A Useful Woman (8 page)

Because she was missing something. Some important idea was trying to run away from her.

Before she could grasp it, though, light flickered in the front hall, and a maid entered the salon carrying a freshly lit lamp.

“Excuse me, miss. Lord Blanchard sends his apologies, but says you are to stay here for the night. I'm to take you up to the Summer Room, and Bertram has been sent to your house for your servant. I'm to help you until she arrives.”

“Of course. Please convey my thanks to Lord Blanchard.” Her gratitude was genuine. The thought of another frigid, jolting carriage ride across London was too much to endure.

The Summer Room got its name from its bright yellow walls and dusky gold draperies. Maids bustled to and fro, unfolding the bedding and stuffing pillows and bolsters into fresh slips.

“You must forgive us, Miss Thorne,” said Mrs. Pauling, the Blanchards' housekeeper. “The house is just opened, and the rooms are not all yet in order. You sit yourself down. Cook will be sending up a hot meal directly, and you can eat and rest. Forgive my saying, but you must be exhausted! Such a thing . . .”

Rosalind did sit. She let Mrs. Pauling's exclamations and orders to the staff roll over her like a warming breeze. As promised, a hot meal was brought in and placed on a table. The rich smells of beef broth, veal in white sauce, and cheese tart were all enticing, but Rosalind found herself only able to pick at the food. Her mind could not settle and she could not understand why. This was, after all, the accepted prescription for shock and tragedy. While the men decided what to do, the women were to retreat until any possibility of making a public scene had passed. She must eat and drink what was given, take her
sal volitale
as she required. Probably she should lie down.

Rosalind pushed her tray away. “Where is Lady Blanchard?” she asked the nearest maid.

“Her ladyship is in her rooms, but . . .”

Whatever it was she had to say after that could be safely
ignored. Rosalind got to her feet and started down the dim corridor.

Rosalind had lived in Blanchard House for quite some time after her father deserted them. She therefore had no difficulty finding her way to Lady Blanchard's rooms. She knocked on the door. When no answer came, she took a deep breath, prepared to instantly apologize, and slipped into Lady Blanchard's private sitting room.

The room was lit by several lamps and a good fire. Lady Blanchard's personal maid, Lacey, was just closing the door to the boudoir.

“Oh, Miss Thorne.” Disapproval dripped from the maid's words. “I did not realize that was you.”

“I came to inquire as to how Lady Blanchard is,” Rosalind said. “May I see her?”

“I'm afraid not, miss,” answered Lacey, who, despite her name, was one of the straightest, plainest women Rosalind had ever laid eyes on. “My lady needs rest after her ordeal.”

But I need to know what she meant! I need to know what had been arranged, and with whom! Was it Jasper Aimesworth? Mr. Whelks? Lord Casselmain? Someone else entirely?

But Lacey simply stood in front of the closed door, with her chin raised. She might be only a lady's maid, but in this, her authority was inviolate. She and she alone looked after Lady Blanchard, and she was not to be gainsaid.

Pressed hard by the twin weights of exhaustion and convention, Rosalind's resolution collapsed. “Please tell her ladyship I was asking for her,” she murmured.

“I will deliver the message, miss,” said Lacey, although, of course, she did not say when.

Rosalind returned to her room. There was nothing she could
do at the present. She could hardly go looking for Lord Blanchard. He might not even be in the house anymore. She sat in her comfortable chair and stared at her comfortable fire.

He wasn't supposed to be here, it's not what we agreed . . .

What agreement is this
?
Which
he
are you talking about?
The questions ran back and forth through Rosalind's mind, chasing out all other thought, but bringing her no answers. Something about Jasper Aimesworth's death had left Lady Blanchard shaken to her core. Was it the location? The suddenness of it? But people died suddenly every day from accidents or illnesses of all sorts. Lady Blanchard had endured the deaths of all three of her children. Why would the loss of this one young man leave her so devastated?

Unless, somehow, the relationship between the two of them was much closer than she knew. This, however, was not a possibility Rosalind cared to examine closely. No good at all could come of it.

