Mad With Love, page 4
“Darling,” said his mother, addressing his father. “Perhaps there are tender feelings to be considered.”
“Tender feelings?” Marlow made a noise that came a bit too close to a snarl. “What I feel, what Rosalind feels, is not important to anyone but us, apparently. The Lockridges will betrothe her to the highest bidder, the loftiest aristocrat available, which is not me.”
“No decisions have been made about Rosalind’s future,” his father said, his level tone making Marlow feel all the more out of control. “But when she does marry, I expect it will be a steady sort of aristocrat, yes. Someone suited to her sedate temperament.” He looked pointedly at Marlow’s wrecked right eye.
“Well, I have made a decision.” He stopped moving and faced them, raking a hand through his hair. “I’m going to India.”
His mother gave a shocked gasp. “India? Why?”
“To get away from England for a while. I doubt I’ll be missed.”
His mother pressed a hand to her mouth. His father took her other hand, steadying her as he turned back to him. “If you go to India, you’ll be missed by many who love you. Have you thought this through, son, or are you influenced by disappointed feelings? How long will you go?”
Long enough to forget her. Long enough to escape the humiliation of not being good enough. “Five or six years, I warrant. Perhaps I’ll go by way of Egypt, travel those countries and learn more about Eastern cultures. Perhaps I’ll visit the villages of Mama’s youth.”
“You would not want to,” said his mother, distressed. “I wish you wouldn’t go so far away from us, not over this.”
His father’s lips formed a tight line. “Five years will be too long. Two years will do.”
He meant that in two years’ time, Rosalind would likely be married to someone else, perhaps even settled with a babe, and the messiness of the “delicate situation” passed. Perhaps that was so. He didn’t want to think about it, and the best way to not think about it was to go sailing across the sea to wild, exotic locations. There was no use in staying and fighting, and if he couldn’t fight, he must be away from this place. For he wished to fight. In his present state, he felt livid enough to tear apart the whole world.
“There are dangers in India,” his mother said, pushing away her tea.
“Monsoons? Wild animals? Tigers?” he scoffed.
“Yes, tigers. You may believe it is a wild place. If you must go to these Eastern nations, stay among the English so they will understand you. Or go to the Continent instead. When Townsend went to France, it calmed his mind.”
“Did it? He came home and immediately bungled into a mistaken marriage.”
His father tsked. “Now, Marlow, Townsend’s marriage does well enough now. These things tend to work out the way they should.” He stood and approached him with a mien of sympathy. “If India calls to you, go there. Think about things. Consider what you wish to accomplish with your life.”
I don’t know that I am going to India to consider anything. I think I am only running away. He didn’t say it aloud, for his mama already looked troubled. He went to sit by her and took her hand.
“I will take care,” he promised.
“You’ll miss our ball at the end of the season.” She pouted, then tried to smile. “But you must follow your heart, I suppose. If you’re set on this adventure, I’ll tell you what I know of India so you can be prepared before you go.”
She cupped his face, a tender gesture that made his chest ache and feel heavy. Following his heart had gotten him nowhere.
So he would go somewhere, anywhere, to escape.
*
Rosalind kept to her room in the days after Marlow’s unsuccessful proposal and refused to take more than a bite or two from the trays her mother sent up. She had no appetite. She put away her light, pretty gowns and dressed in black, using the mourning gowns she’d been fitted for after her grandpa had died. The jet bombazine made her look pallid and wan, which suited her perfectly. She wanted to look as mournful as she felt.
And she was mourning. She mourned the loss of her happiness, the loss of her choice to make a love match. She pored over romantic poems, works by Keats, Shelley, and the enigmatic Lord Byron, crying over the pages until she suffered a headache. Love was real, and she wanted the poetry and passion of it. Without it, she’d never be fulfilled.
