Adams had departed with a stiff bob of her head, and here Rowena sat before the fire, with only a book to keep her company.
Perhaps they will contrive to forget I am here if I keep out of their way, she thought hopefully, but the very next morning she was summoned to her mother’s room and informed that her measurements would be taken by Jenks, so that some suitable gowns and underwear could be procured for her immediately.
Lady Fanny, sitting up in bed, appeared a trifle calmer this morning, although her pale blue eyes were still red-rimmed and slightly swollen.
She sighed as she looked at her daughter. Those dark blue eyes, so like Guy’s, with their cold and arrogant look. That wild black hair, also his. There is nothing of me in her, Fanny thought; nothing at all. She is his child, just as she was from the very beginning, even before she was born.
“All right, all right! So we’ve both made a mistake. But it’s too late to rectify that—we’re married. But give me a child, Fanny, give me my son, and you may go your way. Have all the fun you whine about, do as you please, I’ll not care. We’ll make a bargain.”
They had made the bargain after all, and she had given him a daughter instead of a son, almost dying in the process. And Guy had kept his word, except that she’d met Edgar, and become careless. The Dangerfields cared more for their precious honor than they did for people and human feelings. And it was this same concept of “honor” that had undone Guy in the end, when he played into their hands.
I mustn’t think about that! Fanny thought now, almost feverishly. But why did she have to come? Why must I be saddled with her? Duty, Edgar had said. People would think it strange and unnatural if they did not take her in. But I don’t want to have a daughter eighteen years old! When I’ve been telling my friends for years I’m younger than I am.
“My lady, about the clothes for Lady Rowena…” Mrs. Jenk’s brisk voice brought Fanny Cardon back to earth. Her daughter still stood in the center of the room, staring at her with those cold eyes that gave nothing away.
With an effort at composure Lady Fanny said lightly, “Do you have any preferences as to color and style, Rowena? Bustles are all the rage now, of course, but if you—”
“Dark colors, please,” the girl said in her infuriatingly cool voice. “I am still in mourning for my grandfather, you know. And as for bustles, I have never cared for them—they look so ugly and unnatural. If I may, I would rather wear simpler clothes—nothing too elaborate or tight-fitting, for I won’t wear stays or corsets.”
Mrs. Jenks looked scandalized, and Lady Fanny helpless. If only Edgar were here!
“But, Rowena!” Lady Fanny protested faintly. “Every young woman wears them, if she wants to cut a pretty figure. You’ll be going out in public. I cannot have you looking dowdy!”
She sounds as if dowdiness is the worst sin in the world, Rowena thought viciously. She made her voice sound subdued.
“But I can hardly be expected to make public appearances while I am still in mourning, can I? Even in India, we heard how strongly the Queen feels about a decent period of mourning following a bereavement. My grandfather and I were very close, and I would much rather stay quietly in the house and read, if I will not be in the way, of course.”
“Well, I—I just don’t know!” Lady Fanny shrugged helplessly, looking at Jenks for support. The austere housekeeper merely pursed her thin lips. What was she expected to say?
Later she told Adams, “False meekness, that’s what it was! And Lady Fanny far too kindhearted to see through her. Mourning indeed! If you ask me, that young woman hasn’t enough feeling in her to mourn for anyone. Cold-hearted—you can see it a mile off!”
It became the consensus of opinion belowstairs, as the days passed. Lady Rowena Dangerfield was a cold-hearted, arrogant little creature, even though she dressed plainly and dowdily.
“Like one of them popish nuns, dressed all in black, and wearin’ those ugly bonnets with thick veils that she chose herself,” the under-footman said.
“More like a Salvation Army lady!” Alice giggled.
“A
h, but she’s got all the haughty airs and graces of a grand lady, even though she’s got no money of her own—nothing! I heard the master say the Earl of Melchester owned nothing but his title—spent everything he earned living in grand style out in India. Left her nothing but a few pounds, and she soon spent that, didn’t she?”
Adams and Jenks exchanged significant looks. Neither of them liked Rowena, who persisted in giving them orders in exactly the same tone she used to the other servants. “She’ll get her comeuppance one of these days, just you mark my words!” Briggs said, determined not to be left out of the conversation. “I can tell the master’s getting tired of having her moping around the house.” He lowered his voice, so that the parlormaids, sitting at the other end of the long kitchen table, would not hear him. “The other night when the Wilkinsons from Yorkshire came for dinner—you mind when the gentlemen retired to the library for their port?”
Adams sniffed.
“She said she had a headache and went upstairs to bed. It made my lady terribly upset, I can tell you!”
Alice, who was allowed to wait on table occasionally, chimed in pertly. “I can tell you what they were talking about at dinner! Mr. Thomas was asking her about India, and she hardly answered him, except to use all kinds of big words I’d never heard of before, and about the Hindu religion being older and wiser than any other, and…” her eyes widened, “the Wilkinsons are chapel!”
They were all struck dumb by this shocking pronouncement, except for Briggs, who shook his head in grim disapprobation.
“That’s what comes of being brought up in a land of heathens! But I have a feeling Lady Rowena will be brought to heel yet. Sir Edgar’s too clever not to see through her, and I can tell you, in the strictest confidence of course,” here he frowned at Alice and the giggling Mary, “that he has plans!”
Even Cook looked up from her knitting.
“Do tell, Mr. Briggs!”
“Heard him talking to Mr. Wilkinson senior. And the young Mr. Wilkinson, from the way he sat there grinning, didn’t seem to mind what he was suggesting too much. Lady Rowena has a title, and Sir Edgar isn’t a man to be stingy with his money. Offered a dowry to go with her, he did. And it’s my prediction there’ll be wedding bells before long, and Lady Airs-and-Graces, like it or not, will be packed off to Yorkshire with a husband!”