8. Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight

In her parents’ household, Rosanna would not be allowed to have magazines, brochures, and booklets spread out before her at the breakfast table.

But this was not her parents’ household.

It was hers.

‘What do you think of this pattern, Spencer? Do you think it would suit my rooms?’ Rosanna slid the catalogue towards the cat that perched on the upholstery of one of the sensible wooden chairs which surrounded the small circular table.

Spencer leant forwards, flicked an ear, and narrowed his eyes.

‘I agree completely.’ Rosanna pulled the magazine back before herself. ‘It’s gorgeous.’

Rosanna flipped to the next page of the catalogue, then studied the walls. This room could handle flocking, but gilt would catch the morning sun. Although a nice wood block, heavy in greens and blues, might make the space feel a little less sparse and more welcoming.

Felix stepped into the dining room. He held a plate of neatly piled toast in one hand, and, behind it, a small dish covered with pots of jam. Two steps before the table, he staggered to a halt.

‘Hello,’ he said, not looking at Rosanna, but over her shoulder. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m Letitia,’ said Letitia. ‘I work here.’

Felix gave a slightly bemused titter, then knocked his free hand against his chin, as if admonishing himself.

‘Letitia is our new house mistress,’ Rosanna said, not looking up as she flipped a page. ‘She will be managing the day-to-day activity of the house along with acting as my lady’s maid. She will help the cook Jean with menus and trips to the market and ensure that Lovelace is ready for my morning ride. She will also consult with Hugh.’

Felix jerked as he looked from Letitia to her. ‘Hugh?’

‘A household needs a butler,’ Rosanna replied.

‘But a butler is head of the household,’ Felix said.

‘Would you rather be butler?’ Rosanna asked.

‘I cannot imagine Mr Babbage allowing a stranger to tend to his dress each day—’

‘Valet it is. All the staff would appreciate your assistance in learning the layout of the house, where dry goods and food are stored, coal for the fires, and other daily conveniences.’

‘Conveniences?’

Rosanna huffed and rolled her eyes. ‘Are you a parrot? Please show everyone around.’

Felix slid the jam onto the table, followed by the toast, warily eyeing the plate piled high with croissants as he did so. ‘I… I can show you the lower levels? And the kitchen? Would that be helpful?’

‘I’d love to see them,’ Letitia replied. ‘I’ve never been in a house with so many stairs before.’

Felix tittered again, and the two of them set off. At the door, they pulled up sharply. ‘Morning, sir,’ Felix said, his voice suddenly deep and brusque.

‘Morning.’ Phineas stepped back, his stoic expression disappearing into the shadows of the hallway so that only the shape of him remained. Felix and Letitia scuttled from view before the man whose ring clasped her future re-emerged. He held a copy of The Times and folded it in half while he turned to observe Felix and Letitia’s departure. ‘Who the devil was that?’

‘Letitia. Our house mistress and my lady’s maid.’

‘Our… Excuse me?’

Rosanna flicked another page, leaning in to examine it more closely. Johannes was right, William Morris designed such delightful wallpaper. This one of jewelled birds and bright pink flowers would be perfect in her bedroom. ‘This is no longer the house of a bachelor. This is a married man’s home, which means it is a married woman’s home. Felix cannot help me dress each day or see to Lovelace.’ Rosanna couldn’t help but beam at what she’d accomplished on her own in such a short time. ‘We have a full staff. Viscountess Dalton recommended everyone.’

‘Viscountess Dalton?’ Phineas groaned. ‘Everyone in her employ is a failed actor or performer of some type. Number 4 is in a state of constant chaos.’

‘Letitia was training to be an acrobat before she broke her wrist. She’s been told she’ll never swing again. Poor thing. She’s quite sad about it. The prospect of steady employment has buoyed her spirits incredibly.’ Rosanna raised the teapot and poured a cup for Phineas, then for herself, just like Mama would have done.

Phineas dropped his paper to the table. When he spoke, his voice rang low and serious. ‘You can’t just bring people in. I need to check their backgrounds.’

‘Then check them. But I can’t imagine the streets of Soho and audition lines around theatres are places where miscreants and criminal masterminds gather, all plotting how they can make their way onto the staff of Phineas Babbage.’

He was not a man for obvious tells, but there… in the squint of one eye and the slight tensing of his shoulder, she could see he was thinking. He took an easy breath, then turned to her with a sharp look.

‘What if they talk?’

‘They’re actors .’ She waved at the air, licked a finger, and turned another page. ‘No one will believe them.’ She slid the catalogue across the table. ‘What do you think of these curtains?’

Phineas lowered himself onto a chair and put a piece of toast onto his plate, then looked up. ‘It’s cold.’

