Unforgivable(16)
Were they standing there to welcome her? Or to be inspected by her? Rose was going to be mistress of this house, and she had absolutely no idea what was expected of her.
Stiff with shyness, she watched from the carriage window as Waite gracefully dismounted his horse. He waved the hovering footmen away and opened Rose’s carriage door himself, offering his hand to her to help her descend. She grasped it with numb fingers and stepped down.
He led her to the steps of the house where the servants waited and introduced her to the housekeeper, Mrs. Hart. She was a slim, neat woman in her middle years, and when she curtseyed to Rose, her expression was very composed and quite devoid of curiosity. As Rose made halting conversation with Mrs. Hart, Waite drew away from her, stepping back. She felt her sudden isolation keenly, though she said nothing to give any hint of her feelings. Instead, she followed Mrs. Hart down the line of neatly turned-out, expressionless servants, taking note of each name in turn. The maids bobbed their curtseys and the men bowed. They kept their eyes lowered for the most part as Rose repeated their names, but she felt their gazes upon her when she moved down the line, felt them looking at her surreptitiously.
They must be wondering why their master had married such a plain, drab thing.
At length, they entered the house, Rose and Harriet walking beside Mrs. Hart and Waite bringing up the rear with Mr. Thomson, the steward. The rest of the servants melted away.
“I will take tea in the library with Mr. Thomson,” Waite told Mrs. Hart once they were inside. “The ladies might wish to take refreshments in the drawing room.”
Rose realised that everyone was looking at her expectantly.
“Ah—yes. Yes, that would be nice,” she stammered. “Harriet? Tea?”
She hated the uncertainty and nervousness in her voice. Harriet smiled at her. “Tea would do very well,” she agreed calmly.
Mrs. Hart inclined her head and glided smoothly away. Waite strolled off with Mr. Thomson, already engrossed in conversation. For a moment, Harriet watched the two men walk away; then she turned to Rose and smiled. “Let me show you the drawing room.”
She led Rose down the corridor and into a restful, sun-bathed room furnished in pale cream and gold. Rose spotted a collection of miniatures arranged on the wall and wandered over to take a closer look. One miniature, of two small boys—one dark and one fair—caught her attention.
“Gilbert and James,” Harriet confirmed behind her. Rose stared at the two children. The fair boy—James—was innocently beautiful. The darker—Gilbert—looked like a scamp. Rose stared at the charming little painting, wondering how such a warm, mischievous-looking boy had turned into her cold, stern husband.
It was only when Mrs. Hart brought the tea tray that Rose wondered if she should invite the housekeeper to join them. Housekeepers sometimes took tea with the lady of the house, didn’t they? Was it expected that she would ask Mrs. Hart to do so now, on the first day? Or would that be a faux pas?
She glanced at Harriet, hoping for a hint, but Harriet merely smiled at her and wandered over to the window. Was it that Harriet didn’t want to take charge in front of Mrs. Hart? Or was there nothing to worry about at all? Was she being ridiculous?
She felt paralysed by uncertainty. In the end, biting her lip, she said nothing, and Mrs. Hart quietly withdrew.
“Do you think I should have asked her to join us?” Rose asked anxiously when Harriet turned back from the window and walked over to the tea table.
“Oh no,” Harriet answered easily. “Tomorrow will be fine.” She sat herself down on a small sofa and leaned over to take possession of the teapot. “Shall I pour?”
After tea, Mrs. Hart reappeared and asked if Rose would like to take a tour of the house. Rose accepted and was grateful when Harriet agreed to join them. She felt sure that Mrs. Hart was surprised by her extreme youth, and she winced every time the older woman said “ma’am” or “my lady”.
Weartham Hall had been built in an E shape, Mrs. Hart informed her as they walked down the corridor—in honour of Queen Elizabeth, when that formidable woman had graced the throne of England. Perhaps it was fitting, Rose thought, that this house, beloved as it had been of Waite’s mother, and now to be his bride’s home, had been built in honour of a woman.
The fact that this was a woman’s home was underlined by the light, feminine style of the decor. It had been renovated by Waite’s mother a number of years previously, but nothing looked worn or in need of replacement. The windows sparkled; the wooden floors shone. Everything was immaculate. Mrs. Hart clearly ran a tight ship.