commented.
Rosalie nodded. ‘She’s always been adaptable.’
‘How old was she when her father died?’
The question made her catch her breath, sharply. ‘She was—only a baby.’ She stumbled over the words. ‘Really, she never knew him.’
Was there doubt in his dark eyes? If so, he let it go. ‘I’ve just got to attend to the horses. I’ll see you in the entrance hall.’
She went back to the house, her apprehension rising again. But then a great big golden dog with woebegone eyes ambled up to her and seemed to be leading her into the kitchen, where a tray of freshly baked biscuits sat on a high shelf.
He was wagging his tail so eagerly that Rosalie just had to reach for two of them, which he wolfed down as if he hadn’t eaten for days. As she petted and fussed him, she didn’t notice that Garrett had come in.
‘Like dogs, do yer, ma’am?’
His voice made her jump out of her skin. ‘Oh! Not always, to be honest. But this one—he’s gorgeous! What’s his name?’
‘Ajax. He’s a good lad, Ajax is.’ Garrett was actually looking at her with something approaching friendliness. ‘Been giving him some of my wife’s biscuits, have you? That’s good, she’d have my hide if she caught me doing it, but ‘cos it’s you, it’s all right, see?’
Rosalie struggled with the logic of all this, but Garrett was already pointing to the door. ‘The Captain says he’s ready for you outside now, ma’am.’
Indeed, Alec had obtained a curricle from somewhere, harnessed to two passable greys, and Garrett rode at the back like a rich man’s tiger, so private conversation was impossible.
But—she enjoyed it. She enjoyed sitting at Alec’s side, wrapped up against the fresh spring breeze, looking round at London’s crowds, at the shops and other carriages. She enjoyed Alec’s steady presence beside her, his skilful hands so sure on the reins. The admiring glances he got from passing women, their looks of envy at her …
Pretending. That was what she was doing. Just pretending, she reminded herself. And she found talking to him easier than she’d thought, for she had a neutral topic of conversation: that garden. ‘Such a beautiful place,’ she said warmly. ‘Or at least it must have been, once!’
He nodded. ‘I’m afraid my priority is in keeping the actual house in one piece. But you’re right, it was once beautiful. Don’t tell me—you know something about gardens also, Mrs Rowland?’
She hesitated. ‘We had a garden with the cottage in Oxfordshire. My—my mother loved it.’
Her voice faded away. Her mother had planted it with such care, to remind her of the man she’d loved. It bloomed with the English flowers: roses, hollyhocks, heart’s-ease. When Linette had gone, their mother used to sit out there day after day, hoping that her lost daughter might return ….
‘Mrs Rowland, are you all right?’
Rosalie quickly dabbed her handkerchief to her eyes, pretending that a little dust had blown in them. ‘Yes. Yes, thank you—perfectly.’
Impossible that he could have guessed at her grief—and yet it was as though he did, because Alec went on to distract her, as he drove the curricle expertly through London’s streets, with descriptions of the wonderful gardens—many of them sadly ruined by war—that he’d seen in Spain and Portugal. Then he became silent, concentrating on the busy traffic, and she felt her spine tingle in renewed warning. You have to ask him about Linette.
But then what? If he was guilty, what did she expect him to do? What did she want him to do? She wanted him to say he was sorry, perhaps. But most of all—she wanted to be wrong.
When he told her they’d arrived, she was bewildered. She’d taken little notice of their surroundings for the last ten minutes or so, being too absorbed in her own thoughts. Now, she was speechless.
They’d stopped in a street where huge mansions with white-stuccoed façades gazed benevolently down on a square filled with trees and well-tended shrubs. Liveried carriages with be-wigged footmen put Alec’s equipage to shame. This was Mayfair, she realised with a jolt of alarm. About as different from Two Crows Castle as a palace from a pauper’s hovel. Yet Garrett was marching up to the big front door and lifting the glittering brass doorknocker as if he knew the place! Rosalie turned white-faced to Alec. ‘Is this some kind of joke?’
‘No, indeed.’ Alec was watching her, with a strange expression on his face. ‘We’re here to look at some paintings, Mrs Rowland—remember?’
‘Why, Master Alec!’ cried Jarvis, brushing aside the footman who’d opened the door.
Alec returned the greeting. ‘Just a quick visit, Jarvis. Is everything all right? Has my brother been?’
Jarvis frowned and lowered his voice. ‘He has, sir. He came for more paintings. And he said it was all on your father’s orders, Master Alec!’
‘Did he, now?’ Alec’s voice was lethally soft.
‘Most of them are back. But take a look round, do. And I see you have a companion.’ Rosalie had followed Alec up the steps and stood frozen in the doorway.
‘An acquaintance of mine, Jarvis,’ said Alec. ‘Perhaps you could find us something to eat, in an hour or so?’
‘If you’re hungry, Master Alec, there’s plenty of food, all delivered by Berry Brothers an hour ago. A feast laid ready, in fact.’
‘Food? But the house is closed up, surely!’
‘Indeed, sir. And your father’s cook has gone with him to Carrfields.’ The old steward’s face had darkened and he lowered his voice. ‘But you’ll guess, I think, who ordered it—all in your father’s name. Some kind of party’s planned here tonight. And were we, the staff, informed in advance? No!’ He shook his head. ‘If you ask me, it would be justice indeed, if you and the young lady were to partake of just a little of it! And there’s clothes, sir—’ he pursed his lips ‘—clothes we were told to dispose of, because they’re no longer the fashion.’
Alec nodded thoughtfully. Then he turned to Rosalie, who was still staring around, stunned. ‘Come inside,’ he said and she followed mutely as he led the way to the main hall, from which a vast double staircase rose in gilded splendour.
‘This,’ he said, ‘at least gives you the chance to look around and see what a change of fortune has been mine.’
‘Change of—?’
‘All in good time. But first—I want you to tell me about some paintings.’
He saw her draw her hand across her forehead. ‘Indeed, I promised to do so. But I don’t understand …’
‘It’s quite simple. I’d like the benefit of your expertise. Take a look round here, for instance. My particular favourite was always that Poussin, by the stairs—’
‘I noticed that one straight away,’ she broke in, ‘because it’s not a Poussin!’
Well.