‘Toast is so proletariat. Have a croissant. Our new cook Jean is from France. Learnt from her grandmother. They are the best pastries you’ve ever tasted. Try one.’

Phineas pushed the catalogue away and shook out his paper to scan the headlines. ‘You do not need new furnishings. You will be here for a few weeks. Maybe less. These are sufficient.’ Phineas gestured at the windows without looking at the heavy black lengths that half covered them. ‘And I prefer toast.’

Rosanna had just been about to lick her fingertip again, but at Phineas’s instruction, she paused, the point of her tongue wetting her lower lip. A dash of something flashed in his eyes. Was it humour? Anger? Or discomfort, maybe?

Find their weakness, he’d said. Had she, perhaps, found his? What a delightful discovery.

‘I am a newly wed wife,’ she countered, sitting a little straighter as she assessed him for a response. ‘I will not receive callers to an austere home with limewash walls. You needn’t fret. I have sufficient funds in my own accounts to cover the expense. Just sign them off like a doting husband would.’

‘No curtains.’ He twisted in his chair. ‘Felix! Fresh toast!’

A shape appeared at the door, and Phineas’s shoulders relaxed, but he quickly tensed again. Hugh, recently appointed butler, tugged his fringe in a deprecating move that betrayed his origins in the countryside.

‘Excuse me, miss. Milady. My miss lady, my Lady Babbage, there are many trunks in the hallway. And hat boxes. What would you like me to do with them?’

‘Oh, my things!’ Rosanna laughed and clapped her hands together with glee. ‘Have them brought up to my room. It’s at the end of the hall, on the floor directly above this one.’

Hugh bent into a perfect stage bow. He backed out of the room slowly, rolling his hand the entire time, then, just beyond the threshold, turned and dashed out of sight.

‘No curtains,’ Phineas repeated. A twist of anger contorted his cheeks and narrowed his eyes. ‘No new staff until I’ve cleared them. And toast, not bloody croissants. I do not like croissants at breakfast!’ He snatched a pastry from the pile and, in some bizarre illustration of his point, tore off an angry mouthful. As he methodically chewed, his jaw lost its tension, and his eyes fluttered just a little.

‘Delicious, aren’t they?’ Rosanna said.

Phineas looked down, grumbling as he spotted bits of pastry on his shirt. He slapped the croissant onto the plate, where it bounced, only to roll over the side of the table, leaving a trail of thin tan flakes in its wake. He pointed an accusatory finger. ‘No redecorating my house, Hempel. It is completely unnecessary.’ And he rose from his chair and stomped down the hall, his footfalls echoing.

‘People will judge me,’ she called after him. ‘They will say I am lacking in taste. I will not have gossip suggest that I was a wife without style, and that my husband left because I did not create a comforting home.’ The only answer was silence. Rosanna dashed to the door and leant into the hallway. ‘I will have new furnishings, Phineas Babbage, or you will find yourself without a conveniently placed wife!’

The front door banged shut.

Rosanna returned to her chair.

‘That settles that, then,’ she said, and picked up her catalogue once more.

Morning shadows cast by the tall townhouses enveloped the carriage house and stables. Although the overhead sky blazed a brilliant blue, a cool breeze nipped at the small patches of exposed skin between Rosanna’s sleeve cuff and her riding gloves.

All her life, she had never been alone. There had always been siblings and noise, and then nannies and governesses and chaperones and someone to watch over her. But today? Today, as a married woman with the veneer of a husband who felt nothing as bothersome as jealousy, she was, perhaps for the first time in her life, free.

Rosanna moved beneath the carriage house arch and into the stable. A familiar nicker greeted her. Lovelace, her head hanging low over the open half of the stable door, nudged Rosanna’s shoulder and puffed a humid, straw-scented breath over her cheek. Rosanna pulled an apple from her pocket. Lovelace nudged her, then nibbled at the peace offering.

‘I’m sorry we didn’t go out yesterday. I was busy with that bossy man. Did you miss me?’

Her horse grumbled something like denial as she crunched the apple. Rosanna rubbed Lovelace’s nose. ‘I didn’t miss you either.’

Mr Brown, groom to her parents’ carriage horses and the only man Rosanna would trust with Lovelace, led the horse from its box and passed her the reins. ‘Do you need me to fetch the mounting block from next door, miss? I mean, ma’am? I looked, but Mr Babbage doesn’t seem to have one.’

Rosanna shook her head. With a firm grasp on the saddle leather, she slipped her foot into the stirrup and swung herself up, her thighs flaming with the effort. She adjusted into the seat, then tucked her leg around the pommel to sit side-saddle. Her skirt tugged at a buckle until she loosened it and tucked the navy fabric to the side. Horseshoes clipped against the cobblestones as Elise, already mounted side-saddle on her own mare, Starby, pulled to a stop before the stables. She arched a brow, and the expression contained so many more questions than whether it was ladylike to mount a horse without a block.