She was not given to bold acts and histrionics, but the situation was desperate. She hoped her parents would notice the depth of her grief and reconsider a match with Lord Marlow. On her fourth day of self-imposed exile her mother knocked and entered her outer bedchamber, taking in her black frock and severe hair style with a frown.
“Rosalind, darling. We must talk.”
Rosalind stayed where she was, curled up in her overstuffed chintz divan, and rearranged her ebony lace-trimmed skirts. She did not meet her mother’s concerned gaze though she could feel its weight upon her. “What is there to talk about?”
“Dearest, please.”
“My opinion is not to be noted, anyway.”
Her mother crossed to join her, sitting beside her with a sigh. “How long will you sulk about this? It’s not proper behavior, especially with Felicity and her family in town.”
“What have they to do with me?”
“She’s your sister and she loves you. They’re your family. We are all a family and we all want what’s best for you.”
“But Mama, Lord Marlow would be best.”
“You believe so, but you’re thinking about the matter with a child’s heart.” She sighed again, taking Rosalind’s tense hand. “We’re not saying you’re to have no choice in the matter of your marriage. But dear, you’ve not even come out yet. There are so many gentlemen you’ve yet to meet.”
“Like Lord Brittingham?” she said bitterly. “I don’t like him at all.”
“You don’t know him yet. I promise he’s all that’s desirable in a husband, and handsome too. But no, it needn’t be Brittingham if you’re so set against him. You’re the daughter of a duke, Rosalind. You’ll have your choice of husbands. It only must be a good, fitting choice.”
Rosalind bit her lip against more recriminations. She knew she was behaving badly but she was heartsick she wasn’t to have her way. Marlow loved her. They’d known one another forever. He was perfection in her eyes: daring, beautiful, exciting, kind, mysterious.
Yes, they were different, but that was precisely why she needed him in her staid, obedient life.
“Rosalind, did you hear me?”
She pulled her hand from her mother’s and plucked at her black skirts again, banishing the haunting images of her would-have-been-perfect husband. Who would he marry now? Not her.
“I asked if there were any other gentlemen you were interested in getting to know better,” her mother said.
“No, I don’t believe so.”
Her mother’s lips tightened with barely perceptible irritation. Like Rosalind, she was not accustomed to expressing dramatic feelings. “Darling,” she said, once a fraught moment or two had passed. “There are so many options besides Lord Marlow. Why you’re so set against Lord Brittingham, I’ll never know. He’s the most eligible bachelor of the season, for good reason. He’s surely as attractive as Marlow, though you seem to perceive him as some ogre or toad.”
When Rosalind refused to react to this goading, her mother’s voice softened.
“Do you have a problem with the man, or is it just that he’s not the viscount?”
Rosalind shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. Nothing matters to me now. I don’t care who I marry.”
“My dear, be reasonable. Lord Marlow is…well… He’s a bit too undependable in our esteem. He’s always been unsettled and impulsive in nature. I’m not sure he’s found who he is yet, and the age difference between you…”
“Lord Brittingham’s older as well.”
“But he’s also steadier, much more so. He’s a better match to your breeding and temperament.”
“How can you know that with such certainty, Mama?”
“Because we know Brittingham, and we know Marlow. We’ve watched Marlow grow from a child.” Her mother’s calm voice rose over Rosalind’s anguished one. “He runs about and behaves brashly, he always has. He chases dragons, as your father used to say, like St. George himself.”
Rosalind knew the legend of St. George and the dragon. He had bravely slain a dragon to rescue a princess. Perhaps Marlow could cut down Lord Brittingham for her, to take him out of the ton’s vaunted marriage market—and her parents’ favor. She imagined the steady, earnest Brittingham as a dowdy old dragon and realized she was truly losing her mind.
“I don’t think Marlow is as wild as all that,” said Rosalind, although that mysterious wildness within him was exactly what drew her to him.
“We must disagree on that front. We love Marlow like a son, but you should forget him as a marriage prospect. You have no choice now, anyway.” Her mother grimaced, clasping her hands in her lap. “He has decided to travel to India.”
