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Chapter One
Miss Rosalind Thorne set aside her quill for a moment, stretching her fingers and looking around her father’s study. She remembered the way it had felt when she was a little child visiting him here, across the great expanse of oaken desk. Back then there had been a mystique and magic about this room, with its books about far-off places and paintings of important men. Her father’s study had been a safe place that smelled of pipe smoke and possibilities.
Now she was a woman of four and twenty, and the burden of responsibility, after her father’s passing three years ago, had landed squarely on her young shoulders. She put her fingers to her head, feeling the familiar ache of pain in her temples that had haunted her ever since she assumed sole responsibility for the estate. She was not certain what triggered the pain, but she knew she had to keep it to herself.
Her land agent and tenants, not to mention the landed aristocracy who lived around her in the county, already doubted her ability to care for the estate. If they suspected she nursed chronic headaches, her ailment would be yet another reason why she was unfit to manage things for herself.
A soft knock broke the silence, and she called whoever was outside to enter.
The door opened, revealing a face as familiar to Rosalind as her own. Mrs. Hollis, her former governess and now her companion, was far into middle age, with dark black hair already greying in sophistication, spectacles, and a sensible grey dress. Rosalind was not sure she had ever seen the proper woman in anything but grey or black, and yet Mrs. Hollis was the furthest thing from severe.
Her eyes softened as soon as she saw Rosalind’s face. “I brought you a cup of willow bark tea,” she said gently. “For your head.”
Rosalind smiled weakly, and stood to accept the delicate cup and saucer. “How did you know my head was hurting?” she asked.
“It always is, after you disappear into this study for hours at a time.” Mrs. Hollis’ forehead wrinkled in concern. She gestured to someone standing just outside and said in a low voice, “Dr. Ashcombe is here as well, if you are able to see him.”
Rosalind nodded, and Mrs. Hollis showed him quickly in. They kept the good doctor’s weekly visits a secret from most of the staff, slipping him in one of the side doors and directly to the study so that the regularity of his attendance would not cause the servants to gossip about their mistress’ health. Dr. Ashcombe and his wife were long-time friends of Rosalind, but even so, she suspected his appearance at the estate with a medical bag in hand would raise eyebrows.
The doctor was a short man—although most were short in comparison with Rosalind’s willowy build. He was balding, and a little paunchy, but his bright smile and cheerful personality made him one of the most pleasant-looking men in Rosalind’s acquaintance. He insisted she sit, and perched across from her on an ottoman as he opened his medical bag.
“Mrs. Hollis tells me you are hard at work again,” he said, raising his eyebrows significantly. “And that you are not resting your eyes.”
“Mrs. Hollis shares too much,” Rosalind scolded with a smile, winking at her friend and companion.
“She must tell me, if you will not,” Dr. Ashcombe scolded, taking Rosalind’s wrist and checking her pulse against his pocket watch.
“I do not have a choice in the matter,” Rosalind said, her smile waning. “It takes all my effort to keep up with the estate matters, and the simple truth is that many of these things involve poring over written accounts and numbers. It is easier when I am travelling to see the tenants, but the account books are a chore that does not complete itself.”
“Eye strain is directly connected to your headaches, Miss Thorne,” Dr. Ashcombe said quietly. “You are making your condition worse.”
Rosalind allowed him to shine a light in her eyes, wincing when it deepened her pain. “It is only for a short time,” she said. “Until Henry reaches majority and can take over management of the estate for himself.”
“Your brother is thirteen years of age,” Mrs. Hollis protested. “You cannot really intend to keep up this mad pace for years until he grows into leadership. Even then, you will likely have to remain by his side as an advisor until he proves himself.”
“I confess that this conversation is not helping overmuch with my headache,” Rosalind said, closing her eyes.
“Drink some of the tea,” Mrs. Hollis said, pressing the cup back into her hands. “It will help.”
Rosalind did so, swallowing the familiar earthy, bitter brew. It did help, sometimes, but too often it simply relegated the discomfort to the background, rather than banishing it entirely.
“Better,” she said softly.
“Speaking of your brother,” Dr. Ashcombe said, sitting back in his chair and clearing his throat, “he caused a bit of a stir in the village yesterday.”
Rosalind frowned. “What now?”
Dr. Ashcombe was clearly attempting to hide a smile as he spoke, busying himself with his medical bag. “He… well… bridled the bailiff’s hunter. Or attempted to.”
Rosalind’s eyes widened. “Tell me he did not.”
The doctor smiled.
“No,” Rosalind said firmly. “No, it is not amusing in the least. It is wanton rebellion against the law, for one, and an attempt to ride a horse that has been trained in fox-hunting is dangerous for a boy of thirteen.”
The doctor’s smile disappeared. “I am sorry,” he said. “I know that it adds to your stress, Miss Thorne, but I will admit he cut a rather humorous figure fleeing the scene. The hunter gave him a rather swift kick across the rump when his back was turned.”
