~~~
The dining room bustled with excited babble as the young women discussed fabric colors and more upcoming fittings. Rose sipped her tea, listening to Kadida and Gilly deliberate the differences between shell pink, cherry blossom, and blush.
Rose, seated next to Vella, turned to the seamstress. “When do you suppose the dresses will be completed? I’d like to schedule the tea with Antonia before too much time goes by. You know?” She didn’t add Kadida, but Vella’s gaze went to the girl.
Vella cleared her throat. “Ah, yes. I see your concern,” Vella said, her brows furrowing. After a long pause, she gave a confident nod. “Say, another couple of days? Most of the muslin fittings are complete. Gilly’s been tireless with her help, and we’ve a couple of new seamstresses that Her Grace rounded up. They have been coming in daily. Perhaps by week’s end?”
“Excellent,” Rose said. “I think I shall travel to Amersham this afternoon. I’d like to assess Antonia’s endurance for the task. I suspect her household could use another pair of hands.” She paused, softening. “And I… Frankly, I could use the quiet.”
“Well, I’d say you’ve earned it.” Vella smiled. “I’ll keep the girls focused. And I promise not a single etiquette jest during tea practice.”
That had Rose’s lips turning up. “That’s a shame. I was rather beginning to enjoy those.”
The drive to Buckinghamshire was but two and a half hours. It was quite lovely traveling on a whim with no objection. Independence was quite freeing, she decided. Jane sat in the corner of Rose’s most comfortable chaise across from Rose, snoring slightly. With a slight smile, Rose glanced out the windows, where trees were losing their leaves in the crisp fall and swirling about in a sharp breeze.
The chaise turned off the main road, and golden light slanted between broad oaks. The scent of loamy earth and woodsmoke filled the autumn air. The countryside unfolded like a breath released. Within minutes, Rose and Jane descended from the carriage. The door to the redbrick house was already swinging open.
“Rose!” Antonia waddled into view, face flushed, one hand resting on the swell of her belly. “I’d just told Mrs. Radley I smelled carriage leather and linen starch.”
Rose grinned and gathered her sister into a careful embrace. “You look…enormous.”
Antonia snorted. “You’ve always been my favorite sister. No luggage?”
“I’m here on a whim,” Rose said, shaking her head.
“No matter.” She looped her arm within Rose’s. “You’ll stay the night, of course. I’ve plenty for you to wear much to my envy. Mr. Tatton is currently in London.” She led Rose inside a wide, airy entry hall lined with polished oak flooring and crowned with a graceful staircase that curved gently to the right. A long runner softened the footfall beneath a table where a porcelain dish held letters and calling cards, and a narrow vase displaying a bundle of late-autumn wildflowers—simple, but elegantly arranged. That was Antonia.
The sight left Rose feeling somewhat nostalgic, reminding her of their family seat in Dorchester when Papa was still duke. “The house looks lovely, Ann. You always worked such wonders.”
Antonia ordered tea from the housekeeper then led Rose through a set of double doors to a spacious drawing room painted a soft dove gray. Tall sash windows let in the late afternoon light, their sheer linen curtains tied back with a matching pale ribbon. A marble hearth framed the fire, over which hung a modest landscape—the Chiltern Hills bathed in morning mist, overlooking the hamlet of Amersham.
Rose clapped her hands. “Oh, Antonia, you’ve taken up your painting! It’s lovely.”
Her nose wrinkled. “What else am I to do? I can hardly travel with Mr. Tatton in this condition.” She didn’t sound resentful or sad. In fact, she sounded quite content.
The furnishings were tasteful and practical: a pair of matching armchairs upholstered in pale blue damask, a well-stuffed settee scattered with hand-embroidered cushions, and a low mahogany table with a tray bearing the remnants of an informal afternoon snack. Books lined two walls—evidence of Mr. Tatton’s legal mind and interspersed with framed miniatures, obviously painted by her very talented sister. It was the perfect setting for the young women of Hope House.
Rose took one of the armchairs. “How are you really, Antonia?”
“I’m very well, darling. I’ve notes from both Rebecca and Gabby. It sounds as if your rocky start at Hope House is smoothing out. Have you decided on a date for the young women’s visit?”
“That is one reason for my impromptu visit. The other was to see for myself how you are faring.”
“As you can see, I’m perfectly capable of hosting. That is if you don’t think this overblown stomach of mine will offend any delicate sensibilities. The young women sound absolutely fascinating.”
The housekeeper entered with a fresh tray and replaced the one on the low table before her discreet exit.
Rose leaned forward and poured her sister a cup and handed it to her. “Miss Botha is with child,” Rose said, shaking her head. “She’s only fourteen. Fourteen, Antonia.” She poured a cup for herself and stared at the contents, not really seeing them at all. “She apologizes for taking up space. As if she ought to be grateful just to be alive.” Her voice wavered, and she looked up. “Their lives were…horrendous. And I—well, I’m doing my best not to say the wrong thing, but there’s such a divide between what I’ve known and what they’ve survived, I sometimes wonder if I help or merely fumble around in silk gloves.”
Antonia’s gaze softened. “You’re showing up,” she said simply. “That counts for more than you realize.”
Rose let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. Her fingers tightened around the warm porcelain of her teacup.
“I suppose I never gave much thought to just showing up,” she said wryly. “We were raised to be decorative and dutiful, not…useful.” She paused, then gave a self-deprecating smile. “Claire married a marquess and produces heirs like clockwork. Gabriella is fearless, charging into every scandal with her chin high and her heart louder than propriety ever allowed, but does so without apology. And then there’s me—dancing between mourning and masquerades, trying to teach etiquette to girls who’ve seen more cruelty than I’ve read about in horrid novels.”
Antonia gave another small, wry laugh. “You’re not the only one dancing, Rose. I married a man who reads land deeds over supper and forgets his tea on every third page. Real life is far from tidy.”
“But yours is honest,” Rose said, her voice softer now. She set her untouched cup aside and stared into the fire. “I spent so long pretending—pretending to be happy, to be graceful, to be untouched by Stanford’s true nature. Debauching—no,brutalizing—girls, like the very ones Rebecca and Gabriella have been so brave to save. Now I sit in a room with those very women who have no use for pretense, and I find myself…” She searched for the word. “Exposed.”
