Heartless (The House of Rohan 5)

She was happy, she truly was. She had her work—she had saved lives at Temple Hospital, she would continue to save lives wherever she ended up living.

Admittedly, the situation at the hospital had become more and more difficult, and now, with Benedick’s latest determination, it threatened to become impossible. As a major benefactor, the viscount had a great deal to say in the running of the institution, or Emma would never have found a place there.

But Benedick had decided that Emma would replace Mr. Fenrush, and no sensible argument would dissuade him. The surgeon was a venal, ham-handed butcher, but he’d been in control for decades, and his reputation, was impeccable, despite the fact that he killed more patients than he saved. He was a cruel, vicious little man, and she shuddered at the thought of what she was going to face when she returned. The sooner she did, the better. The fact that it took her far away from Brandon Rohan was merely an added benefit.

This place had been her haven, and it could be again, as long as she didn’t have to spend time with him. He reminded her of too many things she could never have, but she hated being a coward.

Perhaps she could find a cottage of her own near Starlings. She could take care of the Gaggle, keep an eye on Melisande, glory in her godchildren, and never have to breathe the foul air of London again. Lord Brandon might occasionally come to visit, but it was just as likely he’d turn up at his parents’ country house in

Somerset for family gatherings. If he did return, she’d be living in her own house and she could easily avoid him. In truth, the future was looking quite satisfactory—nothing but pleasant times awaited her.

She had a headache, sharp and probing, and she pulled out her hairpins, letting her dark mane fall loose over her shoulders. She reached up to rub her scalp as she stared out the windows into the gloom. She’d planned to spend a week in the country, and it looked as if she was going to have no choice. The best she could do was keep busy, and the Gaggle were nearby.

Now that they’d finished the move, the country Dovecote was bursting at the seams, and Emma had gone down there almost every day. Most everyone had made the transition well, though Mollie Biscuits didn’t think much of the kitchen. The others had settled in, and many of them, born and bred city girls, were now venturing out of doors simply for pleasure.

It was a good thing Starlings Manor came equipped with a large dower house. The estate was huge—the entire place covered more than a thousand acres. It had belonged to the Dukes of Bellingham, but the last one had died without an heir, and Viscount Rohan had been one of the few in England able to afford it. Melisande had immediately claimed the massive dower house and it served the purpose beautifully.

She needed some sort of distraction, she thought, leaning against the window. If Benedick Rohan was playing silly games with the carriages she could easily walk—after all, she’d been bred a country girl and her job required she spend hours on her feet instead of on her back, something she always considered with amusement whenever her feet were hurting her. She wouldn’t melt in the heavy rain.

It was a perfect day to curl up by a warm fire and immerse herself in medical texts, but first she was going to clear her mind and her fancies by visiting the Dovecote, always a strong reminder not to feel sorry for herself. She’d be plied with ginger biscuits and hot, strong tea, surrounded by the only friends she had outside of Melisande. Why should a little rain stand in the way of that?

She was about to change her shoes when there was a soft scratching at the door, and a maid poked her head in.

“Beg pardon, Mrs. Cadbury,” she said, “I hadn’t thought you’d be coming back to your room. I’ll lay a fire right now. . .”

“No need, Rosie. The rain appears to have stopped for the time being, and I find I’m in need of fresh air.”

“Good day for a walk, missus,” Rosie offered.

Emma glanced out the leaded-paned windows to the overcast sky. “Whether it is or not, I should make another visit to the Dower House. I find the company more amenable there.”

The girl said nothing for a moment, then took a deep, nervous breath. “If you’re going to the Dower House you might want to take the shorter way past the orchards. Us girls all use it, and it’s ever so much quicker.”

“Excellent advice.” Emma knew she sounded far heartier than she felt, but she’d learned years ago that brooding never helped a troubled situation. Action was always best.

“You simply turn left past the orchards and follow the path,” Rosie said. “It will lead you to the Dower House.”

Emma wrinkled her brow. “Won’t that take me in the opposite direction?”

“It loops around. Just follow the path, over the footbridge and then left again and you’ll be there.”

The girl was unaccountably nervous, and Emma couldn’t imagine why. Melisande had to be the most lenient of mistresses—Rosie would have nothing to be afraid of. “Are you all right, my dear? If you’re not feeling well I’m certain you’d be allowed to go back to bed . . .”

Rosie’s anxiety increased. “I’m fine, Mrs. Cadbury. No need to mention it to anybody. Lady Melisande makes certain that we don’t work longer than twelve hours a day, and we get time off for meals and even a bit of a rest. She’s the talk of London with her newfound ways. You wouldn’t believe it.”

In fact, Emma would believe exactly that. Melisande was the best woman she had ever known, the best person, and she had a scrupulous sense of the unfairness of life. They’d called her “Sweet Charity” Carstairs before she’d married Rohan—a society joke for her efforts to save various soiled doves, not to mention having a retired whore as a partner in the endeavor. Melisande had continued on, undaunted, and Emma had done her part. For some women the position as an upstairs maid was a dream come true, particularly for some of those who’d made their living on the streets. For others it might be a punishment.

Rosie looked as if she belonged in the punishment category, Emma thought, eyeing her. “Where did you come from, Rosie?” she asked suddenly, and the girl started, a look of panic flitting across her face before vanishing, so fast Emma would have thought she’d mistaken it. “I mean, originally.”

“The north,” Rosie said. “My family died and I came down here to live with my aunt, but then she died and I had nowhere else to go except the streets. You know the rest of it.” It sounded reasonable enough, and Emma had no reason to disbelieve her, but there was something uneasy, almost furtive about the girl. Emma was used to those emotions, having seen them in the Gaggle, having felt most of them herself.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here at Starlings. Go along now and get a cup of tea for yourself. If anyone bothers you tell them it’s on my orders.”

There was only the slight shadow of a forced smile as Rosie curtseyed. “Yes, miss. I’m very lucky to be here.”

She watched the girl leave, her mind busy. Something was wrong with the girl, and she needed to discover what it is. She might be ill, or even in the family way, but no matter how great the problem, she would be treated well and fairly, hallmarks of Melisande’s efforts toward them, toward all of the Gaggle.

Which reminded Emma that her own visit there was not without complications. The soiled doves were always trying to find a man for her, determined that she should have some kind of storybook ending. It touched her, though she never showed it, that women who had lived such a harsh, unforgiving life still had a naïve belief in love and marriage. She’d lost that belief years ago, and she hadn’t suffered nearly as much as some of them.