“To India?” Rosalind wasn’t prepared for this shock. India was worlds away, too far away for any hope. “What, has Father banished him there, only for kissing me?” Papa had given her a lengthy lecture on virtue and spanked her soundly for that transgression; it wasn’t fair of him to punish Marlow too.
“It was not your father’s doing, but Marlow’s choice to take some time away from England. If you truly love him, you must think of this as a good thing. Perhaps in India, he’ll discover a greater purpose to overcome his restless nature. Perhaps he’ll find what he’s been searching for.”
Rosalind wanted to cry, to wail, but she was too shocked to make the tears come. Why would he go to India, abandoning her to her fate? Why was he giving up so easily on what might have been?
“He’s absenting himself for your own good,” her mother went on, reading her daughter’s tortured features. “He too knows that he would not make you a proper husband. In that way he’s been very honorable, and a good friend. Really, Rosalind, you ought not to have kissed him. It was your doing, I warrant, even if he attempted to shoulder the blame.”
Yes, her doing. Her fault, all of this. If she hadn’t burst into the parlor and told her parents about that scandalous moment between them, there might have been some chance to keep trying, to keep pressing. Now all was lost. “I can’t believe it. India. What if something happens to him there? He’ll be so far away.”
“I’m sure he’ll be fine. He’s a capable young man and many English travelers reside in India now. His mother, Countess Warren, lived in India for many years, so he has a family connection as well. He’ll surely enjoy his time there and perhaps return to us entirely changed.”
Changed? Why would anyone want him to change when he was perfection as he was? “When will he return?” she asked bleakly.
Her mother’s lowered gaze told her the answer. He would return when she was married to some other man, some staid, acceptable prospect who could offer her a dreary and loveless life.
“I’m sorry things are not turning out as your heart had planned,” her mother said softly. She patted Rosalind’s fingers, now curled into a fist. “But you have no way to know yet what your future holds as far as marriage. It will not be as grim as you imagine it now. Why, I had no desire to marry your father when we were betrothed, and I love him now more than life itself.” She laced her fingers through her daughter’s when her fist relaxed. “And your sister and Prince Carlo have been married ten years now. You saw how happy they were at their anniversary ball. I promise we’ll do all we can to find you a good match. The right match.”
There was no right match anymore, not for Rosalind. There was no match at all. Lord Marlow was going to India. “When is he leaving?” she asked.
“Within the next few weeks, I imagine. Soon after Felicity and Carlo depart to return to Italy. We’ll go to the dock to see him off and you can make a proper goodbye. Until then, you are not to contact him or try to dissuade him from these plans. Promise me, Rosalind. Otherwise, your father will…”
Her voice trailed off, but Rosalind understood what further misbehavior would mean. Another, even worse punishment from her strict father. She shifted on her bottom, still tender from her previous lecture and correction. It was a reminder that she had no power, no recourse even if her heart ached. She’d never hated her lack of power more than in this moment.
“I promise, Mama,” she said in a dull, defeated tone. But inside, a red-hot ember of rebellion burned.
Chapter Four
Providence
Marlow’s departure was to take place mid-spring, far too soon to suit Rosalind. It was barely enough time to do the necessary things: struggle with her conscience, make a terrifying decision, and formulate her plan.
Because if Marlow was sailing for India on the good ship Providence, Rosalind was too.
Of course, making that happen required a series of things to go the right way, things that might still go horribly wrong. It was quite a risk, her plan…and she was not an experienced risk-taker.
Purchasing the ticket had been a hair-raising adventure and had used up the entirety of her saved spending money, money she’d been given over the years to buy hats, shoes, ribbons, and various fripperies to spoil her horses. The caper had involved lies and subterfuge to even make her way to the ticket office, but she’d managed to buy first class passage on the Providence under the invented name of Mrs. Rosa Lintel, a widow.