Eventually, a nightdress, cap, and wool stockings were brought in, doubtlessly from Lady Blanchard's own store. Rosalind let herself be undressed and re-dressed, brushed, braided, and eventually laid down in the bed and covered over with a thick layer of quilts. The soles of her stockinged feet touched hot bricks wrapped in flannel. The heat was a blessing and she savored it as the servants snuffed the candles and closed the door behind them.

Rosalind burrowed into her covers and waited for sleep. But a moment later, her eyes flew open, and she stared into the darkness. In all her confusion, she had grasped only half of the problem.

Lord Casselmain had been first to the ballroom after Rosalind and Mr. Whelks found Jasper. He shouldn't have been
there at all. That was obvious. That was understood. But all that time, while the uninvited and the inappropriate had clambered freely through Almack's, where was the one person who should have been there?

Where was Lady Blanchard?

Things Seen in the Correct Light

Lady Jersey's bearing, on the contrary, was that of the theatrical tragedy queen.

—Captain Rees Howell Gronow,
Recollections and Anecdotes of the Camp, the Court, and the Clubs

When Rosalind awoke the next morning, she found herself lying in a comfortable bed in a sunny room that she didn't recognize. She shoved herself upright and stared about, unable to account for her surroundings, or her sudden fear. Slowly, memory filled itself in: of Almack's, of Devon, and of Jasper Aimesworth.

“It's all right.” Rosalind gulped air and groped for the bell rope. “You're in Blanchard House and you're perfectly safe.”

The maid who answered the bell was a dark slip of a girl carrying a breakfast tray. Immediately behind her came a well-known and entirely welcome figure in a severe black dress.

“Mrs. Kendricks!” Rosalind struggled to find a way out from under the mountain of covers.

“None of that, miss.” Mrs. Kendricks took the breakfast tray from the maid and deposited it across Rosalind's lap. “Thank you, Melon. I'll look after Miss Thorne now.” As soon as the girl curtsied and departed, Mrs. Kendricks bolted the door and came at once to grasp both of Rosalind's hands.

“My poor miss! Are you all right? Were you hurt? I wanted to stay in the room with you, but they said I might disturb—”

“I'm all right, truly.” Rosalind squeezed her hands back, hoping a show of strength would convince Mrs. Kendricks that she spoke the truth. “I was not hurt at all. Only badly shocked.”

“I should think! They said it was young Mr. Aimesworth that died.”

“It was.” Rosalind leaned back against the bolsters. “I don't understand it, Mrs. Kendricks. It seems so impossible.”

Mrs. Kendricks just shook her head. “Some things are not for us to understand.”

“But—”

“No more talking now, if you please, miss.” Mrs. Kendricks lifted away the cover on the breakfast dish to reveal a generous helping of kedgeree. There was toast and marmalade on the tray as well, alongside the universal restorative: a pot of tea. “You need to eat to get your strength back.”

This second statement was something Rosalind could readily agree with. She was famished, and parched. “Is Lady Blanchard awake?” she asked as she poured herself some tea. “If she is, I should—”

“I am under strict instructions from her ladyship that you are not to come down until you have eaten.”

This may or may not have been the truth, but Rosalind was not inclined to argue. Instead, she tucked into the kedgeree, rich with golden rice, raisins, and hard-cooked egg.

This evidence of a healthy appetite clearly relieved Mrs. Kendricks's mind. She bustled around the room, opening the bronze-colored curtains and bringing out a tapestry bag from the wardrobe to extract a clean chemise and stockings, as well as Rosalind's violet sprigged morning dress.

“I'll go see this is ironed, miss. You are not to stir until I get back.”

It was easier than it should have been to follow Mrs. Kendricks's instructions. Rosalind allowed herself to believe that if she was issuing orders, Lady Blanchard must be recovered from her collapse. Thus comforted, she cleaned her plate and drained the teapot. When she'd finished, she leaned back against the bolsters. The warmth and stillness of the room wrapped around her, as thick and comfortable as the quilts. She wanted never to move again. Especially since moving would inevitably drag her back into the current of yesterday's dreadful events.

“It was an accident,” Rosalind said to the canopy above her. “That's all. Some sad and terrible accident.”

Too soon, Mrs. Kendricks returned with Rosalind's freshly ironed dress. “I've told her ladyship that you are awake, miss. Lady Blanchard hopes you'll be so good as to join her and Lord Blanchard in the morning room, but only if you're feeling quite well.”

