Page 22
Lifting her chin, she entered the dining room.
Her mother was seated at the table, a cup of tea in her hand and a plate containing a roll and a slice of ham before her. “Good morning, Rosalind.” She welcomed her with a smile. “Happy birthday, my dear.”
“Thank you, Mother.” Rosalind placed a piece of toast on a plate and took it to the table. One day, eating would become enjoyable again. Today was not that day.
Her mother was wise enough not to comment on her parsimonious breakfast. Instead, she lifted two rectangular packages off the chair beside her and set them beside Rosalind’s plate. Each was wrapped in brown paper and tied with string.
“What are these?” Rosalind asked.
“Birthday gifts,” her mother said. “The small one is from me. The larger one is from Jonas.”
“Jonas?” A lump formed in Rosalind’s throat. Jonas knew nothing of her marriage contract. She had wanted it that way. But as glad as she was that he had not been obligated to curtail his tour of the Continent for her wedding, she missed him fiercely.
“He knew he would be missing your birthday and asked that I give you his gift along with this note.” She handed Rosalind an envelope.
Rosalind’s name was written across the front in Jonas’s distinctive hand. She broke the seal and withdrew a small card. The message was short.
Dear Rosalind,
Forgive me for not being there to celebrate your birthday. I hope you enjoy the day to its fullest.
I will likely be in France when you open the gift I have given to Mother, so consider it a prequel to whatever I buy for you in Paris. Knowing you as I do, I believe it will be difficult to find something you will be prouder to display.
With much love,
Jonas
She set down the card and lifted the larger of the two parcels. Initially, she had thought it might be a book, but now she felt its raised edges. Tugging gently at the string, she untied the bow and pushed aside the brown paper to uncover a framed painting of her home. Langton Manor sat bathed in sunlight, the surrounding lawn and trees fully green with some of her mother’s roses in bloom in the foreground.
“Oh.” Rosalind pressed her hand to her chest and fought back her tears. “Did he know I would be leaving?”
“No.” Her mother smiled tenderly. “He commissioned it to be done for you before he left and told me that he’d struggled to decide between a painting of the house or one of the sea.”
“He knows I love them both.”
Her mother’s eyes twinkled. “Perhaps you can persuade him to give you one of the sea for your next birthday.”
“Yes.” Finley Park was so far from the ocean it made her heart ache. “I think that would be better than anything he could bring me from France.”
She gazed at the painting a few more minutes before turning her attention to the smaller package. “Thank you, Mother.”
“You have not even opened it yet.”
“I already know that I will love it.”
Her mother smiled again. “I hope so.”
Rosalind peeled away the brown paper to reveal a narrow black box. Giving her mother an inquiring look, she lifted the lid. Lying on a velvet cushion was a string of gleaming pearls, and beside them were two drop pearl earrings.
“Mother,” Rosalind gasped.
“Your father gave them to me the day before our wedding,” she said. “But I think he would wish you to have them now.”
Rosalind’s lower lip trembled. “I will wear them tomorrow. It will make him feel closer.”
“He would be inordinately proud of you, Rosalind.” She leaned over and placed her hand comfortingly over Rosalind’s. There were tears in her mother’s eyes. “As am I.”
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