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AS THE CAR PULLED INTO the drive of Woolridge House, a mild sense of dread washed over Rosemary. Her childhood home carried many happy memories; her parents had taken pride in giving their children the finer things. Still, there was pain associated with the place that only partially had to do with the fact she and Andrew had been married there.
Vera, always intuitive to Rosemary’s needs, gave her hand a sympathetic squeeze. She had her own demons to deal with, and Rosemary returned the gesture in acknowledgment of them.
“I’ll see you later on tonight,” Vera promised. She would stay just up the road at her mother’s home, and Rosemary doubted she’d get any closer to Woolridge House than the front garden.
While Anna and Wadsworth, who had insisted upon accompanying his mistress as her driver, took care of the luggage, Rosemary made her way into the entrance hall. The pitter-patter of little feet met her ears, and a moment later she was nearly knocked over by a towheaded child who launched himself into her arms. “Auntie Rose, where’d you come from?”
“I came from my home in London, little darling. How’s my favorite nephew?” she asked, kissing the chubby pink cheeks of her sister’s son. “Where is your mother?” she asked, not having expected to encounter Stella, who spent most of her time at her husband’s home in Oxford.
“In the dining room with Gran, I think. What did you bring me?” the boy asked, his blue eyes sparkling.
Rosemary sighed internally. “Well, Nelly, I didn’t know you would be here,” she began, hesitating when his adorable face fell. Thank goodness she’d packed a box of chocolates in her case. “However, Auntie always comes prepared. You’ll get your present after tea.”
The little child, who was quickly approaching his fourth birthday, narrowed his eyes in consideration. “All right. Now, let’s go.” He took Rosemary’s hand in his tiny one and led her towards the dining room.
“It’s positively absurd!” She heard her mother, Evelyn’s, voice before they’d rounded the corner. “You don’t go to Paris in August, dear. It’s far too humid. You go to Spain. Really, I don’t know what you could possibly be thinking!”
Rosemary thought Paris sounded like a marvelous place to visit but was certain if Stella had said she was taking a Spanish holiday, their mother would tell her she ought to go to France. That was the way things had always been between the two of them.
Stella followed every bit of advice Evelyn gave. She married young to an up-and-coming architecture professor, and began having babies right away. She dressed the way Evelyn thought she ought to dress, and she decorated her home the way Evelyn instructed her to.
Yet, their mother still found fault with everything from Stella’s shoes to her wallpaper, including Leonard, who, as far as Rosemary could tell, had done nothing except treat her sister with respect.
Still, for some reason, Stella continued to seek Evelyn’s approval at all costs. It baffled Rosemary no end. Her own relationship with their mother might be strained at times, but she’d charted her path and taken little criticism for her deviation from the family’s expectations.
Announcing her intention of going for an art degree had felt like a rebellion to Rosemary, and yet the news had been received with far less rebuke than Stella would have encountered if she'd presented the idea.
“Stella!” Rosemary rushed to embrace her sister, who appeared grateful for the reprieve. Petite in the extreme, Stella bore little resemblance to Rosemary, save the shape of her pointed nose, a feature handed down from their mother’s side of the family.
Her tiny face was like a doll’s, and she possessed a type of beauty that seemed more fitting for an Arthurian heroine or a fairy-tale princess. Although one would be hard-pressed to find another soul who agreed with her, Rosemary had always felt plain by comparison.
“Rose, I had no idea you were coming!” Stella’s relieved expression confirmed for Rosemary that she was a welcome interruption.
“Did you call ahead, dear? Or send a telegram? If I’ve missed another message, I’ll need to find a new maid. Or perhaps give Bertram a good tongue-lashing,” Evelyn said.
Wishing it had indeed been the butler, Bertram, who had answered the telephone because then she would have been assured her mother received the message, Rosemary replied, “I spoke to Father, and he said he’d inform you of my arrival. Perhaps I ought to have called again to be sure. I'm sorry, Mother.”
“That’s not what I meant, dear. You’re welcome anytime, of course. This is your home. Still, you ought to know better than to trust your father to relay any sort of information. Why, he likely forgot he’d spoken to you the moment he set down the receiver. How long will you be staying?” Evelyn Woolridge had a tendency to ramble.
