Julian nodded, but didn’t care. Even when Nicholas, the erstwhile combination footman, valet, and man of all work, arrived sometime later with a tray, Julian found himself just standing in the middle of his new flat, dripping a puddle, unable to move.
Without Rascomb, how would he gain those introductions he’d hoped for? Without Rascomb, who would tell him his work was good? He would be stuck with the fellows at the Royal Geography Society without the only decent man he’d ever known. It was like losing a father all over again.
*
Ophelia’s maid, Lucia,set out a gray and lavender gown again, as she had been doing for the last months. It had been over a year since her father passed, since Arthur became the new viscount Rascomb, since everything in her life turned away from her.
As she had done every morning that a gray or lavender gown had been set out, she went into her closet to find a black one. This time, every black crepe gown had been replaced. Ophelia narrowed her eyes. Fine. She rang for Lucia, who helped her dress in silence, and then had the audacity to suggest some smoky topaz earbobs.
“Why?” Ophelia asked, ending her silent standoff.
“Because you will have a caller this morning, miss. Your lady mother bid me to help you feel better.” Lucia had the washed-out complexion of many city dwellers. Her skin was tinged a sallow color and her light brown hair already showed streaks of gray. The woman was younger than Ophelia’s mother, but older than Ophelia. She was competent, stalwart, and took Ophelia’s oddities in stride, but she’d been hired after her father’s death. Ophelia’s previous lady’s maid had been poached by another young lady about to debut, and Ophelia wished her nothing but the best. It was a far more interesting household than theirs.
“Earbobs are supposed to make me feel better?” Ophelia flicked her fingernails against each other. Thumb, forefinger, middle finger, ring finger, pinkie, then back to thumb. Three times through her sequence and she felt calmer.
“My apologies, miss. I mean to say what your lady mother said: that is, to make you feel more like yourself.”
Ophelia stared at them. They had been a gift from her father. A collection of stones from a friend in South America, that he’d had made into jewelry for the women in his family. And the smoky topaz was an opaque gray, suitable for mourning.
Guilt washed over her. Not only for her father, but also her mother who had been managing the household upheaval and all of her children while she grieved a man she had loved. Ophelia clipped on the earbobs. Obedience was the least she could do.
She was the youngest and only unmarried child in the family. And now that Arthur had moved into the Rascomb London townhouse with his bride, Lady Emily, everything had changed. Ophelia’s mother was now the dowager Lady Rascomb, no longer in charge of the daily upkeep of the household, and while Lady Emily was gracious in the transition, she knew it must smart to lose control.
While Ophelia was unmarried and there were no little Arthur and Emilys running around, Lady Rascomb was bid to stay on. But when Ophelia married or Arthur started his line of progeny, the dowager would be expected to move on to a different, smaller household. Ophelia might be compelled to go with her. After all, she was twenty-eight. No man married a twenty-eight-year-old.
Ophelia joined her mother in the drawing room. The light was cheerful, and the fire danced a low flame. Her mother was darning one of Arthur’s shirts.
“Shouldn’t Lady Emily be doing that?” Ophelia asked.
“Good morning,” her mother said, ignoring Ophelia’s blunt question.
When her life was perfect and happy, Ophelia struggled with her blunt opinions and queries. Now that she struggled with the depths of her own grief, it had somehow worsened.
“Lady Emily is abed for the day. She says that she can smell her megrim.”
Ophelia made a face. “Does it smell like that fish sauce she makes us eat on Fridays? If so, I pity her.”
Her mother chuckled, but didn’t acknowledge Ophelia’s complaint. Lady Emily had brought her own cook in, and none of the Bridewells had taken to the cuisine. Dinners were bland when they ought to have been savory, cloying when the pudding was meant to be sweet, and positively maritime when it was fish.
And while typically Ophelia welcomed routine, she found she preferred her mother’s subtle three-week rotation of dishes, rather than Lady Emily’s weekly habit.
“I suppose I will—” Ophelia peered into the mending basket only to find it empty. There were three women to do the darning, and only one man in the house to mend for. “Embroider some linens for a dowry I will never use.”
Lady Rascomb paused her efforts. “Would you like to have another go at a Season?”
“Mama!” Ophelia chided. “I’m twenty-eight! They’ll laugh at me.”
“We don’t have to go on the marriage mart, fuss with those sorts of parties and balls. We could be subtler about it. Find a matchmaker.”
No. The answer was no. But Ophelia saw hope in her mother’s eyes, and felt the earbobs sway as she lifted her head. If it would make her mother happy, she would do it. “But I will only go through with it if it is a love match. I mustlikemy husband, if I am to have one.”
“That’s a reasonable request, I think. And you aren’t too old to bear children, no matter what anyone says. I had you when I was your age.” She picked up her mending and hummed.
Ophelia found her embroidery hoop. She felt ridiculous. It wasn’t that her embroidery wasn’t good—it was very good, in fact. She’d created scenes from her favorite stories, illustrated whole gardens across pillows, and had even started learning effective portraiture and shadowing through the medium of embroidery. It was what Justine had always called Ophelia’s “maddening brilliance.” But just now, Ophelia felt so at a loss for what she should say or do or feel, that embroidery was pointless.
Ferris appeared in the doorway. “A caller, my lady.”
“As I expected,” Lady Rascomb said, her voice suddenly subdued. “Is it Sir Julian?”
