‘Do you have doubts, dearest? Has he done something—ungentlemanly?’ She couldn’t quite imagine that, but then again one never really knew with men. Look how their own father had concealed his debts, his terrible gambling habits, from his wife and daughters until he died and they were cast out of their home.
Surely Mr Hewlitt would never do that. If he dared to hurt Lily in any way, Rose would murder him.
‘Oh, no, not at all! It’s just—’ Lily broke off, biting her lip. ‘Well, what will you and Mama do?’
‘Oh, Lily.’ Rose gave her the most reassuring smile she could manage. Was that not the very same question she had asked herself since Father died? ‘You must not worry about that, dearest. We will be absolutely fine. Indeed, I’m quite looking forward to making your chamber into my very own sitting room. The mind reels at the thought of so much space! I will be just like a duchess with my own suite.’
Lily laughed, as well she would. Their cottage was approximately the size of a thimble, even with Lily’s extra little chamber they had built at the back. ‘And you will visit me very often, won’t you? I won’t be far away.’
‘So often you will be heartily sick of me.’
‘Promise?’
‘Just try to keep me away.’ Rose finished the last stitch in the hem and stood up to give her sister a hug, careful not to muss her ruffles and curls. Lily smelled of violet powder and sweetness, just as she had when she was a child, and Rose had held her dimpled little hands to help her walk. She laughed to keep from crying.
‘You really should marry first, as the eldest daughter. That is the natural way,’ Lily said.
Rose laughed again. ‘Find me another Mr Hewlitt, then. Until I have just such a paragon, I would never be able to tolerate wifely duties.’
‘He is out there, Rose, I just know it! The perfect man for you.’ Lily drew back to stare most earnestly into Rose’s eyes. ‘You will find him when you least expect it, just as I did with Mr Hewlitt.’
‘I haven’t time for romance,’ Rose said, tucking away her needle and thread in her workbox. It was quite true. When their father died so suddenly and they had to leave their home for the cottage, they’d had a very small income that would keep them from starving, but there would be no carriage or smart clothes or abundance of servants. Rose herself did much of the work: sweeping, sewing, looking after the chickens, taking care of their frail mother. She didn’t mind very much; she actually quite liked the useful, busy feeling of tea to make and ironing of petticoats to finish. And her chickens were known to be the finest layers in the neighbourhood.
Their mother, however, did mind. Mrs Felicity Parker had grown up as gentry in a fine manor house, cousin to the ancient family of the Bancrofts of Barton Park, and expected more of the same from her marriage, only to be bitterly disappointed. She talked of it to anyone who would listen. All her hopes had long been pinned on the beautiful Lily marrying well. A poor curate had never been in her plans, no matter how kind and handsome he was, no matter how much he adored Lily. And Rose saw too clearly what happened when a woman had to trust in marriage, trust in a man. She wasn’t sure she could do it.
Rose sighed. She very much feared her mother’s plans might turn to herself now and this visit to Barton Park was part of them. As much as she enjoyed seeing the old house and meeting her cousins, she couldn’t let her guard down.
‘Are you quite well, Rose?’ Lily asked, frowning in concern. ‘You look as if you have the headache.’
Rose made herself smile and fluffed up the lace trim of her sister’s sleeve. ‘Not at all. It’s just a bit stuffy in here, don’t you think? We should make our way down to the party. Mr Hewlitt will surely arrive soon.’
With a squeal of excitement, Lily dashed out of the room, her gown floating and sparkling around her like angel’s wings. Rose took a quick glance at herself in the glass before she followed, to make sure she looked presentable and tidy.
Presentable and tidy were about all she could hope for, she thought wryly. Unlike Lily, she had not inherited their mother’s blond curls and pink cheeks, her petite plumpness. Rose was taller, thin to the point of sharpness, with light brown hair that refused to hold a curl no matter how long it was subjected to the tongs, and skin that had turned ever so slightly golden while working in the garden. Her eyes were not too bad, she thought, with a small spark of hopefulness. A green-hazel that looked emerald in some lights, when she did not have to wear the horrid spectacles. Sadly, those had become more and more necessary of late, especially when sitting up sewing in the lamplight.
She smoothed the sleeves of her gown and reached for her gloves. Unlike Lily’s new dress, Rose had redone an old gown of their mother’s for herself. The olive-gold satin, plain and lustrous with only a single row of gold embroidery at the hem, suited her much better than the current style for frothy pale muslins and ruffled sleeves, and her needle had managed to take in the fuller skirts and puff out the sleeves a bit, yet she feared it would attract whispers of ‘unfashionableness’ and pity for the poor Parkers.
‘Ah, well,’ she told herself. ‘Fashion is something you could never really aspire to, Rose dear.’
She laughed, straightened the ivory comb in her upswept hair, slid her creamy Indian shawl over her shoulders and followed Lily out the door.
The party downstairs was just beginning, the first arrivals sweeping through the front doors and gathering in the marble-floored hall, leaving their wraps with the footmen, calling out merry greetings to each other.
Rose peeked over the gilded banister to the scene below. She had always loved Barton Park, the home of her mother’s distant cousins, the Bancrofts, even though they so seldom got to visit. It was a beautiful house, not too small and not too grand, built on elegant, classic lines and filled with comfortable furnishings and plenty of books and art. A true family home for many generations, soaked through with stories and emotions and hopes. It had fallen into some disrepair for a few years, but under the care of the current owners, Jane, Countess of Ramsay, and her sister, Emma, it had found new life.
The gardens beyond the tall glass windows were equally lovely, especially on such a soft, warm summer’s evening. Chinese lanterns shimmered in the trees, lighting up the pathways and the colourful tumble of the flowerbeds as carriages bounced along the gravel drive to the waiting doors.
Rose studied the crowd, a laughing, beautifully dressed throng gathered around Jane and her husband, the magnificently handsome Lord Ramsay. Jane looked as if she had belonged there at Barton Park for ever in her elegant dark blue gown, shimmering with lavender beads. She greeted each new arrival with a happy cry, sparkling with laughter before she passed them to her younger sister, Emma, a blonde angel much like Lily in her grey satin gown. Emma, too, smiled, though it was quieter, more unsure. When they were children, Emma had been quite the daredevil, but now she had returned to Barton as a young widow, trailing something of a scandal in her wake. Rose quite adored her, even as she worried for her.
The growing throng appeared a bit of a blur to Rose without her spectacles, but she glimpsed Lily near the open doors to the drawing room, where the music was drifting out above the hum of laughter. Their mother stood beside her, the plumes of her striped turban nodding merrily as she laughed and chattered, but Lily didn’t seem to be paying attention at all. She bounced on the toes of her dancing slippers, searching each face around her eagerly before falling back again.
Oh, dear, Rose thought. Mr Hewlitt had probably not made his appearance yet. She tiptoed down the stairs and slipped into the crowd, intending to make
