Chapter Twelve
London 1893
Rosie Smith raised the delicate bone china cup to her lips, took a sip of the fragrant Darjeeling tea and sighed with contentment.
Despite being a penniless orphan, with no prospects worth mentioning, here she was, dressed in the latest fashion, taking tea at the Ritz, surrounded by Britain’s elite.
Her feet, encased in soft kid leather boots, were aching after spending all day walking around the shops and sights of London. She was still tired from the gruelling trip across the Atlantic from New York. And yet she couldn’t be happier.
She sighed again and looked across the lace-covered table at her friend, who was smiling with equal contentment.
‘What shall we do tomorrow?’ Rosie took a cucumber sandwich from the top layer of the three-tiered cake stand and placed it on her rose-patterned plate. ‘More shopping? Or shall we take in some art galleries and museums?’
‘Art galleries and museums, I think.’ Arabella placed a scone on her plate and smothered it with jam and clotted cream. ‘After all, I’m sure Father would want us to absorb as much culture as we can while we’re in England.’
The two girls giggled conspiratorially.
Rosie lifted a finger and waggled it in Arabella’s direction. ‘“What good is art, my dear? You don’t get a decent return on sculptures. Nobody ever got rich from culture.”’
Arabella clapped her hands and laughed loudly. ‘You do such a brilliant impersonation of Father. It’s you who should be on the stage, Rosie, not me.’
Their jubilation drew the attention of the women sitting at the next table, who glared down their imperious noses with looks that might have withered the spring buds on the tree. Rosie was tempted to poke out her tongue. Instead she lifted her head and returned their looks of disapproval. Although she suspected being glared at down a small button nose wouldn’t have quite the same impact.
‘Humourless old biddies,’ she whispered. ‘Have they never heard anyone laugh before?’ She smiled at Arabella. ‘So, tomorrow it’s art galleries and museums—perfect.’
The two girls sipped their tea and sighed simultaneously.
A waiter approached the table and bowed low. Arabella smiled her thanks, removed the folded letter from his silver tray and read its contents. Her smile dissolved. Her hand shot to her mouth and her shoulders slumped.
‘What is it? What’s wrong, Bella?’ Rosie reached across the table and touched her friend’s arm.
Arabella’s hands trembled as she passed her the letter. Rosie quickly scanned the elegant handwriting. It was an invitation from the Dowager Duchess of Knightsbrook, inviting Arabella to a weekend party at her estate in Devon.
‘Oh, this is too, too terrible, Rosie.’ Arabella took a lace handkerchief from her embroidered clutch purse and dabbed at her eyes. ‘It’s from the mother of that horrid man Father expects me to marry.’
‘It’s disgusting!’ Rosie threw the letter down on the table. ‘They think they can buy you. That all they have to do is dangle a title and you’ll come running, and then they can get their greedy hands on your father’s money. Disgusting!’
‘I know... I know. I don’t want to go. And I especially don’t want to go that weekend. It means I’ll miss the opening night of Oscar Wilde’s play. I’ll miss the opportunity to meet the great man himself.’
‘Then don’t go.’ Rosie thumped the table, making the teacups jump and rattle in their saucers. ‘You can’t possibly miss the opening of that play. That’s one of the main reasons we came to England.’
Her raised voice drew another scowl from the next table. This time Rosie didn’t hold back. She screwed up her face, poked out her tongue and let the women know just what she thought of their disapproving looks.
Their gasps and bulging stares would have made Rosie laugh if she had felt like laughing.
Arabella lowered her handkerchief. ‘Well, no...the main reason we’re here is because Father wants to marry me off after that...’ She tilted her head and lightly bit her upper lip. ‘After that scandal.’
‘Scandal? That was no scandal. Your appearance on the New York stage as Lady Macbeth was a triumph and should be celebrated as such. Your father just doesn’t understand your passion for acting.’
Arabella sent her friend a shaky smile. ‘Thank you, Rosie. But I’ll still have to go, Father will never forgive me otherwise.
‘And I’d never forgive myself if you missed that play. There has to be a way out of this.’
Rosie drummed her fingers on the table and looked around the room for inspiration. There had to be a way out of this dilemma; there was always a way out of every problem.
‘I’ll
