Beautiful Things: Chapter 11

With the help of a footman, Rosalie found her way to the drawing room just in time for tea. She hated that Lord James had caught her weeping like a fountain. It wasn’t like her to cry. She’d just been so overwhelmed. Whatever motives the duchess had for her interference, Rosalie had her to thank for her freedom. If the price Rosalie had to pay was three weeks spying on a few high society ladies, she would do it.

As she stepped into the drawing room, the footman inside the door called out, “Miss Rosalie Harrow!”

Every head in the room turned her way and Rosalie had the sudden urge to step right back out. A dozen sets of eyes watched her. She was saved the embarrassment of going to stand alone in the corner when Mr. Burke swept forward. He was all warm smiles as he crossed to her side.

“Miss Harrow, Renley and I were just about to send out a search party. He was sure you took a wrong turn and ended up in the greenhouse.”

A few people chuckled.

He offered out his hand. “Come, let me introduce you around. Renley you’ve met, of course,” he said. “And these are the delightful Swindon sisters, daughters to the Earl of Waverley. This here is Lady Elizabeth Swindon,” he said, gesturing to the taller of the two. “And the younger is Lady Mariah.”

The sisters boasted matching heads of fiery red hair, freckled faces, and bright green eyes. They looked like forest nymphs from the pages of a fairytale book. Rosalie longed to sketch them. “Pleased to meet you,” she murmured.

“Miss Harrow,” Elizabeth said with a stately nod.

“But…I don’t know any Harrows,” said her sister, head cocked to the side as she took in Rosalie from head to toe. “Sister, do you know the Harrows?”

“I don’t think there’s much to know,” her sister replied with a faint scoff.

“Well, now you both know one,” said the lieutenant.

Rosalie wasn’t bothered by their rudeness. There nothing to know. Before she could say as much, Mr. Burke was steering her away.

“Over here we have Sir Andrew Oswald, Lady Oswald, and the Countess of Waverley,” he said, gesturing to the trio sitting on the closest set of sofas, cups of tea in hand.

Sir Andrew was a portly man, with beady eyes and a thick mustache. His wife was the austere woman from the duchess’ parlor. The countess had the same red hair as her daughters, if not quite so brilliant in its sheen.

“You’re a pretty little thing,” said the countess. “Her Grace has been so cagey about you. Pray tell, are you to be her newest charity case?” She said this with a glance at Mr. Burke, who still held Rosalie’s arm.

Rosalie stilled, noting the way Mr. Burke continued to force a smile. She spoke before he could. “My mother was a close friend of the duchess, Lady Waverley. She’s invited me here to enliven my spirits now that my period of mourning is done.”

“Oh…oh, I am sorry,” the countess muttered.

“You are quite welcome, I’m sure,” said Lady Oswald, giving her a nod.

Sir Andrew had already resumed reading his paper.

Mr. Burke steered her away to the other collection of sofas. “And this is the Viscountess Raleigh, and her daughter Lady Madeline Blaire,” he said, gesturing to a kindly looking blonde lady in a beautiful green dress. Next to her sat a frail little thing that couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen. She had white-blonde curls and big doe eyes.

“My lady,” Rosalie said with a nod to the viscountess. “Lady Madeline.”

She glanced around to see that two of the faces at least were known to her: the duchess and Lord James. They stood at the farthest window to either side of a buxom woman with raven black hair tucked under a fashionable turban. This was the other woman from earlier. Rosalie could not soon forget that hawkish nose.

“That’s the Marchioness of Deal,” Mr. Burke muttered in her ear, noting the direction of her gaze. “And a nastier woman you’ll never meet. Her daughter Olivia sits just there,” he added, pointing to where a woman sat with her back turned. Rosalie could only make out the shape of her neck and the artful pile of curls on her head.

“I shall never remember all these names,” she murmured. “How will I avoid making a fool of myself with their mix of ranks.”

“I’ll write you a list,” he replied. “And as far as titles go, just refer to everyone as ‘my lord’ and ‘my lady’ and that will about cover it.”

She stifled a laugh.

“Now, to avoid the appearance of monopolizing your time, I’m going to leave you with the silliest girl in England. You can thrash me for it later,” he added under his breath before saying, “Dear Blanche, have you met Miss Harrow?”