Chapter Six

 

Five days after the party, Rose found herself sitting in the drawing room at Scarlett Hall with Mr. Bradshaw, Caroline beside her as chaperon. She had spent the morning anticipating his arrival, but for the past thirty minutes, he had gone on about whatever seemed to come to mind, allowing her few opportunities to give her opinion—or to speak at all.

“It is quite simple, really,” he was saying as he set his teacup on the table. “Men occupy their time with games of sport and other outdoor activities. Women are more domestic creatures, more suited to tasks about the house. Or so I have observed. I mean, can you imagine a woman on a fox hunt? She would do whatever she could to save the fox and pet the dogs!” He laughed at his own jest. Rose wanted nothing more than to box his ears.

She had spoken to a few gentlemen before—granted only on rare occasion, but she had experienced such a situation—and she had hoped Mr. Bradshaw would be different. Yet, her hope was dwindling quickly. Then, to her surprise, silence fell. Perhaps he realized that his joke was not very humorous.

She jumped at the chance to get a word in. However, rather than addressing his rude comment about women and hunting, she decided to take the conversation in another direction. Men did not like being corrected, especially by women. Or so she heard. “Do you not believe some activities can be enjoyed together by married couples? Perhaps horseback riding, for example.”

Mr. Bradshaw seemed to consider this. “I suppose they could at that.” He rubbed his chin in consternation. “Yes, the more I think about it, the more I must agree.” Suddenly, he stood, walked over to the window, and then turned and gave her a very pleasant smile. “I would enjoy a stroll through the gardens. The idea of fresh air is appealing. Would you enjoy that?”

Rose found herself at a loss for words. All she could manage to do was nod. How could one who spoke with such arrogance one moment seem so pleasant the next? The idea of taking a stroll with him, however, made her somehow giddy despite his decisively masculine argument only moments before. He was handsome, after all.

She and Caroline gathered their wraps and hats and soon the trio was walking down the garden path. Rose was surprised at how Caroline had been since Mr. Bradshaw arrived. It was so unlike the woman to not take control of any conversation. Perhaps Rose had misjudged her, for she certainly seemed to understand her place during this time.

As they walked, Rose considered her feelings for this man. He could be long-winded, which was not a complimentary trait. Yet he was also considerate, as when he held the door open for her and Caroline. Maybe she should not be so critical of him. Patience was what she needed. He would prove who he truly was in time. Secretly she hoped he was the man beside her at this moment.

“It appears I have done most of the speaking,” Mr. Bradshaw said, much to Rose’s surprise. “I must ask your forgiveness for commandeering the conversation.”

“There is nothing to forgive,” Rose replied. “I enjoy listening to conversation as much as engaging in it.” So, she had lied a bit. It did not matter now that he was being extremely polite and contrite.

Clouds covered the sun, making the air around them chill, but as soon as the clouds moved past, the air warmed. Birds sang in the trees while others flew about in search of food in the grass.

“Tell me, Miss Skylark, what do you do for leisure?”

“I spend much of my time with my needlework. Completing a project can be quite satisfying.”

“My mother often was found with a needle in hand when I was younger,” he said as they came to the end of the path. “I am not certain I understand why she enjoyed it. I would find such a task quite boring.”

If her aunt had not said what she had about that which men and women enjoy, Rose would have been offended. He had every right to his opinion.

“I must admit I find the idea of hunting deceptive. I cannot imagine riding out after a group of yelping dogs, allowing them to do all the work, and then taking the prey for myself.”

She worried he would be offended by her words, but Mr. Bradshaw gave her a marvelous smile that proved he was not. “I can see how you would view it as such.”

Rose’s cheeks burned at that smile. She had to keep the conversation going or she would stare at him all day! “Does your mother still enjoy embroidery?”

They came to a stop at a wooden fence at the back of the garden that overlooked rolling hills of green.

“No, my mother has been gone for some time now.”

“Oh, I am sorry,” Rose said. “My father is gone, as well. He died when I was but a babe in the womb.”

“My condolences. How did he die?”

“He was in the military and lost his life in France during a battle of some sort.” Mr. Bradshaw scrunched his brow but did not comment, so she continued. “Mother raised me alone, and I believe she did a marvelous job of it.” She laughed. “I sound as if I am boasting.”

“I see no issue with complimenting one’s parents,” Mr. Bradshaw said. “My father has had a lifetime of compliments from me, but it does not seem to ease his irritation of me.” He closed his mouth as if to keep from saying more, and Rose found her curiosity piqued.

“Why is he irritated with you?”

Mr. Bradshaw sighed. “I am a daring man who looks for adventure more often than not. He is stuck in his ways and wants me to be like him, but I am a modern man.”

“I am afraid I do not understand. What does it mean to be a modern man? I have not heard of this before.”