It was a journey her spoiled horses couldn’t make.
But that was a temporary sacrifice. She must go to India with Marlow and marry him there. Then, when they returned, she could move her horses to his town home’s regally outfitted stables and take up residence as Lady Marlow. Everything would be well in time if she only had the courage—and luck—to see her plan through.
She’d had two weeks to wait after purchasing her passage, two whole weeks to languish in mourning and pretend to be the old, obedient Rosalind who accepted things. When she went to see Felicity and her family off at the docks, and wish them safe passage back to Italy, she used the opportunity to study her surroundings, thinking over the ins and outs of her escape and trying to consider every scenario. The only scenario she didn’t allow herself to consider was backing out. This was her only chance to have a life with Marlow, even if she was terrified. If she wanted to marry him, she had to take her future into her hands without yielding to those who “knew best.”
Her sleep suffered. Nightmares shook her, worries of all that might go awry. By the morning of Marlow’s departure, her fears had reached an apex, but for love, she could not abandon her plans. She donned her loosest black mourning gown with several shifts and petticoats beneath it. She double-checked the contents of the traveling trunk she’d filled with as many necessities as she could manage. Her most beloved collection of romantic poetry, of course. Lighter gowns, for India’s hot weather. A few of her best hats to guard her complexion. She would have to buy a wedding dress somewhere along the way, because there simply wasn’t room to pack a fittingly ornate frock.
Well, Marlow would have to buy it, for she was broke as a church mouse. It was expensive to sail, and the HMS Providence was only going halfway. The ship would sail to Egypt, where they would disembark and travel overland to a port situated for India. Her stomach churned when she thought of traversing such exotic lands, but Marlow would be with her then.
Well, he’d be with her once she revealed herself to him, which could not happen until they were far enough away from England that he could not send her back. Once they’d sailed far enough away, she’d reveal her scheme and explain that he needn’t run away to India alone, that they could run away together. In time, their families would understand.
It was a good plan. A necessary plan. She closed the trunk and pressed down her panic. It was far too late to panic.
“Rosalind?”
She spun at a knock on the door. She barely had time to shove the trunk behind her bed before her mother entered. She took in Rosalind’s shapeless mourning frock with a disappointed frown.
“Won’t you come with us, darling?”
She shook her head. “No, Mama. I can’t stand to be there, to see him sail away.”
“Are you sure? Marlow won’t be home again for some time.”
Rosalind loved her mother so much. She was about to do such a bad thing. I won’t be home for some time either, she thought, and tears welled in her eyes.
“I can’t go today, Mama. I just can’t bear to say goodbye to him.”
“My sweet girl.” Her mother crossed to her and hugged her in sympathy, and Rosalind clung to her, sobbing out loud. This wasn’t goodbye forever, but it was still a goodbye. She would miss her friends too, especially Elizabeth, her closest friend since childhood. Keeping this secret from her had been the hardest thing.
Her mother pulled back and smoothed her tightly wound braids, her proper mourning bun. “We’ll have no more of these dark gowns and tears beyond this week, my love. It’s time to put your face to your future.”
To marry Lord Brittingham, she meant. Rosalind pretended to agree. “Yes, Mama. I suppose it will get easier when Marlow’s gone.”
“It will, darling. We all hope to see you in better spirits.”
Rosalind tried not to burst into tears again as her mother left. Now was not the time to lose her composure or her nerve. She waited until she heard the carriage pull away in the courtyard, then rose and rang for a footman.
“I’ve changed my mind about going to the docks,” she told him. “I wish to see Lord Marlow off after all.”
“You’re too late, my lady. They’ve left.”
“Oh, but I must go! I won’t see him for ages. I don’t know why I thought I could stay away. I’ve even got a trunk all ready for him with going-away presents.” She fluttered her hands and dragged it from behind the bed. “He’s going all the way to India, you know.”
