person, Rosemary eyed him warily. Were Chalmers to suddenly start living in her pocket, he was bound to quickly discover that those pockets were to let, which thoroughly ruined her pleasure in the rare prospect of having her husband at her side. “You accompany me then? I am engaged for the theater.”
“Oh, yes,” responded Lord Chalmers, in a manner that was distinctly ominous, due to his intention to keep a very sharp eye on the young hopefuls who habitually flocked around his wife. “I have neglected you shockingly, and I mean to do so no more.” Perhaps this noble admission might kindle some slight degree of warmth in its object’s breast.
It did not. “As you wish,” said Rosemary, with a fine indifference attained only through monumental effort.
Lord Chalmers did not trust himself to answer. Wishing even more fervently that he was of a disposition that would allow him to apply a hairbrush to his lady’s derrière, he stalked out of her boudoir. Rosemary listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Chapter Nine
Since Lady Chalmers was not one to suffer in stoic silence, Angelica was presented with an accounting of her sister’s sorrows, complete in every minuscule detail. Rosemary related her most recent interview with Chalmers, including his offer to discharge her debts, and took great umbrage at Angelica’s untactful suggestion that her husband’s offer seemed the most practical solution to the current difficulties. Did Angelica wish Rosemary to be cast off? Rosemary inquired. Perhaps Angelica was not the font of impartial wisdom that the family thought her; maybe Angelica wished Rosemary’s marriage to fail so that she could snare Chalmers herself! Rosemary wouldn’t stand for it, even if Chalmers did like Angelica best. And she didn’t care a fig for Angelica’s suggestion that there might be a law against such a thing. Rosemary didn’t see why there should be such a law, but even if there was, a man so influential as Chalmers could easily have it set aside. Moreover, were Angelica so devoted to her family as she professed to be, she would somehow contrive to reclaim the Chalmers sapphires. Since Angelica had failed to thus contrive, Rosemary surmised that Angelica wanted her to be miserable. If so, Angelica had her wish; Rosemary considered the sorrows of Cleopatra, as viewed the previous evening in company with her ill-tempered husband, far inferior to her own.
This diatribe was conducted, to the accompaniment of sobs and sniffles, over Lady Chalmers’s breakfast toast. Nor was it the only diversion to accompany that meal. While Rosemary bewailed her lot, complained that she was the most unfortunate of beings, and in general acted the wet-goose, Fennel enlivened the little party with an account of the latest goings-on of his hero—who had departed England in a blaze of notoriety, scarcely avoiding the bailiffs who seized everything in sight; and was Angelica aware that at eight-and-twenty Lord Byron already had gray hairs?—and Lily dropped hints so arch and vague that they entirely missed their target. Who was running counter to conventional behavior, as Lily intimated? Wearily Angelica wondered, and cravenly decided that she would rather not know.
She had no time just then to worry about the further misadventures of her addle-pated family. Callously abandoning them, she donned a pelisse, crammed a bonnet on her head, and hurriedly summoned a hackney-coach. Sir Randall had sent her directly home from the cemetery, saying that he would deal with Durward. There had been no further word, though Angelica had half-expected to receive a strong intimation that her services were no longer desired. Durward had no authority to dismiss her, but his master did. Perplexed and anxious about her employer, Angelica pondered the puzzle of Sir Randall’s son, a man of such infinite littleness of soul as to set spies on his own father. Despicable, in short!
“Oh, yes,” responded Lord Chalmers, in a manner that was distinctly ominous, due to his intention to keep a very sharp eye on the young hopefuls who habitually flocked around his wife. “I have neglected you shockingly, and I mean to do so no more.” Perhaps this noble admission might kindle some slight degree of warmth in its object’s breast.
It did not. “As you wish,” said Rosemary, with a fine indifference attained only through monumental effort.
Lord Chalmers did not trust himself to answer. Wishing even more fervently that he was of a disposition that would allow him to apply a hairbrush to his lady’s derrière, he stalked out of her boudoir. Rosemary listened to his footsteps fade down the hallway. Tears trickled down her cheeks.
Chapter Nine
Since Lady Chalmers was not one to suffer in stoic silence, Angelica was presented with an accounting of her sister’s sorrows, complete in every minuscule detail. Rosemary related her most recent interview with Chalmers, including his offer to discharge her debts, and took great umbrage at Angelica’s untactful suggestion that her husband’s offer seemed the most practical solution to the current difficulties. Did Angelica wish Rosemary to be cast off? Rosemary inquired. Perhaps Angelica was not the font of impartial wisdom that the family thought her; maybe Angelica wished Rosemary’s marriage to fail so that she could snare Chalmers herself! Rosemary wouldn’t stand for it, even if Chalmers did like Angelica best. And she didn’t care a fig for Angelica’s suggestion that there might be a law against such a thing. Rosemary didn’t see why there should be such a law, but even if there was, a man so influential as Chalmers could easily have it set aside. Moreover, were Angelica so devoted to her family as she professed to be, she would somehow contrive to reclaim the Chalmers sapphires. Since Angelica had failed to thus contrive, Rosemary surmised that Angelica wanted her to be miserable. If so, Angelica had her wish; Rosemary considered the sorrows of Cleopatra, as viewed the previous evening in company with her ill-tempered husband, far inferior to her own.
This diatribe was conducted, to the accompaniment of sobs and sniffles, over Lady Chalmers’s breakfast toast. Nor was it the only diversion to accompany that meal. While Rosemary bewailed her lot, complained that she was the most unfortunate of beings, and in general acted the wet-goose, Fennel enlivened the little party with an account of the latest goings-on of his hero—who had departed England in a blaze of notoriety, scarcely avoiding the bailiffs who seized everything in sight; and was Angelica aware that at eight-and-twenty Lord Byron already had gray hairs?—and Lily dropped hints so arch and vague that they entirely missed their target. Who was running counter to conventional behavior, as Lily intimated? Wearily Angelica wondered, and cravenly decided that she would rather not know.
She had no time just then to worry about the further misadventures of her addle-pated family. Callously abandoning them, she donned a pelisse, crammed a bonnet on her head, and hurriedly summoned a hackney-coach. Sir Randall had sent her directly home from the cemetery, saying that he would deal with Durward. There had been no further word, though Angelica had half-expected to receive a strong intimation that her services were no longer desired. Durward had no authority to dismiss her, but his master did. Perplexed and anxious about her employer, Angelica pondered the puzzle of Sir Randall’s son, a man of such infinite littleness of soul as to set spies on his own father. Despicable, in short!
Similar Books