He glanced around as if he would be revealing a great secret. “The customs of old are mundane. For example, if I find you to be a very beautiful woman, to say so outright so early in our association would have been frowned upon in the days of old. However, why should I withhold the truth? Why can I not be immediately open and honest?”

Rose’s heart raced. Had he just called her beautiful? “I do not know,” she said, although she could see the truth in what he said. Not concerning her beauty but being truthful at the start.

“Do you see the dilemma?” he asked fervently. “We are told to keep our true thoughts to ourselves, so in defiance of the rules, I speak outright what I believe.” He took a step toward her. “And I do believe that you, Miss Skylark, are more beautiful than any woman I have ever met.”

Rose was uncertain what to think about Mr. Bradshaw’s forwardness. It was one thing to speak so boldly when he had called several times, or if they were courting, but upon their first true encounter? It was bold, crass, and dare she say…utterly fascinating. For some reason, she felt the desire to collapse into his arms.

“Have my words offended you?”

“N-no,” Rose managed to reply.

“Do you not find me handsome?”

He had lowered his voice. It had a deep rumbling to it, like the purring of a large cat, and her skin tingled in response.

This left Rose unable to reply. This entire conversation went against everything she had been taught; her mother would be appalled if Rose provided an answer. One simply did not speak so boldly to a man with whom she had just made an acquaintance!

However, his soft brown eyes dared her to respond, bringing about a stab of excitement. Would he attempt to kiss her? Would he sweep her off her feet at this very moment and carry her away? She trembled in anticipation—and fear—and found her voice once more.

“I admit that I do find you handsome,” she replied, wishing her voice were not so breathy and that her heart was not threatening to break out of her chest. “Very much so.”

His grin widened as he took a step back. “That was awfully daring of you,” he said. Then the proper man returned and he offered his arm. “We have tested the boundaries of the rules of old enough for one day. Perhaps we should return to the house. I certainly would not like it if your aunt grew suspicious and accused me of some dastardly infraction.” He leaned in closer and lowered his voice. “I imagine Miss Thrup will be of little help in our defense. She seems to be fixated on other things.”

Rose glanced at Caroline, who stood studying the bark of a nearby tree. She wanted to laugh—he was jesting, after all—but all she could do was nod as she placed her hand on his arm. For someone brought up to interpret the subtle nuances around her, she was certainly doing a poor job of it now!

With each step, a sense of boldness welled up inside her, mixed with a healthy amount of shame for her actions this day. Was it really so wrong to tell a man he was handsome as she had? According to her upbringing, it was. The question was, why did it not feel wrong?

***

Mr. Bradshaw had not been gone from Scarlett Hall for more than five breaths when Caroline began her interrogation as she and Rose returned to the drawing room.

“What did he say to you?” she demanded. “I saw your cheeks go as red as wine. Was he inappropriate? He did not say something foul, did he? I know! He has asked for your hand already!”

Rose had been unable to respond to any of the woman’s questions, but this last forced her to interrupt. “No,” she replied with a laugh. They went to the couch and sat, and she let out a small sigh. “If I tell you, you must promise not to tell anyone.”

“I do not repeat what I hear,” Caroline said indignantly, although Rose was uncertain if she believed the woman. She had spent more than an hour gossiping to Rose about one guest or another during the party at Ramada Estate and continued to do so once they had returned to Scarlett Hall that night. Despite her awareness of this, Rose needed the woman’s opinion.

“He told me he thought me beautiful, and I must admit that I have never heard a man speak so boldly.”

“How wonderful!” Caroline’s sigh held a tinge of jealousy. “I believe Mr. Banner will soon tell me as much.” She shook her head as if to clear it. “That does not matter. What matters is that you have caught the eye of a very eligible bachelor.”

Rose nodded. The man was indeed attracted to her, as she was to him. “Something is nagging at me, however. He says he is daring and refuses to adhere to societal norms, which he proved today. I also get a sense that he is a rogue, which would take daring to an entirely different level.”

Caroline smoothed her skirts. “There are many rumors about him,” she said slowly, “most concerning secret kisses with ladies at parties. I believe them to be nothing more than rumors spread by jealous women, but I have nothing to prove that point.”

This bit of information brought about a sense of worry to Rose. “I must admit that I am unsure what I believe. Besides the fact that he is quite handsome, I found the majority of our conversation quite maddening until our stroll in the gardens. Must a woman always be forced to pretend to be entertained by talk of hunting and sport?”

“Indeed she must,” Caroline counseled. “You must be able to ask the right questions to show that you have an interest in whatever he discusses. Otherwise, you hazard the chance of him looking elsewhere for a ready ear.”

