Sick of Shadows - M. C. Beaton [57]
Daisy wore the new gown that evening. Lady Polly kept flashing angry little glances at her. Harry had joined them for dinner.
Rose was feeling depressed. Harry was certainly playing his part of being the faithful fiancé, but there was something aloof and guarded about him when he spoke to her.
When Lady Polly led the ladies to the drawing-room after dinner, she glared again at Daisy’s gown and said to her daughter, “You must not pass on your finest clothes to your companion. That gown is quite unsuitable.”
“Miss Friendly designed and made it for her.”
“You are sure?”
“Oh, yes.”
“She could have her own salon and make a fortune,” said Daisy.
“Miss Friendly has enough to do here,” snapped the countess, looking enviously at the companion’s gown. “I think she should start making clothes for me.”
Two days later, the earl’s household set out for the country. London was still in the grip of a great frost. As the line of carriages and fourgons moved out into the countryside, white trees and bushes lined the road. Everything seemed still and frozen. Smoke from cottage chimneys rose straight up into the darkening sky.
Rose huddled into her furs. She thought of Dolly now lying under the cold earth in her father’s churchyard. Poor Dolly. If only she could find out who had murdered the girl, she felt that Dolly could rest in peace. The letters from Mrs. Tremaine had abruptly ceased, but Rose supposed that it was because she had stopped answering any of them.
Harry had promised to arrive on the following day. It had been very difficult to find a Christmas present for him. Rose had finally settled on buying him a copy of The New Motoring Handbook. Now she wished she had bought something more expensive, like a pair of gold cuff-links. The bottle of French scent she had bought for Daisy had cost a great deal more than the book.
She found she was missing her work at the soup kitchen. It had given some purpose to her days. She had persuaded her father to let her send six geese to the soup kitchen for Christmas dinners and felt she should have been there in person to serve them.
The work in the East End had made her look too closely at her own life for comfort. When they finally arrived at Stacey Court, all she had to do was go to her rooms and rest while an army of servants unloaded the fourgons, footmen carried up the trunks and maids unpacked the clothes.
She had suggested to her mother that such great divisions between rich and poor were worrying, but Lady Polly had merely pointed out that God put one in one’s appointed station. If Rose wanted to continue with good works at Stacey Court, said the countess, then there were plenty of people in the village who would be glad of her services.
The next day she confided to Matthew Jarvis that sometimes she envied her parents’ indifference to the poor. “Your father is not as indifferent as he seems. None of his tenants are allowed to starve or fall sick without treatment,” said Matthew. “I have instructions to tell the factor not to collect any rent from the poorest.”
Rose wrapped up her Christmas presents and put them on a table under the tree. The servants’ hall had their own tree and presents would be given from the earl and countess at the servants’ dance, traditionally held in the afternoon of Christmas day.
Harry arrived, polite, attentive and as closed as a shut door. Christmas came and went. Harry gave her a splendid diamond-and-sapphire necklace and she blushed when she handed him that book.
And then, after Boxing Day, one of the maids fell ill with typhoid and part of the drive fell into the cesspool below.
A doctor was summoned to treat the maid. A nurse was hired for her. The factor was instructed to deal with the cesspool and the earl thought it safer to remove everyone back to London.
As they arrived at the town house, it began to snow, small swirling flakes that seemed to rise upwards in the lamplight.
Fires were