Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(2)

“Ah. Rosalie, you worry me so often . . . tell me, please, what you desire from marriage.”

“Well, affection, of course. And contentment with—” “Contentment.” Amille seized upon the word promptly. “That is exactly what you should strive for. And do you know what the true source of a woman’s contentment is?”

Rosalie grinned wickedly. “A handsome husband?” “No,” Amille replied seriously, refusing to allow the intensity of her lecture to be diminished by any attempt at humor. “A woman is contented by the knowledge that she is needed by her husband. When he is exhausted and needs her to feed and comfort him. When he is dispirited and needs her to hold him. When he confides in her and places his trust in her. Give up your fantasies of a handsome, influential husband, for he would never need you as a poorer man will.”

Blinking in surprise at Amille’s vehemence, Rosalie looked down at her hands.

“But . . . a rich man would need someone just as much as a poor one—” she began, but Amille interrupted her.

“No. Not in the same way. To a rich man, a wife is a possession. His fondness for her lasts until she bears him an heir, and then he tucks her away in the country to live by herself. He takes a mistress for his sexual needs and relies on his friends for companionship. I would not wish that for you, Rosalie.”

Rosalie bit her lower lip, her eyes fairly dancing with rebellious lights. Certainly she did not want the kind of life that Amille had just described, but neither did she want to be burdened with more of the same drudgery that she longed to escape from right now!

“Do you know what I wish?” she asked impulsively. “That my father had been a . . . a duke! Or at the very least a baron, so that I could do all the things that . . .” Her voice trailed off into abashed silence near the end of the sentence, but not before Amille understood exactly what she had been about to say.

“All the things that Elaine does,” her mother said quietly. Rosalie nodded slightly, ashamed at the covetous words. “All your life,” Amille said with regret lacing through her voice, “I have wanted the best for you, more than what your station calls for. I have encouraged you to do what Elaine does, to learn what she learns, to have the same respect as I do for education. But I have omitted an important part of your education. I have not taught you to recognize what your place is, what our place is. You consider yourself her equal, and you are not. I’m afraid it will grow even more difficult for you to bear than it is now if you don’t come to some understanding of it.”

“I understand what my place is,” Rosalie said matterof-factly. “I am continually reminded of it. I am the daughter of the governess. I am Elaine Winthrop’s occasional companion, more often her maid.” She leaned over until her head rested on the fragrant cotton of Amille’s apron front, her discontented heart suddenly aching. “But do you know what makes it hard to bear, Martian?” she whispered. “I have studied much more than Elaine ever has. History, art, literature . . . I can play the pianoforte and speak French, and I can even sing better. I could be just as successful a debutante as she is, but because of the circumstances of my birth—”

“Do not ever say that aloud again,” Amille interrupted sharply, her cheeks flushed. “If someone overheard you . . .”

“But Elaine is going to be married soon,” Rosalie said, her fingers twining together agitatedly. “What about my future? Will I continue to be her companion? And then nanny to her children?”

“There are worse situations to envision. You are not hungry. You have clothes and books, and little justification for such self-pity.”

Rosalie sighed. “I know,” she said apologetically. “It’s just that I have the suspicion that I’ll end up a spinster, and the thought makes me wild. I want to livel I want to dance and flirt—”

“Rosalie—”

“Toss my head until the pins fall out of my hair—”

“Shhh!”

“Make eyes at handsome men from behind my fan.” “Che’rie, please.”

“But despite my fantasies I know inside that no aristocrat would marry me. Do you know what they call it when a man marries beneath his station? ‘Manuring the fields.’ How I’ve been relegated to that status through no fault of my own escapes me.” “Of course you are resentful, but none of this can be helped,” Amille soothed, the pace of her stitching increasing markedly.

“Sometimes I sit and read or copy verses in my album, and the room becomes so small I can hardly breathe. Maman, there must be some escape!”

“Rosalie, you must learn to be calm.” Amille was becoming more than mildly disturbed. No properly reared girls spoke in such a manner, with wild eyes and passion trembling in their voices. How could she teach her daughter to reconcile herself to the course that life had set for her? “You have been inside too much, I think. Maybe a trip to the theater will be good for you.” They had made such an excursion once before with the Winthrops, and Rosalie had been charmed by the gaudy Covent Garden production, a triple bill including a Shakespearean tragedy and a one-act farce. Amille was entirely aware of Rosalie’s need for variety, and tried to provide it in harmless little ways, with books, new hair ribbons, and other fripperies that might ease her restlessness.

“That’s a good idea,” Rosalie agreed, subsiding a bit. She could not help remembering, however, how they had been required to sit with the other servants and the footmen in the gallery, looking at the upper classes preening in the box. It had been disconcerting to sit with what Elaine pointedly called “the rabble,” especially considering the tendency of the lower classes to throw dried peas at the actors they disliked. “I need to do something new. Perhaps we could go walking down Pall Mall and bump into the prince during one of his elegant strolls. What do you say to that?”