But when it appeared that there was to be no immediate reprisal, Rosina collapsed in a heap on the coverlet, the inevitable tears coursing down her cheeks. Dismayed guilt warred with dread, buoying her defences.
How could she have done it to him? She had not meant it. No, that was a lie. She had. He should not have driven her so hard. But what had induced her? Never in her life had she lost herself to such an extreme. Only, how could she bear it? Recalling his words, she broke into a fresh storm of weeping. Oh, but it was shameful of him! To equate her so cruelly with a woman of that sort.
But here the deep voice of conscience prodded her. Raith had the right to expect purity of his wife. What he could not know was that if she had not been, if that evil pair had succeeded in their base design, Rosina would never have given herself in marriage. Not to any man, let alone one whose bruised spirit commanded the tenderest promptings of her heart. A fresh deluge of tears accompanied this thought. He ought to have trusted her. Cruel of him to withstand every impulse that bade him overcome his doubts. She could not but recognise the portent. He could not possibly care enough. Let him not therefore speak of hisregard. How could he use her so? She was glad she had assaulted him!
But this fierce resurgence of spirit could not long endure. She knew she had been wrong to do it, bitterly wrong. She could not wonder at her spouse’s furious intent of retaliation. She had balked him for the moment. But for how long? Unless she were to run away — which was not an option that recommended itself, for where could she go? — she foresaw that she was doomed to run the gauntlet of his vengeance. The best she could pray for was for the night to cool him, and mitigate the manner of it.
It was long before she was able to rouse herself to get between sheets. Even longer before she slept. For whatever hopes she might secretly have cherished for the resolution of the difficulties of her marriage were at an end. Whether or not Raith chose to punish her, he would never forgive her. If he could allow the blow, how could he forget the place where it had struck? She had dealt it to him at his most vulnerable point, and he was bound to suppose she had done so on purpose.
Her dreams had been unhappy, full of ill-omened fragments where Anton and she were ever at outs. Except once, when she had dreamed that he kissed her, and been awakened by a heavy-handed knocking at her door. She started up in alarm, the remnants of the dream fading, to be replaced by the cruel memory of last night.
For a dreadful moment, she imagined her husband was come at last, to take his revenge. The vision in her head was armed with a vengeful stick. Her voice cracked.
“Who is it?”
“It’s me, my lady. Joan.”
Relief flooded her, and she struggled out of bed, and staggered across to unlock the door.
“Why, my lady, are you ill?” the girl asked, bobbing.
Rosina seized at the straw. “Yes. At least, I am faint and I have the headache. I will remain in my bed.”
She accepted with gratitude her maid’s assistance to clamber back between her sheets, for she did indeed feel dreadfully weak. She had lain there all day, afraid to get up for fear of encountering her lord. No message or demand had come from him, and she had not dared to ask concerning his whereabouts. She could only hope he had gone out about the business of the estate, as usual.
By the following morning, however, she’d had time enough to screw up her courage. How she was to face him, she knew not, but the thing must be done. Better to do it sooner rather than later.
Nevertheless, she got up late, and dallied over her toilette, dreading the moment of meeting. Then, when she came down to breakfast, her pulse jumping with fright, she did not know whether to be glad or sorry at the news with which Kirkham greeted her enquiry.
“His lordship, my lady? Why, he has been gone since yesterday.”
A hollow opened up inside her, and her blood seemed to stop. ”Gone? Gone where?”
“His lordship did not say, my lady. He told me only that he would be from home for he knew not how many days, and that we should not look for him to arrive at any particular moment.”
Rosina had been at first overwhelmed with relief. The evil day had been postponed. But the waiting was proving a good deal worse. Her nerves were beginning to fray, and just three days after that quarrel, with still no sign of Raith, she was fretting herself into a state of unalloyed affliction. Between apprehension that an accident had befallen him, and the fear he would walk in unannounced at any moment, and belike treat her to a thunderous scold, Rosina was in constant dread. She was losing flesh, and her wan looks drew comment even from the butler.
As if sent on purpose from the gods to increase her distresses, Saturday had also brought visitors. Fearful of one particular individual, she gave orders no one was to be admitted without their name having first been brought to her. She was tempted to deny herself, feeling unequal to the task of meeting anyone without her lord’s support. But recalling how little support she was likely to feel in his presence after what had passed, she suffered a change of front, deciding that she would do better without him.
As it chanced, the callers were of so much humbler station, expressing their fervent wish not to be backward in paying Lady Raith a visit, that Rosina was not put to any impossible or impertinent questions. Not even the pastor had remained today longer than strict propriety dictated. Rosina saw him go with a sensation of relief, hoping she would not be obliged to receive many more visitors before Raith’s return. Which thought served only to depress her with the remembrance of what must await her when her husband chose to come home.
“This is ridiculous, Ottery!” Impatient, Raith set down the tankard of ale with which he was refreshing himself from the dust of the country roads. “It may take weeks to cover the ground. Where the devil are we, by the way?”
“Paylington, my lord,” answered the lawyer, with a slight smile which Raith found distinctly irritating. “I do not wonder at your finding difficulty in recalling the name of the place. We have covered so much ground.”
“Yes, and much good have we got by it!”
“Patience, my dear sir. We will find the needle, if we take apart the haystack.”
“I’m beginning to believe we are in the wrong area altogether,” Raith said, sighing as he attacked the thick portion of beef slapped between two slices of bread with which he had been supplied by the landlord of this particular hostelry. “I can’t for the life of me remember where we have been.”
“Have no fear, my lord. I have kept a careful account.” Ottery took out a pocketbook and consulted its pages. “We have so far searched through Conib Abby, Newnham Regis, Fifsenhill, and—”
“Spare me the list!” He did not wish to hear it. Suffice it that they had hunted high and low, relentlessly, even through this Lord’s day, disturbing simple folk at their well-earned rest. He was sick of jolting over rutty tracks. Parton was loud in disapproval of the wear and tear on his phaeton. But had they found hide or hair of Rosina’s blind nurse? No, they had not.
“Well, we have made some progress, my lord. People have been helpful. We have been regaled with local histories by at least three sightless old women, and as for cottages—”
“If you are seeking to raise my spirits with a pleasantry, Ottery, you may spare your breath. If we have seen one cottage, we have seen fifty. I am full to the brim with cottages.”