“Of course I am well, Mrs. Kendricks.” To prove her point, Rosalind threw back the covers. Much to her own relief, she found she was perfectly able to stand, and stand steadily.

Mrs. Kendricks helped Rosalind into her clothes, and combed and dressed her hair. Feeling much refreshed and ready to meet the questions that were sure to follow, Rosalind made her way to Lady Blanchard's formal morning room.

Although the door was open when Rosalind reached it, neither of that room's occupants noted her arrival. Lady Blanchard sat straight as a ramrod on the Louis XIV sofa by the fire, with both her hands wrapped around a teacup. Lord Blanchard leaned over her. One hand gripped the sofa back, the other clutched her shoulder. He was saying something soft and harsh, and the effort of it twisted his lined face.

“Of course,” murmured his wife in answer. “Of course.”

Rosalind swallowed. She also quickly knocked against the open door. Lord Blanchard sprang back from his wife. His face flushed red as he glared at the source of the interruption.

Lady Blanchard merely turned her head. “There you are, Rosalind!” she cried as brightly as if Rosalind had been strolling about the gardens. “I trust you are quite recovered?”

“Perfectly, thank you, Lady Blanchard.” Rosalind sank to the sofa beside her. Lady Blanchard was made of stern stuff, tempered by long years in society and politics. Even so, the complete and utter calm of her demeanor this morning was a marvel. The disloyal thought passed through Rosalind's mind that Lady Blanchard's earlier show of shock and extreme grief might have been just that—a show. She dismissed this almost at once. A woman of Lady Blanchard's breeding would pretend to feel less than she did, rather than more, even in the midst of an unfolding disaster. “I must thank you both for allowing me to trespass—”

“Nonsense! What else should we have done?” boomed Lord Blanchard. “Do you feel up to talking, Miss Thorne?”

“Of course, sir,” said Rosalind. This was true, although she very much doubted that Lord Blanchard wanted to discuss the same subjects she did.

Lord Blanchard planted himself directly in front of the sofa and clutched the lapel of his coat with one hand, his gaze and stance as severe as if he were facing down an opposing member in the House of Lords. The last time she had seen him like this, he had been explaining to her why she had to leave his house.

Rosalind concentrated on keeping her shoulders straight and her face placid.

“Now, Miss Thorne,” said Lord Blanchard. “Just where did you find Aimesworth?”

“He was under the musicians' gallery.” With an apologetic
glance toward Lady Blanchard, Rosalind told his lordship what she had seen, as simply and quickly as she could. Lady Blanchard sipped her tea and listened quietly.

Lord Blanchard's gray brows knitted. “How was it you who found him, Miss Thorne? You can't really have been there alone?”

“Mr. Whelks had gone up to the offices.”
To look for Lady Blanchard.
“I saw the ballroom door was open, so I looked inside. Mr. Whelks came then and noticed something was wrong in the room. We went together to investigate the matter. Then . . . I'm afraid I screamed.”

“Quite natural.” Lord Blanchard nodded as if granting her a favor by allowing this evidence of feminine weakness.

“Shortly afterwards, Lord Casselmain arrived . . .”

“Casselmain?” Blanchard snapped. “What the devil would Casselmain have to do there?”

“Morgan,” murmured his wife. He waved his hand, annoyed.

“I could not say,” Rosalind told them. She was certainly not about to disclose that Devon might have been there because of her.

“Had he . . . that is to say, Mr. Aimesworth . . . was it a fit, possibly?” murmured Lady Blanchard. She had lowered her gaze to contemplate her teacup. “A stroke? He hadn't . . . had he been ill?”

A stroke would not have produced so much blood
. But this was another thought Rosalind kept to herself.

Lord Blanchard, however, spared Rosalind the necessity of making any answer. “I know exactly what it was. Stupid not to have thought of it before. Young Aimesworth was a member of White's, wasn't he?”

“I'm sure I don't know,” said Rosalind. White's was one of the most exclusive gentlemen's clubs in London. It numbered the Prince of Wales and several of the royal dukes among its membership.

