| |
Nervous, Rosemary paced back and forth across her bedroom while Anna bustled about, packing a case for the weekend in Pardington. Despite enjoying the soft feel of thick carpet beneath still-bare toes, Rosemary took a seat at the dressing table that matched a set of art deco drawers on the opposite wall.
She slid on a pair of thick stockings even though spring had turned the weather from rain and dreariness to a comfortable warmth that was a promise of the summer heat to come.
“Which dress are you wanting to wear to the party, my lady?” the maid asked, gesturing to a wardrobe filled to bursting with sensible black frocks. Anna’s guarded expression held a smidgen of doubt that annoyed Rosemary no end, if for no other reason than it being justified. Her wardrobe was in serious need of a change, as she’d continued to don her mourning garb for months longer than the current custom.
“Pack a selection, and I’ll choose one when I arrive,” Rosemary replied. Anna still appeared at a loss, and her mouth opened and shut while a slight blush crept into her cheeks.
“Out with it, Anna,” Rosemary gently prodded.
The girl raised an eyebrow but responded nonetheless. “Perhaps you ought to call on Miss Vera. She might have something more...appropriate for a party.”
Rosemary grinned, “You know perfectly well giving Vera free rein over my wardrobe will result in my attending this party looking like I belong in a brothel. However, I need a buffer, and Vera more than qualifies. Mother will have a fit, but that’s half the fun.”
“Shall I send word?” Anna asked with a small smile. The young girl had been in Rosemary’s service since the beginning of her marriage to Andrew and had provided much comfort to her mistress in the months following his death. Rosemary didn’t know what she’d do without Anna and treated her accordingly.
“Yes, please do. Tell Vera to hurry, and to pack for all contingencies. She’ll know exactly what to do,” Rosemary instructed and sent Anna off to make arrangements.
While the maid was gone, Rosemary finished readying herself and slipped a framed photograph of Andrew into the inner pocket of her case along with a sketch pad and a few pencils. Trusting Anna to take care of the rest upon her return, Rosemary exited to the corridor. She avoided the direction that led to her late husband’s rooms and instead descended the stairs and settled herself in the dining room.
As soon as she’d taken a seat, a tray of toast and tea appeared at her side almost silently. She absently thanked the housemaid, who responded with a clipped “Madam,” as was her custom. Of all the servants, Rosemary cared the least for Helen, whose veneer she had as yet been unable to crack.
She let a piece of buttered toast melt on her tongue and allowed a satisfied sigh to escape her lips. It had been difficult not to smother her sadness with biscuits and crisps, but she’d listened to her best friend Vera’s advice for once and had managed to maintain her figure.
Yes, Vera had helped in many ways, and not just over the last year. A force of nature, Vera took every opportunity to thumb her nose at convention. Even as children, when the pair had played endless games of make-believe, there couldn’t have been a better example of two polar opposites.
Rosemary’s dreams had included a husband, children, and a level of stability Vera described as ‘boring in the extreme.’ While her friend dreamt of excitement and stardom, always demanding to be the center of attention, Rosemary was happy to fade into the background.
She might not share Vera’s enthusiasm for everything and anything that resembled fun, but she could understand the desire to break out of society’s mold. The problem for Rosemary was that she cared about her family’s approval far too much to be branded an embarrassment in any way. On the rare occasions that Vera talked her into defying custom, Rosemary had always been careful not to stray too far from convention.
The doorbell chimed as she swallowed the last dregs of her tea. Seconds later, Vera breezed into the dining room looking as though she’d been prepared for an impromptu weekend away long before Anna had summoned her.
A short crop of coal-black hair fit neatly beneath a stylish cloche hat, setting off a pair of emerald eyes surrounded by thick lashes. Her dress was cut to the most fashionable length, several inches shorter than anything Rosemary owned or dared to wear.
Rosemary looked enviously at Vera’s lightly covered legs and fought the urge to remove her own itchy, uncomfortable stockings and rip them to shreds.
Sometimes she wondered how such a creature had any use for her at all. Surely, Vera could find more entertaining friends here in London, but for some unfathomable reason, she preferred Rosemary’s company to that of anyone else.
“Rosie, you look absolutely invigorated. What’s this about heading off to Pardington? If you wanted to get away, you could have chosen a nice sandy beach somewhere, my love. Going home to visit our parents isn’t exactly top on my list of enjoyable activities.”
Vera kissed Rosemary on the cheek, taking a break from her diatribe to do so. “You must have something up your sleeve if it means trudging out to the country with practically no forewarning.”