Rosanna had met Elise not long after the townhouses had been built and the neighbours had moved in, the same Christmas that Elise’s sister had caused the scandal which so thoroughly destroyed the Hartright family’s name. A blonde waif full of light and laughter, the self-declared spinster spent her time assisting Viscountess Dalton with Spencer & Co. Travel, helping her aunt with her choir, and as a member of numerous committees and fundraisers—although she had never been drawn to Mrs Crofts’s society. Only a little younger than Rosanna, Elise was her counter in every way, which was likely why they had become such firm friends.

‘I was surprised by your note.’ Elise reined in her horse. ‘This is an unorthodox start to married life. You aren’t travelling?’

‘Phineas cannot obtain leave,’ Rosanna replied.

‘From the bank?’ Elise asked, disbelief edging her words.

‘You know what they’re like.’ Rosanna clicked her tongue. ‘Lovelace. Walk.’

Rosanna led the way along the narrow alley that ran the length of connected carriage houses behind the row of townhouses. An uncomfortable wedge of guilt tore through her stomach. She shared almost everything with Elise. But Phineas had been adamant—the more people who knew the reality of their arrangement, the more opportunity there was for slips of information to leak out. Beyond themselves and her parents, no one was to know, at least for the time being. As far as Elise and her siblings knew, this was a pragmatic marriage of convenience, forged to protect the fragile family reputation. What they whispered when she was out of earshot, she could not guess, and in truth, did not want to know.

Between a lull in the traffic, they took the road at a trot. In the park, Elise settled into riding beside her. Rosanna kept her gaze straight ahead as she trawled through familiar conversation topics. From upcoming gatherings to trips to the modiste to complaining about her sisters, all subjects seemed redundant today. Instead of their easy, companionable silence, the quiet air between them felt awkward and stiff.

‘What’s it like?’ Elise asked, her words jumbled almost into incoherence.

‘Number 1?’ Rosanna asked, surprised by her friend’s abruptness. ‘The same as Number 3 and Number 7, only with no wallpaper. Incredibly bland, but not for long. I have plans.’

Elise twisted her grip on the reins. ‘Not the house. Married life. You know. Intimacies . I was too young to talk about it with Charlise. Both of us were too innocent. I’ve never had a confidante I could ask before. I’m curious. What is all the fuss about?’

Babbage’s ever so casual dismissal rung in her memory. What did he mean that he wasn’t interested? What about her did he find so displeasing? Was it her hair? Her stature? Her shape?

Her?

‘It’s tolerable,’ Rosanna said.

‘I’ve known many women whose lives have been upended because of it . My sister, then Iris. I would hope it’s more than tolerable .’

Rosanna neatened a few stray strands of Lovelace’s mane. Elise knew her too well and would spot a lie. ‘Have you progressed past a trot with your tutor?’

Elise flushed. ‘We are moving fast, yes.’

Rosanna raised her crop and levelled it at a statue on the far side of the park. ‘First one there and back to the start of the street wins.’

‘Aunt Petunia says I shouldn’t. Says it isn’t ladylike.’ Elise shifted in her saddle. ‘Wins what?’

‘The glory. What else?’ Rosanna tightened her hold on Lovelace’s reigns. ‘On my mark. Go .’

After her ride, Rosanna left Lovelace with Mr Brown. She worked with Letitia to pick colours for each blank room, selected fabric swatches for the curtains, and reviewed the week’s menu. She made appointments with decorators and ordered her own linens and new crockery for immediate delivery. After lunch, she wrote letters, ordered stationery with a new monogram, and sent out calling cards. The house hummed with activity, the way a house should.

By mid-afternoon, Rosanna sat and waited for callers in her parlour, the front room overlooking the street on the same level as her bedroom. No one came, save for Spencer, but as Elise had said, most people probably assumed she’d be travelling. Beatrice would be busy at dramatics, and Mama with tending to the baby. Best to wait until she’d had the rooms decorated before hosting too many visitors, anyway.

Jean sent up tea and small cakes, and Rosanna sat on a chaise by the window and ate three of them without having to fight off her siblings.

Independence was lovely.

And lonely.

After tea, Rosanna searched the library for a novel, but finding none, pulled out a book on military manoeuvres. Finally, before five o’clock, she went to her rooms to dress for dinner. When the clock struck six o’clock, Rosanna made her way to the dining room, taking the stairs at a skip. Phineas’s enquiries might have progressed. Maybe he’d uncovered a clue, and tomorrow she could help him investigate.

