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The more miles between her and Brookhaven, the lighter and happier she felt. She had always enjoyed her time at Ashtonvale. Marianne’s brothers had always been kind to her, and she had been awestruck by them. In Marianne’s latest letter, she had written that all her brothers were married now, except for the duke. It would be strange being there and her brothers not all being there too, but it was Marianne she really wanted to see. Her letters had kept Rose from falling into a deep melancholy when her father fell ill. All joy seeped away while she nursed her father, knowing he was not going to recover. Cecil’s constant threats and tantrums marred any happiness she might have found in simple pleasures such as drawing or reading. He would not even let her play her pianoforte.

She should stop thinking of him and think how lovely it will be to be at Ashtonvale again and finally be able to grieve her father in peace. Rose closed her eyes and let the swaying of the carriage lull her to sleep.

When she next opened them, the sun was high in the sky. She stopped the carriage, and they had a little picnic under a shady oak. Elsie picked dandelions and played he loves me, he loves me not with the petals. She’d had a particular fancy for the stable hand for months now, although it was all one-sided; there was no harm in it. Rose could not imagine being in love with anyone. Who could ever measure up to a man like her father?

*

“Marianne, you will wear out my rug if you do not stop your pacing. She will get here when she gets here.”

Marianne turned from the window and sat across from her mother and picked up her book. “I know, Mother, but I am worried about what state she will be in when she gets here. Her last letter was so…sad. Cecil has been horrible to her.”

“It is a good thing you invited her to stay for a while,” her mother said, ringing the bell for tea. “The poor girl. Her father was a good man. A good neighbor, and your father and he were friends for many years. Rose was always such a good friend to you when you were young.”

“She still is a good friend, Mama. I cannot imagine how upset she must be about Cecil. He was never a nice person, but I had hopes he would mature into a decent man. Even my brothers do not like him, and generally, they like everyone. Not including Edward, of course.”

“The duke has never gotten over his own loss.”

“That is the thing, Mother, I do not think he ever loved Victoria. It was never a love match, was it? So why hide himself away from ever finding someone who would be worthy of his love?” She stood again just as a maid came in with the tea.

Her mother nodded her thanks to the maid, who bobbed and left. “You are too romantic, Marianne.” She poured the tea and handed a cup to her daughter.

Marianne sighed. “I suppose I am. I just want him to have what my other brothers have.”

“He may still yet find someone. Perhaps he will bump into a lovely young lady while crossing the street and fall instantly in love with her.”

Marianne smiled. “Now who is being too romantic, Mother?”

They both laughed, but deep inside Marianne hoped that this very thing would happen. He had more chances of being hit by lightning, but one could hope anyway.

*

The carriage finally stopped in front of Ashtonvale just as the sun was making its downward arc. Marianne ran down the stairs and embraced Rose in a hug that lit a flicker of hope within her.

“Oh, my dear,” said the dowager as she took her turn to squeeze her. “I am devastated for you. You must come inside and have some tea. It will not help, of course, but it will not hurt either,” she said with a sympathetic smile.

Rose hugged her friend tightly. “Thank you so much, both of you, for letting me come to stay.”

“I would have been upset if you had said no. Come, you must be bone tired.” Marianne took Rose’s hand and led her up the steps. “Your room is ready. If you do not care for any tea and want to rest, Mother will understand.”

“To be honest, I have been sitting so long that a cup of tea would be just the thing.”

Marianne hugged Rose’s arm and kept hold of her until someone put a teacup in her hand. Rose could only hope that her friend did not feel the need to hold on to her for the duration of the next few weeks.

By the time Rose climbed the stairs to bed, though, she felt drained beyond anything she had felt before. Every time she looked at Marianne and saw the sympathy in her eyes, she wanted to cry. Rose worried that if she let even one tear drop, the torrent might never stop.

Elsie had everything in hand and helped her out of her dress and into a buttery-soft nightgown, and then brushed her hair until it shone like gold before braiding it for bed. By the time she lay on the soft bed, her body groaned in relief. Her eyes closed, and when she opened them again, it was to hear the rooster calling in the dawn. She had survived the night. Well, of course, she had. She had not died of grief, at least not yet.

There was a tiny tap on the door. Elsie? No. Another tap.

“Come in,” she said, curiosity getting the better of her. A small head peered around the corner, dark hair still in its rags.

“Are you Lady Rose?” the young girl asked.

“I am. Would you like to come in?”

The child bounced into the room. “Aunt Marianne said you were coming to stay. I know I should have waited to meet you at breakfast, but I just could not wait.”

Rose patted the space next to her, fascinated to finally meet the infamous Maxine. Marianne had written about Maxine on occasion over the years, so she was not really surprised by the early morning visit.