Lady of the Rose by Patricia Joseph Page A

slight smile.
“No, miss. It has been a quiet week. The Blythe girl has a fever,
but nothing much to speak of. Problems, such as there are, will
come with the harvest.”
    Harriet nodded. “Thank you, Mr.
Fischer. And I will see to the girl. At least, I should bring some
foodstuffs to assist her mother.”
    Mrs. Fischer entered then with a
large basket laden with bread, jars of jam, and a huge wedge of
cheese.
    “I'll go with you, miss,” she
said.
    ~~~
    By the time Harriet returned to her
house, it was nearly time for supper. The Blythe girl was ill but
doing well, and the family had been grateful for Mrs. Fischer's
gifts and ministrations.
    Thornwood Park was quiet in the
approaching evening. The large house, sprawling and freshly white,
gleamed backlit by the sun. Ivy trailed over columns and across
porticos, giving the house an easy, charming appearance. Late
summer flowers bloomed along the paths and under windows. Harriet
breathed deeply of the warm, fragrant air, relishing in the sight
of her family home.
    She let herself in and walked
upstairs to the bedroom she shared with Margaret. “I know I'm
late,” she said, entering. “I've been to see the Blythe girl, down
with fever... Margaret, what has happened?” Harriet rushed to her
sister's side, kneeling beside the chair where she sat.
    Margaret was pale and shaking,
staring at a note with red-rimmed eyes. “I am quite all right,
Harriet,” she said, her voice a whisper. “I've had a letter from
Lady Whitney. Her husband has passed away.”
    “Oh,” said Harriet. She did not
especially like their neighbor; Janet Whitney was a vain, insincere
woman, but still, no woman deserved to be a widow at five and
twenty. “I am sorry, Margaret. I know you are friends. Will you go
to her?”
    Margaret straightened her shoulders.
“Yes, I must leave for the Hall at once. She has asked for me
specially. She has even requested that I stay with her for a
time.”
    Harriet nodded. “I will help you
prepare.”
    ~~~
    Harriet and Lillian sat down to a
somber supper that evening with their mother. Mrs. Davenport was a
tall, willowy woman with thick auburn hair, which she had passed
down to all her children. Her features were usually clear, for she
was not a contemplative woman by nature, but tonight she was
sobbing loudly, in apparent distress for the late Sir Whitney's
widow.
    “Oh, my poor, brave Margaret! She is
so good to help that distressed woman!” She sniffed and dabbed at
her sparkling green eyes with her lacy handkerchief.
    Lillian, like her sisters, had her
mother's coloring, but she had inherited their father's stout
stature and his sense of humor. Lillian exchanged a rueful glance
with her older sister, “Indeed, Mother. Margaret is
wonderful.”
    Mrs. Davenport sighed and clutched
her hands to her breast. “All my girls are wonderful, but Margaret,
she is the sweetest and best of us all.”
    “You brook no arguments from me,
Mother.” Although she was the eldest, Harriet had long thought
Margaret the sweeter and gentler one by far.
    Supper continued more quietly after
that. Mrs. Davenport even recovered sufficiently from her distress
to ask what her daughters were planning to wear to the dance at the
Conners' a fortnight hence. When Harriet suggested that perhaps the
Connors would cancel the event out of respect for the newly widowed
Lady Whitney, her mother scoffed, looking offended.
    “But they must have the dance, my
dear. They host it every year. Life must go on, after
all.”
    ~~~
    Harriet took advantage of the quiet
of the evening to knock on the door of her father's study. “Father,
how are you tonight?”
    Her father's still form sat in his
customary favorite chair, legs wrapped in a thick blanket, although
the summer evening was warm. His head had been propped against the
chair by a pillow so that he remained upright facing the large
window that overlooked the gardens. He didn't say anything. He
hadn't said a word since the illness earlier in