Page 4

“Of course, I remember, Rosamund,” Alice murmured, her own voice taking on the melancholy of those days.

“Remember how Blackwood acted like a Blackheart those days,” Rosamund said, the anger blending with sadness. “He purchased Ashbourne House. It broke Papa’s heart.”

“It certainly did,” Alice agreed, her eyes misty with the memory, and the embroidery long forgotten.

The Earl died within the year after his reputation was left in tatters, after he became completely emotionally and socially destroyed. The mind was truly a powerful thing. Once it broke and gave up, everything else followed.

“Westbourne persuaded all of London that he was acting from honor,” Rosamund gritted out, her hands clenching into tight fists. Her short fingernails dug into her palms, anyway. The bit of pain in her skin helped tame some of the roiling emotions within. She was going to be stronger. For her Papa. For Henry. “But it was clear to me what he wanted. He wanted the estate. For what? I do not know. He barely uses it. Still, he found a way that everyone will think respectable. Perhaps it was all about winning Ashbourne, not necessarily inhabiting it.”

“The Duke of Westbourne already owned Westbourne Abbey, an enormous estate, and other large properties throughout the country,” Alice mused. “Why would he go to so much trouble to obtain Ashbourne?”

“Greed has never been logical,” Rosamund replied. “It wants to take and take.”

Her eyes drifted to the horizon, where she could see the outline of her former home. It was so near, and yet so far. Something clenched in her chest. It could be longing, or it could be something more dangerous. Something growing.

Who knew?

By mid-afternoon, Rosamund’s restless energy made her want to escape Rosewood Cottage. Her new home was comfortable, but sometimes, it felt too small to contain her spirit.

“Do you want to walk, Alice?” Rosamund asked.

“I shall remain here, if that is all right with you,” Alice replied. “I feel like I have eaten something that does not agree with me.”

“It looks like you are the one who truly needed the tea,” Rosamund teased. Then, she realized what her friend was truly trying to tell her and she felt deep concern. “Will you be all right?”

“Oh, I shall be. Do go on and explore,” Alice said, giving her friend a playful waving gesture.

So, Rosamund tied the ribbon of her bonnet beneath her chin. Then, she placed a light shawl over her shoulders. Then, she set off on foot to walk through the village that clustered around Ashbourne Hall. It had been so long since she set foot there, but her feet still knew every twist and turn of the lanes.

As if the visit to Peregrine Blackwood never happened, Rosamund wore a wide smile on her face, the gloom quickly lifting from her.

“Lady Rosamund!”

A plump woman in her thirties wearing a white apron peeked out of the doorway of the local bakery. Her hands were covered with flour, her face dusted with a streak of sugar, and she broke into a smile of genuine delight.

“My goodness! It is true what they have been saying. You are back!”

“Yes, Mrs. Higgins,” Rosamund replied, grinning back. She had to lift her skirts so she could rush closer to the woman. “How is your dear Arthur?”

“He is well, my lady. We are ever so thankful that you have given us something for his cough,” Mrs. Higgins said. “I am glad that you are back. I thought you would not want to be -”

“Oh, I know what you mean,” Rosamund interrupted. “But no, I may not be in Ashbourne Hall, anymore, but this,” she made gestures with her arms to encompass everything around them, “is my home! And I certainly want to purchase some tarts from you.”

Rosamund spent the next hour exploring and seeing good friends. She should have brought a companion or chaperone, admittedly, but there was none to be had for the daughter of a disgraced Earl. She felt safe here, and people knew her. They considered her a long-lost daughter, sister, or friend.

She encountered the elderly blacksmith, Mr. Clough. “Are you well, Mr. Clough?”

“I am now well, my lady, after you have come to say hello,” was the cheerful answer, followed by some coughing.

“ You need to go home and rest,” Rosamund advised. “I mean it.”

“Lady Rosamund is right, Mr. Clough,” Little Timmy agreed. He was twelve, but small for his age. The nickname remained. At first, he hated it. Then, he realized that people were mostly calling his name fondly. Rosamund had helped him with that realization.

“That is a lovely boat, little Timmy,” she praised, watching him carve a wooden boat.

“Talented lad,” Mr. Clough coughed.

“Go home, Mr. Clough,” Little Timmy said firmly, sounding like a grown man.