Authors: Valentina Cano
The Rose Master (4 page)
“I have been notified that one of us will be departing tomorrow morning to a new position.” He looked at me with his warm, blue eyes. “Although we will miss her, I, for one, wish Anne the best in her new home, and I am convinced she will make a wonderful addition to their staff.” He nodded toward me and sipped his water.
“Thank you, Mr. Easton,” I said.
The conversation picked up again, the latest news overriding the rather tame announcement. They were used to servants leaving, either from being dismissed or by their own volition, and did not find it the least bit strange to say so simple a goodbye to someone they could very well never see again.
I picked at my food. My stomach churned at the thought that it’d be the last night I’d spend around that table. Elsie reached her hand under the tablecloth and clasped my free one. I turned to her and gave her a pale smile.
The following morning was a rare one, the type that forced people into the street, blinking in the glare of the sudden, unfamiliar sun. I found it a blaring irony that my last day in London should have been marked by such beauty, as if the city rejoiced at my leaving it. Of course, that was utter nonsense. The city couldn’t have cared less if I got run over by a drunken carriage.
I dressed with care, picking among the few items that did not comprise my former uniform. I looked at one of the two dresses I possessed (and the only one without holes), holding it up to my face in the mirror, and grimaced. Neither the fabric, nor the anemic color of milky tea complemented my already pale skin. My dark eyes and hair helped, but not much.
With an exasperated sigh, I stepped into the dress, almost falling over as my foot caught in the ragged hem, and tied the laces. It was a snug fit. I’d grown since I’d bought it. How many months ago had that been? At least a year, if not longer, and I was still dumbfounded at my color choice. What had I been thinking? Probably that I’d rather have a pale, simple dress to one of those frilled monstrosities women seemed to love.
I buttoned what needed to be buttoned and tucked and flattened and pulled until the mirror held up a presentable image. I pinned my hair in a quick bun and grabbed my bonnet and traveling bag, the same one that had carried my childhood clothes years before. As I grasped the bag’s smooth handle, the memory of a warm touch on my free hand made me stop. My mother had guided me into Caldwell House. I shrugged off the ache I felt. No one would guide me out.
The hall was deserted and the gleaming wood, like liquid chocolate, blinked all around me. I could have paused to say my goodbyes to the familiar rooms, but I did not.
I walked to the kitchen where voices poured out with the smell of fresh herbs. Voices I’d heard for most of my life, ones I could recognize in any context, any situation, their inflections as unique as the throats that contained them. I closed my eyes and breathed.
I pushed the door open and the voices quieted. Mary and Elsie stared back at me, the older woman smiling, while my best friend, my sister, attempted to hold back tears unsuccessfully. I felt my voice catch in my throat, and I cleared it with a rough cough.
“I think the coach is here.”
“Well, child,” Mary said, coming up to me. “I wish you a safe trip. You’ll be fine, Anne. Don’t you worry.” She kissed my forehead with her dry lips and smiled again. I thought I caught a glimmer of tears in her eyes.
Elsie, by then, was sopping wet and sniffling. I walked up to her and enveloped her in my arms, causing further sobs to rack her frame. I hummed an old song in her ear—one of our favorites—brushing her back like a mother soothing a child. My own tears stained her uniform, and I knew I couldn’t wait much longer. If I did, I’d never leave.
“I have to go, Elsie,” I whispered.
She gripped me harder for an instant, then released me. “I know.”
“It’s not like I’m going away to America. I won’t be that far from here.” Smiling, I pulled a lock of her hair back from her face.
“You won’t forget me?” she asked.
“What a silly question! Never. Write to me if you get a chance.”
She nodded.
I blew her a kiss, picked up my bag, and walked to the door.
“I’ll walk you to the coach,” Elsie said.
“No, I think it’s best if I go on my own. No need to make it harder on both of us.” With a last smile that most likely looked more like a grimace, I left the kitchen.
Tears spilled down, and I brushed at them in fury.
“Pull yourself together, Anne. You’re an adult,” I chided myself. “What would Father say?”
Mr. Easton was there by the front door.
“Good morning, Anne,” he said.
“Good morning,” I managed to squeak out.
“The carriage is waiting.”
“Good.”
He opened the door and I stepped past him into the sunlight. Mr. Easton grasped my shoulder in his gentle hand.
“Take care of yourself, Anne.”
“I will, sir.”