“I am glad to hear it,” Rosalind said quietly. “It is better than a worse fate that could have befallen him.”
She saw her two companions grow sober, and knew they were thinking of her late father—as she was. Not all horses were safe, and even the safest could be dangerous under the right circumstances.
“I will speak with him at once,” she said, draining the teacup and standing to her feet. “Dr. Aschombe, thank you for your visit—as always. You are a draught to the soul.”
“I must insist you rest more, Miss Thorne,” he said. “Mrs. Ashcombe would say the same. My powers of healing only stretch as far as your obedience to your own body’s needs. If you continually press on through the pain, it will increase over time.”
Rosalind caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror over the mantle. She had her father’s stately cheekbones, her mother’s sapphire eyes and flaxen hair, but the looks that could have once stopped the London ton in its tracks were wan and pale in the reflection that met her gaze now. She looked more ghost than woman. She knew the doctor was right, she just was not sure what to do about it. She was working out of necessity and survival. If she tended to her own health, she risked her brother’s future.
“I hear you,” she said, without commitment. “And I shall do my best.”
He was clearly not satisfied with this response, but took his leave and followed Mrs. Hollis out into the hall. Rosalind walked briskly in the other direction, knowing full well where she would find her rebellious little brother.
She marched outside and across the manicured lawn and gardens, lifting her pale blue skirts as she did. Beyond the gardens, the stables were elegantly situated with a corral for training and multiple stalls for the fine horses and the estate carriage. Rosalind found her brother Harry inside the stall with their father’s horse, Grand Sir.
He was still skinny and childish, but there was so much about him that reflected his father’s stubbornness—dark flashing eyes, shoulders that would broaden one day, and a tenacity Rosalind had no idea how to tame. She came to stand quietly beside the stall, leaning against the fence.
He spoke without turning to look at her. “If you are here about the hunter, I was doing that horse a favor.”
Rosalind sighed. “Harry, it is not the horse people are worried about. You endangered yourself with a beast of that magnitude… and the bailiff’s to boot. You are lucky he did not lock you up and make an example of us both.”
“He would not dare,” Harry said, eyes flashing. “I am Harry Thorne, the heir to Thornefield Estate. My name will be legendary in these parts when I am grown.”
“And your immaturity speaks volumes now,” Rosalind snapped, losing her temper despite herself. “A grown man would know that with a famous name comes the responsibility of propriety, and with the ownership of an estate comes a duty to the tenants and the people that live therein. If you are ever the sort of landowner who takes advantage of his status to break the law, I will be deeply chagrined.”
“I have a feeling you will be deeply chagrined either way,” Harry said drily.
“Harry—”
“I can never do anything to make you happy,” he cried impetuously. “And you never let me ride—not after what happened to Father.”
Rosalind calmed herself. “You can be in the saddle when you show yourself worthy of it. How can I trust you after that stunt you pulled with the bailiff?”
“I will not spend my life walking,” he said, his face reddening. “I am the son of a Thorne, and I will be allowed my rights.”
Rosalind crossed her arms. “You may ride on horseback when you show yourself capable of restraint. At present, you would be a danger to yourself and to others.”
Harry stomped his foot, looking more like a toddler than a young man, and left without another word. Rosalind watched him go and retraced her steps towards the house, hot tears pricking her eyes. She knew that her brother was too young to understand fully how the world did not revolve around him, but if he only knew… I miss Papa too. I also wish I was not the one reining you in like a wild foal.
She could still remember the day when she had returned from some innocent flirtation in the village—she could not even remember the name of the boy now, because all chances for love had evaporated with the responsibility of managing her brother’s inheritance—to find that her father had not returned from his ride.
She and a group of the manservants in her father’s employ had set off after dark when he had still not returned, but it was Rosalind alone who found him, tossed from his horse and already dead. His head had been gravely wounded, and his back broken. For a long time she had simply held him in her arms, uncertain what to do next. Some part of her had known, even then, that as soon as he was discovered dead the decisions of the day—and for years to follow—would be hers and hers alone.
Now, as she walked back towards the great house, she saw a window open on the second story, and Mrs. Hollis leaned out, pointing and calling in a loud voice.
“What is it?” she asked, looking behind her but seeing nothing.
“Harry!” Mrs. Hollis yelled. “He took off on horseback through the boundary hedge towards the Marwood Park woods not a moment ago!”
It was the neighboring property, with an owner who had been overseas for years and then, since his return, nothing more than a recluse. The woods of Marwood were known for unstable ground, and Harry was a fool to travel it on horseback without proper knowledge of the terrain. Rosalind was torn between fury and fear. Without hesitation, she turned and ran back to the stables.
OFFER: A BRAND NEW SERIES AND 5 FREEBIES FOR YOU!
Grab my new series, "Lust and Love in High Society", and get 5 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!
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