A Useful Woman by Darcie Wilde

Mrs. Kendricks returned with Rosalind’s freshly ironed dress. “I’ve told her ladyship that you are awake, miss. Lady Blanchard hopes you’ll be so good as to join her and Lord Blanchard in the morning room, but only if you’re feeling quite well.”
    â€œOf course I am well, Mrs. Kendricks.” To prove her point, Rosalind threw back the covers. Much to her own relief, she found she was perfectly able to stand, and stand steadily.
    Mrs. Kendricks helped Rosalind into her clothes, and combed and dressed her hair. Feeling much refreshed and ready to meet the questions that were sure to follow, Rosalind made her way to Lady Blanchard’s formal morning room.
    Although the door was open when Rosalind reached it, neither of that room’s occupants noted her arrival. Lady Blanchard sat straight as a ramrod on the Louis XIV sofa by the fire, with both her hands wrapped around a teacup. Lord Blanchard leaned over her. One hand gripped the sofa back, the other clutched her shoulder. He was saying something soft and harsh, and the effort of it twisted his lined face.
    â€œOf course,” murmured his wife in answer. “Of course.”
    Rosalind swallowed. She also quickly knocked against the open door. Lord Blanchard sprang back from his wife. His face flushed red as he glared at the source of the interruption.
    Lady Blanchard merely turned her head. “There you are, Rosalind!” she cried as brightly as if Rosalind had been strolling about the gardens. “I trust you are quite recovered?”
    â€œPerfectly, thank you, Lady Blanchard.” Rosalind sank to the sofa beside her. Lady Blanchard was made of stern stuff, tempered by long years in society and politics. Even so, the complete and utter calm of her demeanor this morning was a marvel. The disloyal thought passed through Rosalind’s mind that Lady Blanchard’s earlier show of shock and extreme grief might have been just that—a show. She dismissed this almost at once. A woman of Lady Blanchard’s breeding would pretend to feel less than she did, rather than more, even in the midst of an unfolding disaster. “I must thank you both for allowing me to trespass—”
    â€œNonsense! What else should we have done?” boomed Lord Blanchard. “Do you feel up to talking, Miss Thorne?”
    â€œOf course, sir,” said Rosalind. This was true, although she very much doubted that Lord Blanchard wanted to discuss the same subjects she did.
    Lord Blanchard planted himself directly in front of the sofa and clutched the lapel of his coat with one hand, his gaze and stance as severe as if he were facing down an opposing member in the House of Lords. The last time she had seen him like this, he had been explaining to her why she had to leave his house.
    Rosalind concentrated on keeping her shoulders straight and her face placid.
    â€œNow, Miss Thorne,” said Lord Blanchard. “Just where did you find Aimesworth?”
    â€œHe was under the musicians’ gallery.” With an apologeticglance toward Lady Blanchard, Rosalind told his lordship what she had seen, as simply and quickly as she could. Lady Blanchard sipped her tea and listened quietly.
    Lord Blanchard’s gray brows knitted. “How was it you who found him, Miss Thorne? You can’t really have been there alone?”
    â€œMr. Whelks had gone up to the offices.”
To look for Lady Blanchard.
“I saw the ballroom door was open, so I looked inside. Mr. Whelks came then and noticed something was wrong in the room. We went together to investigate the matter. Then . . . I’m afraid I screamed.”
    â€œQuite natural.” Lord Blanchard nodded as if granting her a favor by allowing this evidence of feminine weakness.
    â€œShortly afterwards, Lord Casselmain arrived . . .”
    â€œCasselmain?” Blanchard snapped. “What the devil would Casselmain have to do