“But I do not have any enthusiasm for any of the topics he broached,” Rose replied in frustration. “And I do not like feigning interest; it feels all too much like lying.”

Caroline nodded. “It is more than likely that you know little about such subjects, thus the need to ask questions. By doing so, it makes the man feel important somehow. Men must feel needed as well as feel as if they know more than women. Otherwise they become sulky and temperamental.”

Rose sighed. She was not certain she believed the woman, but what choice did she have? Caroline did seem quite knowledgeable in this arena. Yet, the idea of asking questions like some simpering fool only to make a man feel good about himself did not appeal to her.

“I suppose I could learn more about the topics that interest men. But how?” Then an idea came to her. “The library. There are many books there on all sorts of subjects. I am sure there must be at least one on hunting. I can begin there. If I know at least something about the sport, perhaps the conversation can be a bit more appealing. I despise asking questions a simpleton might ask. Would you care to join me?”

Caroline yawned. “No, thank you. I do not believe I would enjoy that. The idea of reading about hunting only makes me wearier. I believe I will go up to nap for a while but do tell me all you have learned when I wake.”

Rose laughed. “I will.” She doubted she had ever met a lazier woman in her life.

They separated outside the door to the drawing room, Caroline headed toward the main staircase and Rose to the library. Her new friend was quite different from her in so many ways, yet Rose did enjoy her company.

Then a thought came to her. Mr. Bradshaw was also very much an opposite to her. Where she found a kinship with Caroline, however, Rose did not find the same with Mr. Bradshaw. Granted she was attracted to him—how could she not be as handsome as he was?—but the idea of spending much time with him was less than appealing.

Well, she had told her mother she would give a chance any man worthy of her, and whatever she promised, she fulfilled to the best of her ability.

“Do you need anything, Miss Skylark?”

Rose nearly jumped out of her slippers as Forbes, the butler, appeared out of the shadows. Did he always hide from sight like that? He was a kind man with a twinkle in his eye and a graciousness to him, but he did tend to show up at the most unexpectant times.

“No, thank you,” she replied. “I was just going to the library to do a bit of reading.”

“Would you like me to bring you a tray?” he asked. “Lady Lambert often enjoys a cup of tea while perusing the books.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” Rose said. “I would like that.”

Forbes dipped his head and, with silent steps, walked away.

Rose entered the library and stopped in the doorway. Despite the fact she had already been to the room several times, it never ceased to overwhelm her with its immense size. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined every available wall, a ladder leaning against one in order to allow one to reach books on the uppermost shelves.

One section, however, caught her attention, for it was encased in glass, a lock showing that these books were not to be perused. The tomes inside had no titles on the spines, and Rose wondered what was so special about them that they had to be locked away.

“Sometimes the choices here can be staggering.”

Rose turned to see her aunt enter the room. “Indeed,” she replied. She paused. “What are these books if I might ask? They appear to be journals. Are they yours?”

Her aunt nodded. “Some are mine, but most belonged to the previous Ladies of Scarlett Hall. They document their lives dating back more than a hundred and fifty years.”

“How extraordinary,” Rose said. “So much history. Have you read them all?”

“I have,” her aunt replied with a small laugh. “Most contain mundane stories of raising children and village gossip. I wish I had read other books that had been more worthy of my time.”

Rose had considered asking to read them, but now she was glad she had not. It was bad enough she would be reading about hunting, perusing the boring lives of ladies long gone would have been worse.

“Then I will not waste my time asking if I may read them,” she said with a small laugh.

Forbes entered the room and set a tray laden with a tea set. “I did not realize you would be here, my lady,” he said. “Would you like me to bring you a teacup?”

Aunt Eleanor shook her head. “I believe I will retire to my room for a bit.” She turned to Rose. “Enjoy yourself.”

Once Forbes and her aunt had left the room, Rose gave one last look at the journals. How mundane would they truly be? Yet, no, Aunt Eleanor had said they were, so she would not waste time bothering with them.

Scanning the many titles, her eyes fell on a row of books pertaining to the subject for which she was searching. She removed several tomes, all on hunting in one form or another, and carried them to one of the comfortable mahogany and leather chairs.

Choosing the first book titled The Art of the Gentleman’s Hunt, she pulled her feet up under her and set to reading. It did not take long before she became quite bored, for it detailed the expectations of a man’s conduct during a hunt rather than the hunt itself.

She set aside that book and selected another, which she immediately discarded. She knew little German, but she did recognize it when reading it. Plus, if the few illustrations it contained said anything, the book was about bear hunting. Not a likely sport in England.

Choosing another, she settled into the chair. This book seemed much more interesting, and she scanned the text in hopes of finding something she could use to impress Mr. Bradshaw when he next called. She would not be seen as boring and uneducated, that much was certain.

