So, Rosanna remained silent, but she continued up the stairs. There was no reason she ought to make it easier for Mama to find her.
Climbing up the next flight, Rosanna was within sight of her refuge. If she could get behind the door, she could lock herself in and claim she was dishabille. But just as she reached for the door, she heard Mama’s footsteps scurrying up the stairs with far more haste than a lady ought to demonstrate (something she had lectured her daughters about on more than one occasion).
Rosanna lunged forward, and her hand grazed the door handle.
“There you are!”
Drawing in a deep breath, Rosanna closed her eyes for a heartbeat and forced her muscles to relax.
“As you see, Mama,” she said, turning to face the lady.
Hands snatched hers, dragging her back down the stairs before Rosanna knew what was about.
“Where have you been? Why must you wander off today, of all days, when there is such news to be had? You must come and hear all,” said Mama, her words flowing so quickly that they ran together.
“Mama, I am not fit to be seen,” said Rosanna, tugging at her mother’s hold.
“Nonsense.” But when they hit the ground floor, Mama turned long enough to examine her daughter, and her brows rose. “What have you done to your pelisse?”
“I had a tumble in the woods, and I am a mess. If I might be allowed a quarter of an hour to clean up, I would gladly join you.”
That last bit was a lie, but Rosanna managed to say it without a grimace.
Pulling back the outmost layer, Mama examined the gown, which Rosanna was pleased to see showed little wear; her pelisse had taken the brunt of the fall. Mud coated the thick fabric until it was more brown than the original yellow, and even Jane’s skill at removing stains was unlikely to salvage it. Her underthings and overgarments were both quite thoroughly ruined, but the muslin trapped between was mostly unscathed.
The hem was dirty, to be certain, but the dress itself looked no worse than if she’d gone walking about a muddy field. Not ideal but not shocking, either. But the crusted mud in her pantalettes was itchy, and she was certain there was more in her hair. Even if every bit was carefully hidden away, Rosanna couldn’t bear the thought of facing her mother’s friends and who knew who else in this state.
“Please, I just need a moment—”
Mama’s gaze narrowed, her spine straightening as she held her daughter’s gaze with a fire that smoldered and hissed. “Your father and I ask so little of you, and how have you repaid our generosity? You rejected Mr. Courtney’s proposal last year, giving no thought to how your decision would impact this family, and now, you refuse to even sit with me in the parlor to discuss some very important news?”
It felt as though the specter of her former beau was standing just behind Rosanna, looming over her as her mother spoke. How often had her parents given her funds for new gowns and allowed her freedom to do as she pleased? The answer was incalculable, for her parents had never said no.
Prudence had never been allowed such free rein, despite her managing the household and the family. But then, she wasn’t the Leigh family’s sacrificial lamb, offered up on the matrimonial altar. Money spent on Rosanna had never been considered an expense—it was an investment. One cannot attract a wealthy husband without looking one’s best, after all.
Reaching up with her handkerchief, Mama wiped at the splotches of mud, scrubbing them from Rosanna’s face. Calling for Jane to fetch a length of fabric, the lady soon had her daughter’s hair bound up in a bandeau. Mama studied her, tucking up certain locks while freeing others, and scrubbed a bit more at her neck.
And all the while, Rosanna stood there.
“There,” said Mama with a nod, and, taking her daughter by the hand, she led her through the halls and into the parlor. With a great smile, she announced, “Look who just returned home.”
The ladies in the party rose to greet Rosanna, but for all that they seemed pleased to see her, Rosanna’s attention was far too fixed on the mud hidden on her person to do more than give a weak smile in return. She felt held together with twine and paste, ready to come apart at the seams. Tucking her skirts carefully around her, Rosanna sat on the sofa beside Mrs. Hamstall while Mama and the others returned to their seats.
Something prickled along her thighs, and if she had to guess, the now dry mud was beginning to flake off. Rosanna would give everything she owned for a thorough washing.
“You must tell her the news,” said Mama, reaching out to Mrs. Seward, her muscles so taut that her hand fairly vibrated with her desire to hear the words.
Turning toward Rosanna, Mrs. Seward beamed. “The Downings have retrenched. Packed up and moved to Bath.”
Rosanna’s stomach turned at the glee that accompanied that pronouncement. Though it was society’s preferred tone when conveying news, she shuddered at the thought of joining in with these ladies to pick over the embarrassment and heartbreak of others. A good person didn’t do that.
Yet she couldn’t help the itch at the back of her neck that demanded she ask more about the situation. Not that she reveled in it, but her curiosity longed to know the details.
“Not that, Mama,” said Miss Seward. “Everyone knows about the Downings.”
“Yes, but they have let Boxwood Manor,” added Mrs. Davis. Turning her attention to Rosanna, the lady hurried to add, “And I have just discovered their new tenant is a bachelor with a vast fortune.”
Miss Davis nodded at her mother and added in a quiet voice, “Eight thousand a year.”
