwardly. The last thing she wanted was company, but there was very little she could do about it. She and John had always been allies in the past, but would he be her ally in this?

They rode down the freshly raked drive toward the gates. Washington gleamed across the marshland, where cattle moved between the clumps of alders. Someone was shooting partridge, and the gun reports cracked sharply through the warm, still air. There were clouds on the distant horizon, and she knew there’d be a thunderstorm before nightfall.

The horses kicked up dust as they were urged along the track toward the wooden hillside that rose to the east of the mansion, and the suddenness of their approach startled a magpie from a
bush. With loud cries of alarm, it flapped into the nearest tree, where it sat in angry indignation, its chattering complaints
ringing
after them as they rode into the cool shade of the woods.

Rosalind tried to think of suitable ways to mention Philip, but it soon became apparent that John was accompanying her in order to talk about his own problem. They rode slowly between the trees, where leafy shadows moved across their path, and he spoke at length about all he’d lost when Elizabeth had died.

Rosalind reined in after a while. ‘Elizabeth wouldn’t have wanted you to stay unhappy because of her, John,’ she said gently.

‘It’s my fault that she died.’

‘Maybe it is, but Father’s right, you can’t go on like this. Will you promise me something, John?’

‘That depends.’

‘Promise me that you’ll do as Father wishes.’

‘Sis….’

‘Not for his sake, John, but for your own. You can’t go on as you have been, and I think that in your heart you know it.’

He drew a heavy breath, tipping his top hat back on his blond hair. ‘It’s more easily said than done, Rosie.’

‘No, it isn’t, John. You’ve just got to make up your mind what you want.’

He looked shrewdly at her. ‘You say that as if it’s something you’ve done yourself.’

She hesitated. ‘I have.’

‘Are you going to explain?’

‘Are you going to give me your promise?’

He smiled a little. ‘Very well, you have my word that I’ll change my ways.’

‘Don’t say it lightly, John.’

‘I’m not. I mean every word. Now, then, what is it that you’ve made your mind up about?’

She glanced ahead through the trees. At the top of the incline
ahead was the fallen tree, where she hoped Philip would be waiting for her.

John followed the glance. ‘It isn’t like you to be mysterious, Sis.’

‘Nor is it like me to be reckless to the point of lunacy, but that’s exactly what I am being. John, I’m not just going for a ride this morning, I’m going to keep a tryst with Philip de Grey.’

He stared at her, at first just stunned, but then angrily. ‘Have you taken leave of your senses?’ he breathed incredulously.

‘No. In fact, I’ve never been more certain about anything in my life.’

‘But, dammit, you’ve only met him once!’

‘I know.’

‘And what of George?’

‘He already knows.’

John’s lips parted in amazement. ‘He does?’

‘He realized last night.’

‘How perceptive of him.’

‘If you hadn’t been so in drink, you’d probably have realized it yourself,’ she replied sharply. Then she bit her lip regretfully. ‘I’m sorry, John, I didn’t mean it to sound like that.’

‘I rather think you did, and I probably deserve it.’ He breathed in slowly. ‘Sis, I can’t let you keep this assignation. If I do, I’ll be guilty of standing idly by while you compromise yourself beyond redemption.’

‘Please, John,’ she begged.

‘Rosalind, drunk or not, I’d never have brought him near the house if I’d realized this would happen.’

‘I must speak to him, John.’

‘No,’ he replied firmly, reaching over to seize the bridle of her horse.

‘If you do this now, John Carberry, so help me I’ll never forgive you. I stood by you when Elizabeth died, and I’ve understood your grief over her. While she was alive I did
everything
I could to help you pusue the match with her, even though
I knew our parents wanted a more wealthy bride for you. All I’m asking of you now is that you let me meet Philip. You owe it to me.’