“Just for the weekend,” Rosemary said. “I’m to attend a party at the Barton residence tonight.”
Her mother stared at Rosemary for a moment before she asked, “With whom, dear? I didn’t realize you were still friendly with their daughter. Or is it that dashing son of theirs who has captured your attention?”
A flush crept up to Rosemary’s cheeks, but her voice was steady when she replied. “I recently became reacquainted with Grace Barton, and it was she who extended the invitation. I’ll be attending with Vera.”
She refused to elaborate again on her lack of desire to search for a new husband, an explanation that was sure to fall on deaf ears. Stella flashed her sister a mischievous grin from behind their mother’s back, and it made Rosemary feel good to know she had the support of at least one family member.
“Vera is here as well? I spoke to her mother just yesterday, and she mentioned nothing about an impending visit.” Evelyn looked worried at the thought her heroine, Lorraine Blackburn, might have withheld information.
Not for the first time did Rosemary wonder whether her mother thought, as did everyone else, that the two were an odd pairing. Evelyn, while still a handsome woman, looked like a moth next to a butterfly when Vera’s mother was around. Sort of the same way Rosemary felt around Vera if she were being honest.
“Relax, Mother. Coming home this weekend was a last-minute decision. Now, why does everyone keep telling me I ought to remember Grace Barton?” The notion had bothered Rosemary ever since Vera brought it up. Actually, even longer. From the moment Grace revealed she was from Pardington, a memory too vague to pin down had niggled in Rosemary’s head.
Evelyn cast a long look at her daughter. “You were Girl Guides together the year you turned fifteen.”
She needn’t have said anything else and chose not to. Instead, her eyes clouded over and she turned on a heel, abruptly leaving Rosemary and Stella alone in the dining room.
“I really put my foot in my mouth this time, didn’t I?” Rosemary asked, even though the question had been an innocent one.
Stella sighed. “Your transgressions are far less painful than mine. I thought naming the baby after Lionel would make her happy, but every time she says his full name, she gets that look in her eye.”
“I’ve noticed,” Rosemary agreed. “Our brother would have been properly chuffed to have young Nelly carry his name, and that’s what you must remember. The boy’s nature is a credit to his uncle, and to be fair, Mother dotes upon her grandson, so he’s none the worse for her pain.”
Lionel had been Rosemary’s oldest sibling, the firstborn son of Evelyn and their father, Cecil, and heir to the family fortune. Furthermore, he was the only man Vera had ever—and Rosemary feared would ever—love. His death in the war devastated the family, and it coupled with Andrew's loss had left Rosemary feeling more than jaded.
“Let’s not talk any more about it,” Stella suggested. “Such is life and all that. Now, show me what you intend to wear at this party. Mother and Father and Frederick will also attend, but Leonard and I will stay behind with Nelly.”
“I didn’t realize our family fostered such close connections to the Bartons,” Rosemary commented, ignoring the ever-present inquiry regarding her wardrobe choices. “Have you any idea what reason our brother would have to attend the party?”
Stella laughed. “Well, Father does business with Mr. Barton, and Mother is trying to marry Frederick off, once and for all. She thinks a good match will mend his wanton ways, but I think she forgets what girls are like these days. Not that I have anything negative to say about Grace. I hardly know her.”
Rosemary merely raised a brow. Frederick was perfectly capable of contending with their mother; however, his presence could throw a wrench in her plan to sleuth about Barton Manor unnoticed. Her mother would watch her like a hawk and offer an opinion regarding every move she made, solicited or not.
She was beginning to wish she had let Grace Barton continue down her front step and out of her life.
And yet, Rosemary couldn’t walk away. She’d seen the concern in Grace’s eyes and had firsthand experience of what losing a family member could do to a person. If there was any way to help Mr. Barton, to prevent something bad from happening to him, she'd do it whether or not her family approved.
Besides, she had Vera on her side, and if there was one truth in the world, it was that Vera could distract a hungry lioness from a weak gazelle with barely a modicum of effort.
Stella’s right, Rosemary thought, such is life.
