July 1763: Part Three
989 Words
July 1763: Part Three
Rose began to feign a growing melancholy. She was listless, she picked at her food. She wrote in the journal in her escritoire, the one Boyle could read if she chose to spy on her, describing her dread of Henry’s return and wishing she were dead. At night, once the servants were asleep, she crafted a suicide letter and sprinkled drops of water over it, as if she’d wept while writing it. And after that was written, she wrote in her secret journal, detailing her dreams of a future with Will. An orchard and a vegetable garden, chickens and a cow to milk. And if God smiles upon us, children. They will not be cribbed and confined, as I was. They shall run in the meadows and climb trees and laugh.
Nine days passed. Ten. Eleven. The moon grew larger.
Boyle was reading the journal in her escritoire; twice Rose found the ribbon marking the pages folded wrongly. The only place where I am fractionally happy is the lake, she wrote for the maid to read. When I kill myself, I think it will be there. At night, when all is dark and peaceful. And she sprinkled drops of water on the page.
The fourteenth day after Will’s dismissal dawned clear. Her afternoon picnic at the lake approached with glacial slowness. Finally the clock struck two. Rose could barely contain her impatience while Boyle buttoned her into the riding habit. She clasped her hands together to stop herself fidgeting. Melancholy. I’m supposed to be melancholy.
Dancer caught her mood, prancing, eager to canter. The lake came into sight, the folly, the little rowboat. Tension grew in Rose’s chest until she could barely breathe. She looked for the oak tree, for the hollow in the roots, for the stone Will had said he’d leave to signal his return.
It wasn’t there.
Rose dismounted, stumbling slightly.
“Are you all right, ma’am?” the groom said, steadying her.
“Perfectly.” Her voice sounded as if it was coming from very far away. “I’ll feed the squirrel now.”
She hurried across to the tree, her eyes searching the ground. Perhaps he’d placed it in another hollow . . .
There were no stones anywhere.
Rose squeezed her eyes shut. Nothing’s wrong. Will’s delayed, that’s all. Tomorrow. He’ll be here tomorrow.
But deep in her heart was fear. Not fear that Will had abandoned her; fear that something dreadful had happened to him.
That evening, Rose’s lack of appetite was unfeigned. It was impossible to eat. She was too tense, too worried. She dismissed Boyle early and sat at her escritoire and wrote. Will is all right. Of course he is! Why should my mind leap to visions of the worst? He hasn’t been run down by a carriage or murdered by footpads. It will be something small that delays him. A cast horseshoe perhaps, or a lame horse. I don’t doubt him, not even for an instant. He will return.
She looked at what she’d written. No, she didn’t doubt Will; she was afraid for him.
Rose hid the journal, blew out her candle, and climbed into bed. She dozed in snatches, a handful of minutes here, a handful there. She heard the longcase clock in the entrance hall distantly strike one o’clock, two o’clock, three o’clock. At dawn, when pale slivers of daylight crept in through her shutters, she finally slept. Boyle roused her several hours later. Rose did her best to appear listless, not agitated; melancholic, not worried. She stared vacantly at the mirror while Boyle dressed her hair and gazed into the distance while Boyle laced and buttoned her into her riding habit, but a hard, tight knot of anxiety sat in her chest.
“You look pale this morning, Countess. Perhaps you shouldn’t ride?”
Rose jerked her attention to the maid. “Oh, no. It will do me good!”
Boyle stared back at her, her pale eyes narrow, her lips tight—more gaoler than maid at this moment—and then gave a short nod.
Rose chose the shortest route to the lake. Dancer caught her agitation. A slow trot became a fast one, which in turn became a canter, and then the lake came into view: the folly, the rowboat, the tree where she fed the squirrel.
Today, a small gray stone nestled in the roots of the young oak tree.
Time stood still—her heart didn’t beat, her blood didn’t flow—and then relief flooded through her. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled over.
“Ma’am . . .” the groom said awkwardly. “Is something wrong?”
No. It’s relief. “I beg your pardon, Simpkin.” Rose wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m not myself today.”
The hours tumbled past, as fast as they’d previously been slow: Rose fed the squirrel for the last time, rode her beloved Dancer for the last time, sat down to dinner at Creed Hall for the last time. It took immense effort not to fidget while Boyle readied her for bed. She wanted to shoo the woman from the room. Out! Out! Hurry!
“Simpkin tells me you were upset today, at the lake,” Boyle said while she tucked Rose in bed.
“Oh?” Rose said listlessly. “Perhaps a little.” She pressed her face into the pillow, hiding a smile.
“I think you’re becoming overwrought, Countess. I must ask that you drink this.”
“What?” She turned her head to find Boyle holding out a glass.
“Laudanum.”
Rose’s heart seemed to stutter to a terrified halt. Laudanum? But then I’ll sleep all night!
“I don’t want you to go wandering outside tonight, ma’am,” Boyle said. “It’s either this, or I lock your door.”
“What?” Panic surged inside her. Rose pushed up to sit. “No!”
“Don’t think I can’t get this down your throat,” the maid said grimly. “The footmen will help, if you give me too much trouble.”
“But I won’t go out at night!” Rose said frantically.
“That’s correct, ma’am. You won’t.”
Rose stared at the woman, seeing the stony determination on her face. “You can’t do this to me!”
Boyle smiled with thin-lipped satisfaction. “Your husband gave me permission to manage you as I see fit. Now which is it to be? Laudanum or a locked door?”
“Lock the door,” Rose said, through numb lips.
“Very well.” Boyle put the glass on the bedside table, crossed the room, and firmly closed the door behind her.
The key rattled in the lock.
The heavy tread of Boyle’s footsteps faded from hearing.
- Writer
