He looked a trifle impatient. But he evidently curbed whatever natural response he might have made, returning to the cool withdrawal of his earlier utterance. “I recommend that you get upon terms with Mrs Fawley, ma’am. She will, I don’t doubt, assist you to know your way about the place. You may, of course, give her any instructions that you choose.”
“Oh, I shan’t do that!”
He glanced at her. “You are mistress here now, ma’am.”
Rosina was betrayed into unwise response. “In name only.”
Lord Raith’s unamiable temper flared. He turned, and the livid laceration matched the fierceness of his grey eyes. “Yes, you have made your preference abundantly clear. Don’t imagine I will sue to you to change it. Good night!”
With the curtest of bows, he strode from the room, leaving Rosina to bury her face in her hands with a groan of frustration. The tea, which came shortly thereafter, had done a little to revive her. But she had gone to bed in a deeply pessimistic frame of mind, troubled for the future.
But Thursday morning found her a trifle less downhearted. Perhaps it was due to the drizzling rain, which had thus far accompanied her venture into matrimony, having ceased, so that a weak October sun peeped through disintegrating clouds when she looked from the window.
She was about to leave the bedchamber when her eye was caught by the painting of Lord Raith’s mother. She moved to examine it. The female on the horse was younger than Rosina had expected. There was not a great degree of beauty, though she had a sweet smile. Rosina could discern no resemblance to her husband. But it was not a large painting, and the features were small. Why had Lord Raith caused it to be placed here?
The door opened, and Rosina looked round to find on the threshold the maid Joan, who had unpacked her belongings. The girl curtsied, looking with surprise at Rosina’s habited state. She had dressed herself in an old gown of blue kerseymere, made high to the throat, feeling the big house was likely to be chill despite the change in the weather.
“Good morning, my lady. I was waiting for you to ring.”
“Thank you, but I was quite able to manage.”
Joan looked hesitant, fidgeting with her apron. “Yes, my lady.”
Rosina eyed her. “What is the matter?”
The girl bobbed again. “Mrs Fawley said I was to wait upon you, my lady, according to his lordship’s orders. Until, that is, your ladyship should hire a proper lady’s maid.”
She had been somewhat out of charity with her spouse, but this mark of thoughtfulness touched her. She remembered that scrap of conversation they’d had in the antechamber. Rosina smiled at the maid.
“That will be helpful, Joan. For the moment, however, I don’t think there is anything—” She broke off. “Stay! Do you know how to iron?”
The maid became eager. “Oh, yes, my lady.”
“Then perhaps you might do what you can with my gown? It is of damask, and sadly crushed from the journey, I fear.”
It was clear that Joan was delighted to be given even this minor task. Rosina, familiar as she was with the hierarchy of the servants’ hall, guessed that her promotion to lady’s maid, if only temporary, was a giant leap up the domestic social ladder. She resolved to curb her own instincts to look after herself and allow the girl to enjoy the just employment of her new status.
“Perhaps you would first show me where I may be served with breakfast, Joan?”
With willing steps, the maid led her downstairs to the same vast dining-room, where the butler supplied her needs. She learned it was after eleven o’clock. She discovered, upon enquiry, that her husband usually breakfasted at ten. Rosina was tempted to use this information to make certain of not encountering him in the mornings. Only she knew it would cause inconvenience to the servants — especially the cook, obliged to keep food warm — who must wait upon the pleasure of the gentry, when they might have been better employed elsewhere.
By the time she had eaten in solitary state in her single chair, with only the sight of Lord Raith’s empty place at the other end, Rosina was further tempted to make herself mistress of the house as her spouse had suggested. She would give much to institute changes that might lessen the dreadful formality of Raith Manor.
Raith had recommended her to talk to Mrs Fawley, but Rosina chose rather to wander about the house by herself, forming her own impressions. They were not favourable.
The house was enormous, and as she wandered through interconnected rooms, the drab silence of the empty spaces depressed her. There was everywhere dullness, an air of neglect and isolation. Holland covers were laid over furnishings which had been pushed together in the centre of rooms. Those few paintings remaining upon the dun-coloured walls were inferior in execution. The wood mantels were clean, but unpolished — she supposed no one had time to make them gleam — and entirely free of ornaments. Chandeliers hung dully, their glass droplets long unwashed. There were perhaps two timepieces in the whole house. As for silver, bar that in the dining-room and the various candelabra, there appeared to be none.
Walking around the first floor on the back face of the mansion, Rosina arrived in a long gallery populated by a number of ancestral portraits, presumably of former Raiths.
Her interest quickened, and she wandered slowly down the line, becoming wholly absorbed. A gentleman in an Elizabethan ruff stared back at her. The first Raith, perhaps? She had not seen any earlier style, though there were a number of later date, becoming indeed so recent that this last must be within a decade or two. Then she came upon one so startling she almost jumped. It was of a gentleman who bore an uncommon likeness to her husband.
His hair was of a similar brown hue, worn in a ragged cut that rested upon the shoulders. He was older, she thought, but there was the same set jawline, the high cheekbone. Here, in the dip below it, was a deeper cleft perhaps, and the lips more thinly carved. Most striking of all, the grey eyes looked out upon the world with the exact air of cynicism that characterised Lord Raith. Only there was no scar.
“Is it like, do you think?”
Rosina jumped violently. Turning, she beheld her spouse standing behind her, near a window. Her heart jerked into life, and she was unable to speak for a moment for the turbulence in her chest.
For all he was booted, Rosina had not heard him approach. He was in riding dress, a long frock of dark green over buckskin breeches, but he had discarded his gloves and hat. His hair, though tied back, was dishevelled, accentuating the resemblance. He was looking particularly bitter, glancing from her to the portrait, and back again.
