Where Passion Leads (Berkeley-Faulkner #1)(3)

Amille pursed her lips at the ironic note in her daughter’s voice.

“According to Hume, each of us has a ruling passion, Rose. I hope that yours is not this restlessness. Some people can never be happy. I would not like to think that you have this affliction.”

Rosalie also wondered if she would ever be completely happy. But surely she was not the only one to feel this way! How many women were like herself? How many fell so far short of the ideal?

The perfect woman was complacent, gentle, accepting of whatever her circumstances happened to be, nothing more than a pretty toy who would serve the convenience of the man she belonged to. And she was not to be loved too passionately, not in the way that Rosalie longed to be loved someday. So divine, so noble a repast, a well-known poem went, I’d seldom, and with moderation taste. For highest cordials all their virtue lose by too frequent and too bold a use. . . In other words, she thought wryly, use a woman well and then put her up in the right place.

“I’ll try to be more content,” she said.

“And so you will be,” Amille soothed, handling her needlework carefully to prevent a pinprick from staining the fine damask. “Your effort is all that is necessary. Remember, you must serve as a good influence on Elaine.”

Slowly the young woman stood up, adjusting the pins in her hair as the heaviness of the tresses threatened to undo the simple coiffure.

“I should go now. Lady Winthrop wants me to read to her. She is in bed, feeling peaked.”

“Probably the excitement of this morning. Did she decide to let Martha stay?”

“No. She said that any maid who had been caught with a man in her room would undoubtedly provide an unwholesome atmosphere for Elaine. And then Lady Winthrop looked at me significantly, as if she hoped that I would be next!”

Amille chuckled.

“Be kind to her, my good girl. She is not a happy woman. Bring her some tea, and those chocolate biscuits she has taken a fancy to.”

“I would, Maman, but she needs slimming.” “Rosalie!”

The younger woman picked up her skirts with slender, well-kept hands and left the room as quickly as possible, endeavoring to avoid another lecture. They lived in a stucco terrace house, the Winthrops occupying the third floor while Rosalie and Amille stayed in a basement room next to the kitchen. It was a privileged position, for the rest of the servants slept in the attic, which was cold in the winter and stifling in the summer. Rosalie summoned all of her energy to climb the endless staircase, her breath quickening as she reached the top.

The book Lady Winthrop had requested, entitled Avoid the Wayward Path, absorbed much of the afternoon. Rosalie read in a clear and even voice, her eyes passing over the thick, small print until she could not stop from blinking sleepily as she turned each page.

“Stop that droning, child,” Lady Winthrop finally said, leaning her head back until the pale gold of her curls rested against the pile of feather pillows on her bed. Her plump cheeks vibrated as she sighed and prepared to take a nap. “It’s ghastly hot today.”

Rosalie also sighed as she set the book aside, knowing that the chapters selected for today had most likely been intended for her own benefit. Quietly she stared down into the London street. Vendors walked up and down the pavement, crying their musical sounds to attract the attention of potential customers. “Cherr-rries! Sweet cherrrrries!” “News in print! Neeeeews in print!” Crossing-sweepers of tender years swept the way across the street for well-dressed men and women, turning their palms up at the curbstone to receive a farthing or ha’penny for their service.

Twisting her hands in her lap, Rosalie allowed her mind to wander restlessly. There were so many places she was forbidden to go, so much that she could not do. Only a mile or two away were clustered the famous coffeehouses where the intellectuals read papers and conducted lively discussions on politics and theory. Further west was Hyde Park, Piccadilly, the Mall, Spring Gardens, and the Haymarket. She was not allowed the freedom to see these places by herself, a right which even the meanest street urchins possessed! But it was dangerous for a woman to travel in London alone. The London police were poorly organized and underpaid and these conditions led to vast corruption within their numbers. It was up to private citizens’ groups to look out for their own welfare. A harsh criminal code was the only deterrent to crime. Therefore Rosalie, Amille, and the rest of the servants traveled back and forth from Winthrop House in town to Robin’s Threshold, the family seat in the country, without setting foot in the places in between. “Rose!” came a whisper from the doorway. Rosalie automatically put a silencing finger to her lips as she turned to look at the visitor. It was Elaine, who had apparently recovered from the foul temper she had woken with that morning. It was difficult for Rosalie to bear a grudge toward her, because even at her worst Elaine possessed nothing of the nastiness that permeated Lady Winthrop’s disposition. Elaine was basically a happy creature with the typical needs and desires of any well-bred English girl. She yearned for a handsome suitor, beautiful clothes, and adequate pocket money. There was no reason why she wouldn’t be able to attain her goals. Elaine was gentle, pretty, well-dowried, and rather simple. This morning she was especially attractive in a powder-blue gown decorated with beaded flower appliques. There was never anything to fault in her appearance, for Elaine took endless pains to ensure that her blond cornsilk hair was arranged as artfully as possible. She also cared for her skin with the same air of mission, guarding it zealously from the sun so that it shone like gleaming snow. As she peered into the room and took in the scene, the light, clear gray of her eyes glinted with a particularly gleeful expression. “I have to tell you about last night,” she whispered.