In the dining room, the small circular table sunk into the large expanse of dark shadows. Her parents rarely ate apart from their brood, and meals stretched the long length of the table. Rosanna pressed her palm to the whitewashed wall. Had they removed her chair to make more space? Or was it sitting empty? It was Wednesday, so they’d be eating chicken. Had Amadeus taken all the gravy? Did Nova sneak her spoon for peas, refusing to persist with her fork?

In her own dining room, opposite sides of the table had been set, as she had directed. She rearranged the cutlery into the right order. She’d need to speak to Hugh about that.

Rosanna rushed to stand by her seat as footfalls drifted along the hallway.

‘Good evening, Phin—’

Hugh stepped into the room. He held a single plate in his hand. He bowed with that same exaggerated subservience, and when he straightened, a slice of carrot slipped and dropped onto the rug.

Rosanna took her seat. Hugh placed the meal before her. She looked from the roast potatoes to the empty place where Phineas had sat for breakfast, and then to Hugh. ‘Is Mr Babbage not returned?’

‘Felix informed me that he never dines at home. He returned when you were changing. He is already in his room.’

‘He returned home without coming to see me?’ Rosanna picked up her knife and fork. She hadn’t dressed to impress him , but she had dressed in anticipation of company. He couldn’t even take a few minutes to greet her? She cut into the poached chicken, sawing until the blade squeaked against the plate.

‘Hugh, why are you not using my new crockery?’ Rosanna lowered her cutlery until it clinked against the porcelain.

‘Err…’ Hugh scuffed his toe and stared at the forlorn chunk of carrot lying on the rug.

‘Has my bed been made up with my new linens?’ she asked.

‘The master said they were…’ Hugh bit his lip in thought. ‘ Superfluous to the needs of the house .’

‘Superfluous to the needs of the house?’ Her voice started low but amplified as her ire grew. ‘Superfluous? We shall see about that.’ Rosanna stood so forcefully that her chair fell against the floor. Then she barged down the hallway, letting the momentum of her anger fuel her ascent up the stairs. How dare he leave her to languish, and how dare he dictate her expenses to her. ‘I am mistress of this house. I have a reputation to uphold. And I would like to lie on proper cotton, not on some threadbare old bachelor sheets in a stingy bachelor bed.’ She thumped on his door. ‘Phineas!’ she called.

No answer.

She thumped again. Rosanna twisted the knob and threw the door open. It clapped against the wall, then shuddered.

‘Phineas!’ she shouted as she strode inside. His room was fitted out with the same simple bed, the same stark black and grey blankets, and the same sparse walls.

A light clink came from behind her.

Rosanna spun to face the small wash closet. Its door stood open, and in the mirror propped over the basin, Phineas’s icy steel gaze met her own. Thick white strips of scarred flesh stretched across his exposed back, forming a tangle of remembered agony which she’d only read about in adventure novels but had never seen herself—the scars left by a whipping. He held a shaving blade in one hand while the other pressed against his cheek to hold the skin taut. Thin droplets of water clung to his extended neck. One slipped, then traversed the valley of his collarbone. Another avoided the depression and snaked its way over his pectorals, then ran fast along his side to be absorbed by his trousers.

Rosanna blinked and followed the thin sheen upwards, to just a few inches below his armpit.

D.

Not a smooth tattooed line or an odd scar, no. The letter D had been stamped into Phineas’s skin as a mosaic of dots, each small cyan pinprick staining his skin, the unmistakable brand of—

‘A deserter? You deserted the army?’

Phineas closed his razor and placed it on the dresser beside the basin. He took a towel from a rail and patted it against his cheek.

‘But deserters are court-martialled and sent to prison. Usually, they’re transported, and—’ Her breath caught in her throat. ‘You’re a convict?’

He raised one eyebrow. No, he wasn’t that old. He couldn’t have served a sentence and lived here for seven years…

‘You’re an escaped convict? Where from? How are you—’ Rosanna pressed her palm to her mouth as she inhaled. ‘You’re on the run. I was going to be a lady, and now I’m married to an escaped convict and a deserter. I would have been better off ruined. I would have been—’

Phineas slapped the towel onto the bench and turned. In two small steps, he crossed from the basin to the door. He stretched his arm to rest his elbow against the doorframe, and as she stammered her fears, the D elongated and deformed with the changing contour of his muscles. Heavens, he was lean. The firm lines of his pectorals tensed a little, and the slightest defined line of strength stretched from just below his ribcage through his centre, ending at his belly button. A thin line of dark hair trailed from there to beneath his waistband, his skin supple and smooth.

Rosanna took a rattling breath, then dragged her gaze back to his.

‘Is that all, Hempel?’ he asked, and before she could squeak out a reply, he slammed the door closed.