Page 63 of The Lady’s Guide to Deception and Desire
With each step, he recalled how he’d wanted to kiss her from the first, and nearly had, when they’d been together in the cave.
How he’d wanted to tell her about his parents; that he thought of them every day, even though several years had passed.
How he loved to see her smile and laugh, and even more so when he seemed to be the cause of it. Such a simple thing: making another person happy—even if only for that moment.
Most of all, that when he was with her, he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
He wanted to know that feeling forever.
And he couldn’t let her marry his uncle without telling her all that—in proper sentences, without getting tongue tied, or cocking it up by mentioning ditches or rats, or some other nonsense!
A fat lot of use all his learning was if he couldn’t put it to the best service of all, in securing the heart of the woman he wanted to spend his life with. If she felt for him even half what he did for her, she might consider his suit.
His old college had approached him again only recently, offering a teaching position. The wage was modest but, in combination with the small sum he’d inherited from his parents, it would be enough to provide them with somewhere to live.
Her mother too, of course.
Not enough to keep a carriage or horses, but they might follow the current craze and learn to cycle.
He was becoming giddy, thinking of what might be, but he couldn’t help it. If Rosamund were to say “yes” and become his wife, his life would never again be the same.
Dusk was approaching as he came past the orchards and the walled garden. Instinctively, he looked towards the open parkland and the lake, his gaze going to the folly—the last place he’d seen her, and made such a fool of himself.
He’d half hoped to see her walking there, but there was no sign of anyone.
Taking the steps to the front entrance of the abbey, the briefest of knocks brought Cornwort to the door.
“Master Benedict! Thank the Heavens you’ve come back. I didn’t know what to do—” The butler, always self-possessed, despite his grand age, was most agitated.
Shrugging off his coat and hat, Benedict gave his full attention.
“It’s His Grace. He’s not himself. Down in the lower regions again”—Cornwort rolled his eyes in the subterranean direction—“and there’s something not right about it.”
Benedict led the butler to an upright chair. The poor fellow looked as if he was about to pass out.
Thomas, one of the footmen, poked his head round the door leading to the servants’ passage and Benedict sent him off for two glasses of water.
“Take your time, Cornwort. I know you’re loyal to my uncle, and you’ve always his best interests at heart. What do I need to know?”
“His Grace always was interested in the house and its history, but it’s become an obsession. Not just in the day; he goes down there by night sometimes, and doing what I couldn’t say.” The butler passed a tremorous hand over his brow.
“I was glad to see that French woman leave, begging your pardon, Sir. She only made him worse, and we all hoped he’d regain his senses afterward, but it’s worse than ever. I said to Mrs. Cornwort we ought to call the doctor, and the Reverend, but she said we wasn’t to interfere—that she’d send a telegram to that old college of yours, where you did say you was heading to.”
“I only got as far as London, but Mrs. Cornwort was right to send the message if she was concerned.” Accepting the water from a promptly returned Thomas, Benedict paused, letting the old butler take a few sips. “But what is it that has you so anxious? The duke has his eccentricities, as all men do.”
“It was yesterday morn that began us worrying.” The butler shook his head. “That poor girl—and His Grace telling us none was to disturb her, since she be grieving. That were fair enough for an hour or two, but all day! Mrs. Cornwort said ’twasn’t natural—and Mrs. Penhorgan did agree.”
“Grieving?” A strange chill came over Benedict. “What’s this, Cornwort? Someone’s died?”
“Why yes, Sir, though o’ course, you were left too early to know! ’Tis that Mrs. Burnell, passed away in the night. The young lady be distraught, as you’d expect, but she be in her room all this day and last, and His Grace won’t let any soul near, saying he shall take her trays himself! ’Tisn’t the way of things at all, and Mrs. Penhorgan says if the door stays locked, she be sending for the constable from Weymouth and hang the consequences.”
It was the longest speech Benedict had ever heard from the man, though he’d known him all his life. Now, Cornwort buried his face in his hands. Clearly, it was all too much for him—and Benedict was also at a loss.
Mrs. Burnell had died?
It hardly seemed possible. She’d been right as rain, hadn’t she, the night before he’d left? Admittedly, he’d been rather distracted, but she hadn’t even complained of a headache. Had it been her heart? Such ailments could remain hidden, he knew, presenting fatally, and most unexpectedly.
Poor Rosamund!