Rosemary’s eyes clouded over for a moment at the thought of what she was about to do. “I have an ulterior motive, yes,” she hedged.
Vera let out the tinkling laugh that had beckoned many a man to her side, “I knew it. Do tell,” she demanded, collapsing into the chair across from Rosemary.
“I had a visitor yesterday. Grace Barton, from Pardington. She was looking for assistance from Andrew, and before she left, I somehow found myself saying I'd come out to the country and see if I could help her.” Rosemary explained Grace's worry about her father, and the letter she'd found in his desk.
“I was just about to ask Wadsworth to move Andrew’s desk, so I could begin converting the office, and it felt like serendipity when she said she was from Pardington. I know, it sounds like a terrible idea, but I couldn’t seem to help myself.”
Laughing again, Vera tossed her head and cast her friend an appraising look. “I do believe you have surprised me yet again, Rosie. Each time I start to believe you’re a sad case and maybe there’s no hope for you, you rise from the ashes like a phoenix and take me completely by surprise.”
Rosemary highly doubted that was the case and chalked it up to Vera’s theatrical nature. She was, after all, an aspiring actress. “I will simply carry out a consultation, and then I’ll recommend the proper authorities.”
“Whatever you say, darling,” Vera replied, the corner of her lip still curled into a half grin. “We’ll go to Pardington, we’ll attend this party, and I have no doubt you’ll have old Grace squared away before tea on Sunday.”
“Old Grace?” Rosemary asked, her curiosity piqued. It wouldn’t surprise her to learn that Vera knew Grace Barton; after all, Vera knew practically everyone who was anyone, and a whole host of characters who would, in polite society, be considered nobodies.
“You must remember her; the Bartons are one of the most prominent families in Pardington.”
Searching her memory, Rosemary came up empty. Perhaps the details would come back to her as she spent more time with the woman. “No, I don’t, but it doesn’t matter. Mother and Father will attend the party—presumably your mother as well—and that gives us an opportunity to poke around without seeming out of place. I’ll need you to act as a distraction and also as an extra pair of eyes.” Vera was nothing if not astute, and she possessed an uncanny ability to read any room she entered within seconds.
“Of course, of course. Whatever you need. If nothing else, the food ought to be delicious and the drinks bottomless. Besides, if I get bored, there’s always your mother to torture with tales of my more deplorable acting jobs.”
“Be careful,” Rosemary laughed. “You know her patience only extends so far, and only so long as your mother is around. I swear, if Lorraine Blackburn told my mother that bald heads on women were coming into fashion, she’d turn up having been shorn like a sheep.”
Vera’s expression turned to one of evil satisfaction. “Wouldn’t that be just the berries?”
Rosemary imagined her mother without hair, and the thought made her shiver with both amusement and discomfort. “No. In fact, it gives me the heebie-jeebies. Enough about that. Did you bring me something to wear? Something appropriate, I hope.”
Eyes agleam with delight, Vera nodded emphatically. “I certainly did, and you will look absolutely ravishing. I also brought some jewelry. You must let me do something about that hair though, Rosie.”
It would have been pointless to argue, and for the first time in a long time, Rosemary found she didn’t really want to. It felt good to have a project, something to work towards. Of course, she’d much rather not be involved with a possible crime, but she would take what she could get.
“Maybe a nice bob. You could pull it off, with those cheekbones and your beautiful wide eyes...” While Rosemary mused, Vera had risen and crossed the room. With gentle hands, she scooped the honeyed length and scrunched it on top to measure different styles against Rosemary's face.
“Now wait just a second, I’m not bobbing my hair.” That was where Rosemary had drawn the line. “Andrew always liked it long, and I agree.”
Vera looked as though she wanted to argue, but resigned herself to bringing up the matter at a later date. “Then how about we put it up like we did the night you met? Those curls suited you nicely.” She held her breath, hoping that had been the right thing to say.
She sighed when Rosemary responded with a smile. “That’ll do just fine.” Leave it to Vera to bring up a memory that normally would have Rosemary crying into her handkerchief, and yet somehow made everything a little brighter.
Fondly, Rosemary recalled the evening in question, of the first time she’d locked eyes with Andrew after being dragged to a party nearly kicking and screaming. The whole world had become a little brighter that night, and it was nice to think of it without sadness for the first time in nearly a year.
Yes, Vera was a good egg—and a good friend—no matter what Rosemary’s mother thought.
“Wadsworth,” Rosemary called, certain the butler was hovering somewhere nearby, “please fetch Anna and load the luggage into the car. We’re headed to Pardington.”