He smiled and nodded, releasing me into the world.
four
The seats were a dark purple and soft to the touch. The windows were large. I asked if I could open at least one of them, so I could see the change of scenery. I wanted to see what I naively imagined as a clear borderline between London’s edge and the rest of the country. I was not sure what I expected, a pathway made of smoke, a line of flaming torches, certainly not what I did see: a wide road turning into a dirt ribbon, the jostle of the carriage the only indication we’d left the city.
I was smiling despite myself, though, waving at every tree we passed, creatures that were almost mythological in stony London. I stuck my head out the window and breathed deeply. The driver turned to me and gave a slight frown, so I tucked back inside and settled myself on the seat.
He was a peculiar man, the driver. He had such a look of fright in his pale eyes that I wasn’t sure he’d last the whole trip. His words were clipped, and his voice was so low I had to stare at his lips to understand the few words he spoke. I could not comprehend why he was so perturbed. I was not an imposing being; there was no astounding beauty to my face that might have earned me the hesitant looks and slight flinches I saw. I shrugged as I thought about it and hoped he would be more relaxed when we stopped around midday, since I couldn’t very well speak to him from inside the carriage. I would have had to scream, and I assumed that would give the man an apoplexy.
But when the time came to stop at a nearby inn for a quick meal, I found his attitude to have worsened, if anything. He paid for our meals, a pleasant surprise, but he winced when I thanked him, as if I had slapped him with my voice. So I bit my tongue and ate my vegetable stew in silence.
Back on the road, I found myself lulled despite the excitement of the day and the expectation of reaching Rosewood Manor. Even my thoughts of Elsie grew a film of sleep over them. I’d never smelled air as emerald green as that which reached my nose from the open window. It was all so different from the sooty, squirming, London life I was accustomed to. Just to sit idle for hours at a time, without anything to occupy my hands, was a new experience.
The sun stroked my face with warmth that all but commanded my eyelids to waver. As the sun sang its lullaby to my senses, my mind stilled, and I stopped my internal pacing, surrendering to sleep.
I was awakened by a slight chill. I felt dizzy and my head was too heavy to lift, as it had invariably felt the few times in my life I’d been allowed an afternoon nap. My neck was stiff from the odd position I’d slept in and it creaked like an old, angry door as I moved it from side to side.
The sun was setting. It looked large, important against the white fields, not like the shadow it was in London, always obscured by one building or another.
At the next inn, the driver decided to stop. He eased me down, but when I opened my mouth to thank him, he pulled away and scurried off into the brick building. I raised my hands in frustration and followed him in.
The place was cozy, if a bit shabby, with tables that wobbled and wine stains on the floor, but the smell of meat, dark and velvet, made me forgive any lack of beauty.
I sat down on an empty chair and waited for the driver to return. When he did, he sat down across from me and placed two mugs between us. I peered into mine, the greasy handle sliding between my fingers. I sniffed, but it had no scent. Sipping, I realized it was just water and not the cleanest I’d ever had, with an aftertaste that could only be described as the taste of dust. I was thirsty, so I drank it anyway. As I swallowed, I peered at the man, the mug creating a horizon across his face. He was not looking at me or at anything, his gaze caught by the uneven table boards.
“Sir, how much longer do we have until the manor?” I realized as I spoke that I didn’t even know his name.
“A few more hours, miss.” He did not look at me.
“Are we continuing on tonight, or are we stopping here?”
“It’s too dark. We’ll stop here, miss.”
I had trouble understanding him. I was about to ask him a bit about Rosewood Manor when a maid brought our plates. Potatoes and meat. Not fancy, but filling and warm. In between bites, I gazed at the driver, who picked at his food, cutting smaller and smaller pieces and then abandoning the plate altogether.
“Sir, I’m sorry, I don’t recall if you told me your name. I dislike not knowing who I am speaking with.” I smiled and tried to look as reassuring as possible.
“Peter Keery, miss.”
“Well, Mr. Keery, I must admit I am rather curious about my employer. No one at Caldwell House knew about him. Is it still Lord Grey?”
“Lord Grey’s son, miss.” He fidgeted.
“Oh.”
“I’m sorry, miss, would it be improper to ask you to excuse me? I’m awfully tired.”
I placed my fork down. “Of course.”
He stood. “Your room is number sixteen, the third at the top of the landing. Here is the key.” He scraped it across the table. “We’ll leave early tomorrow morning, miss.”
I nodded. I opened my mouth to wish him goodnight, but he had already disappeared.
FIVE