“Well, I do, and he was. Probably, the young idiot was up in the gallery as part of some fool bet.” White's was as famous for its members' outrageous gambling as Watier's was for its chef and its wine cellar. “Grab a tassel off the curtains, write your initials on the wall of Almack's, bet you five pounds you can't, that sort of nuisancy thing. He got up there, overbalanced on the rail, or a ladder, or some such. Then he fell and broke his fool neck.”

“I don't think Mr. Aimesworth was the sort—” began Lady Blanchard, but Lord Blanchard was already shaking his head.

“Depend on it, Jane, that is what happened. Young idiot,” he repeated. “Sorry for his parents. Only son, wasn't he? Shouldn't have been playing with his life like that.”

It was a simple explanation, and perfectly plausible. Lady Blanchard should have seized on it, but Rosalind saw the doubt shining in her friend's eyes.

A scratch at the door signaled the arrival of the footman. “Lady Jersey and Mrs. Drummond-Burrell for Lady Blanchard,” he told them all. “They beg my lady's pardon but say the matter is very urgent.”

“It has to be gotten over with, Jane,” said Lord Blanchard quietly. Rosalind bit her tongue to keep from blurting out her own impatience. She couldn't possibly ask Lady Blanchard her own questions while the lady patronesses were calling.

“Simmons, you may show the ladies in.” Lady Blanchard rose to her feet. “Then send Mrs. Pauling with more tea. No, coffee. Lady Jersey prefers coffee at this hour.”

Simmons bowed and left to carry out these instructions. Lord Blanchard closed his hand briefly on his wife's shoulder, just exactly on the curve where shoulder joined neck. A bare heartbeat later, Lady Jersey strode in.

Society's daughters were routinely drilled in the art of elegant deportment. Lady Jersey, however, seemed to have neglected
these lessons, or skipped them altogether. All of her movements were brash, abrupt, and expansive. The moment she entered any room, she became the focus of attention, much the way a charging horse might.

Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, on the other hand, spent all her energies in an attempt to be unassuming. She shadowed Lady Jersey closely, like a Spanish duenna. Her dark eyes met Rosalind's, and narrowed. Young, she might be, but that sharp look told Rosalind she understood the endless internal calculations and compromises that made up a moment in society, and that she was good at them. Neither she nor Rosalind spoke. It was for Lady Blanchard as hostess to perform the introductions, and until then, they had to remain silent.

“My dear, dear Jane!” Lady Jersey sailed up to Lady Blanchard, shawl and hems billowing. “I knew we would find you home. Lord Blanchard, you will excuse the intrusion at such an hour, but we are in the midst of a crisis!” She favored him with a glance that mingled annoyance with tepid apology.

Lord Blanchard bowed. “Not at all, not at all. In fact, let me take myself out of here so you ladies can tend to your business. You will excuse me, Jane? Lady Jersey? Mrs. Drummond-Burrell?”

All necessary courtesies were exchanged, and as soon as the door closed, Lady Jersey dropped into the chair directly in front of Lady Blanchard. “I have sent messages to all the other patronesses. We must convene an emergency meeting at once, but I wanted to come to you personally!”

Lady Blanchard remained standing. When she spoke, her voice was perfectly even and disinterested. “Lady Jersey, Mrs. Drummond-Burrell, I believe you know Miss Rosalind Thorne?”

Lady Jersey turned in her seat, frowning. By the rules of strict propriety, she should have stood, but then, by the rules of
strict propriety, she should not have sat down until introductions were completed. As if she were a servant, Rosalind dipped a curtsy to the seated lady, but she was not going to be seen as anything less than polite. If she was, it would reflect badly on her hostess.

In return, Lady Jersey lifted the quizzing glass that hung on the chain from around her neck, and looked Rosalind up and down. Rosalind knew this sort of look. Lady Jersey wasn't taking note of her face. The lady patroness examined Rosalind's plain, cheap dress, her hair, which was entirely devoid of fashionable ringlets, and the simple gold necklace at her throat. By these signs, Lady Jersey added up Rosalind's taste and level of
ton
and rendered her judgment accordingly.

“Miss Thorne,” Lady Jersey drawled. “Sir Reginald Thorne's daughter, I believe? I have perhaps heard Mrs. Holywell speak of you? A friend of her daughter's or something? And of course, you were . . .
there
yesterday?”