***

Two hours later, Rose stretched in the chair. She had returned the first five titles to their places on the shelves and selected another five. What she had hoped would be an enlightening experience had proven to be one that would lead her to die of boredom. How could men be so enthralled with such a sport? Not only was it barbaric in nature, it could never hold her attention beyond the initial horse ride, which seemed the only exciting—and tolerant—portion of the entire experience.

Frustrated, she set aside yet another book. She had long since finished the tea Forbes had brought her, and with burning eyes, the idea of a nap was quite appealing. One more book remained, and if she did not find something of interest in it, she would give up on this subject altogether.

Perhaps she should have chosen something more appealing, but what? Certainly not business, and gambling was out of the question. No upstanding woman even considered speaking of gambling, although she doubted rather highly that Mr. Bradshaw engaged in such a deplorable activity despite his pronouncement of living a daring life. A thin line existed between a man of his position and the despicable men who whiled away their hours—and depleted their coffers—in such a manner.

She settled back into the chair and pulled the last book onto her lap. If she were not careful, she would fall asleep, the chair was so comfortable. With a sigh—and a hope this book would yield interesting facts—she opened the cover and flipped through the pages.

Suddenly two folded parchments fell from the book into her lap, and she eyed them with interest. They appeared to be letters.

How intriguing! she thought. What could these letters contain? And who wrote them? Did they contain fascinating information that the journals belonging to the former Lady Lamberts did not?

A part of her wanted to return the letters to the book unread; she was not the recipient of either and therefore what they contained was none of her concern. Yet, a part of her found the idea of learning someone’s secret too interesting to reject.

 

Her curiosity won out in the end, and she unfolded one of the parchments to find that it was not a letter but rather a sort of journal entry.

 

Is it shameful for a man to desire to be with a woman who is not his wife? I have contemplated this for many nights, and I do not believe it is. I, for one, can understand the desire that fills a man for one such as Rachel.

 

Rose shook her head. Could the man be speaking of her mother? But no, that was impossible. Many women shared her mother’s name and therefore it had to be another woman.

Sighing, she returned to the writing.

 

I do not love her, nor do I believe I ever will. However, the child that grows inside her now is a gift, one I desire to share with her. Yet, she will not have me, even in secret, which aggravates me. Despite her rejection, I sent funds in order to look after the child and will continue to do so on a monthly basis for as long as possible. I am not so daft as to allow a child to want because its mother refuses me.

 

I cannot seem to help myself, but I do desire her. Thoughts run ramped of running my fingers through her red hair, of tasting the sweetness of her lips, and of becoming close again as we once were. I must have her, one way or another, to ease this growing desire inside me.

 

Red hair? Her mother had red hair. This could not be about her! Her mother would never put herself into this type of situation. She was much too proper to be this bold!

Rose’s heart screamed that she should stop reading, to replace the documents where she found them. But the temptation was too great, so with trembling hands, she continued to read.

 

Perhaps this matter is far simpler than I believe. I will inform Rachel that I request her attendance in my bedchambers in London when I journey there during my many business trips. There I shall fulfill my needs in exchange for helping her financially with the child. Yes, she cannot turn away money that could be of help to her and her family only to find herself living in the streets. I will make her see reason one way or another.

 

The writing had no author’s name. Who could have written this? How long had it sat between the pages of the book? Perhaps it was a former resident of Scarlett Hall and had nothing to do with her mother at all. She clung to that hope like a woman clinging to a branch in a raging river.

This explanation was dashed the moment she looked at the second parchment, for the penmanship was unmistakable. It took every ounce of her being not to cry as she read over it.

 

Dear Charles,

 

What you have done is unforgivable. My decision is not up for debate, nor do I wish to ever discuss it again. In fact, I would prefer that you never write nor attempt to see me ever again. You have brought shame upon me and therefore my children will never know you.

 

Sincerely,

Rachel

 

Tears rolled down Rose’s cheeks. Were the words on the first page written by Lord Lambert, Aunt Eleanor’s deceased husband? She could only infer that it was since the letter was addressed to him. Her mother had spoken often of Aunt Eleanor but had mentioned little about Lord Lambert. In fact, even her aunt did not speak much about her husband.

This brought on a host of other questions she had never considered. Why had her mother left Rumsbury in the first place? She complained excessively about London and how she missed living in the country, yet they rarely left the city.

Rose glanced at the letter written by her mother. Why had she denied Charles calling on her? And why had she mentioned Rose and Graham? What connection did he have to either of them besides being a friend of their mother’s?

Then a new thought came to mind, one that made her heart clench with fear and her stomach roll in worry. Charles mentioned the desire to share what they once had and helping with the child inside the woman’s womb. Was that child Rose? If so, did that mean that the man Rose thought was her father was not he but rather Lord Charles Lambert?