A Wilder Kind of Love

CHAPTER ONE 1818-1

CHAPTER ONE

1818The household at number 92 Portland Terrace was astir early. Breakfast over, the whole establishment became a hive of activity. Carpets were hung up in the yard to be beaten and silverware set out to be polished.

The tradesman’s door was propped wide open for the constant relay of grocery boys and their packages and the larder stood ready for loins of pork, sides of beef, pink salmon on ice and pies of every description.

In the kitchen the cook had been toiling since early in the morning, baking pastries and, best of all, the cake!

It was the very day before Rosaleena Rosscullen’s twenty-first birthday and a grand ball was planned.

Rosaleena was giddy with excitement.

Her dress was due to arrive tomorrow morning, but meanwhile she was to go shopping with her mother, Lady Rosscullen, for white leather gloves and an evening bag.

Once they had completed their purchases they were to take refreshments at Fortnum’s Tea Rooms.

Seated at her dressing table and brushing out her luxurious golden hair, Rosaleena was enjoying the gentle breeze blowing in through the open window.

Her mother was reclined on a chaise, scanning the pages of a fashion magazine.

“Audley’s has some pretty bonnets,” she remarked. “Perhaps we might call in to take a look at them.”

Rosaleena stopped brushing her hair, stared in the mirror and tried to picture a yellow bonnet on her head.

She was not vain, but she did have an appreciation for her appearance. Everyone said that she took after her mother, except for her brow, which was high and pale.

She had her mother’s cupid’s bow mouth as well as deep blue eyes and a pert chin.

“Mama?”

“Yes, dear?”

“About Audley’s – ”

“What about Audley’s?”

Rosaleena regarded her patiently in the mirror.

“You remember – bonnets.”

“Ah, yes! I thought we should take a look at some, didn’t I?

Rosaleena frowned.

“I am not sure that Uncle Uriel will run to bonnets.”

Lady Rosscullen flushed slightly.

“After tomorrow, my dearest, you will have a little more autonomy as regards your purse. Have you forgotten that you will come into your estate? Uncle Uriel will no longer be your Trustee.

“Not that,” she now added hurriedly, “not that I am impugning his handling of all our finances. He has been a most diligent protector of our interests.”

“Indeed, Mother,” Rosaleena nodded politely and resumed her coiffure.

Lady Rosscullen appeared to register for the first time that her daughter was brushing her own hair.

She stood in indecision for a moment and then she came over to the dressing table.

“Shall I brush your hair for you, my dear?”

“Thank you, Mama.”

She took the brush from her daughter and began to run it through the tresses, while looking at her.

‘Such a beautiful girl,’ she was thinking to herself. ‘Such large shining eyes, such lovely porcelain skin. Such expressive features. There is little doubt but that she will make a very good marriage. Although it could never be as great a love match as my own!’

Noting a faint glimmer tears in her mother’s eyes, Rosaleena guessed the direction of her thoughts.

“Mama?” she said gently.

“Oh, Rosaleena, I was just thinking – how perfect it would be if your father could be here to see what a lovely young woman you have become.”

Rosaleena said nothing.

Her father had died in Ireland when she was less than a year old so she could not therefore be said to miss him, although she often wished that she had known him.

By all accounts, he was a kind and generous man. Not like – not like Uncle Uriel Reece.

Rosaleena felt immediately guilty, as if her mother could read her thoughts in turn. She did not want her mother to know the truth – that she simply could not make herself love her step-uncle and Guardian or his son Oswald.

Discomforted by the feelings that always came to her whenever she thought about Uncle Uriel, Rosaleena distracted herself by turning to the window.

She gave a start when her eyes fell on the figure of a gentleman on the pavement opposite the house.

She could make out little about him, save that he had a tall and elegant frame, but one thing was clear.

His gaze was firmly trained on number 92.

Before she could dwell any more on this curious situation, he turned and beckoned to a waiting carriage.

Rosaleena craned her neck to watch him climb in.

“Do keep your head still!” scolded her mother.

“Sorry, Mama.” Rosaleena dutifully stared straight ahead at the mirror.

She heard rather than saw the carriage depart as her mother finally drew back in satisfaction.

“There!” she cried. “Do you approve my efforts?”

Rosaleena regarded herself.

“It’s perfect, Mama. I shall now ask you to do my hair every morning from now on!”

“Perhaps I shall be a lady’s maid in my old age. Now – on with your boots, the carriage will be here soon.”

Rosaleena hurried to be ready.

The morning’s shopping passed swiftly and by half past eleven Rosaleena and her mother were taking their seats in Fortnum’s Tea Rooms.

Fortnum’s was an oasis of calm and tranquillity, only disturbed occasionally by the clatter of spoons and the c***k of delicate china.

Idly letting her eyes run over the pretty room with its walls covered in blue chintz, Rosaleena became aware that she and her mother were now under scrutiny from a gentleman at an adjoining table.

She turned his way and blushed to meet his bright interested gaze.

Quickly she absorbed herself in re-arranging the tea set on her table, until the waiter arrived.

She soon forgot about her neighbour as she enjoyed playing hostess, although the silver teapot was almost too heavy for her grasp.

Then she and her mother fell into discussing their purchases and Rosaleena wondered whether there were any shops of note near the estate she was to inherit, Rosscullen House in Ireland.

Her mother laughed.

“Only Mrs. Jessop’s quaint old store in Rosscullen village. You would have to travel to Dublin to purchase gloves as fine as those you bought today.”

“Well, I daresay that I would not need such gloves if living in the country,” Rosaleena mused.

Rosscullen House was often the poignant subject of conversation between herself and her mother.

Rosaleena longed to visit the land of her birth and her reputed beautiful estate, but then Lady Rosscullen was reluctant to return to where her husband had died.

“Excuse me.”

Lady Rosscullen and Rosaleena were startled to be addressed by the gentleman at the adjoining table.

“Sir?” Lady Rosscullen addressed him civilly.

The gentleman inclined his head.

“My sincere apologies, madam. I could not help but overhear you mention Rosscullen House.”

Lady Rosscullen looked uneasy.

“Indeed?”

“Indeed. You see, I myself was born in Ireland. I know the house and area you are speaking about well.”

Lady Rosscullen shifted in her chair.

“Oh. How – lovely – ”

His green eyes took in her obvious discomfit.

“Without wishing to intrude on your privacy, allow me to introduce myself. I am known as Colonel Joyce.”

He now turned to Rosaleena who, eyes glued to his face, extended her hand. His voice had entranced her with its soft lilt and musical cadence. “I am Rosaleena Rosscullen,” she said, not realising that she still held a spoon in the hand she proffered to him.

She was then cast into embarrassed turmoil when Colonel Joyce gently took hold of her hand, spoon and all, and managed to press it to his lips.

“Enchanted,” he smiled.

Rosaleena blushed deeply.

Her mother now roused herself with just a hint of indignation.

“And I am – her mother. Lady Rosscullen.”

Colonel Joyce turned and his eyes lingered on Lady Rosscullen and Rosaleena assumed that he was overcome by her mother’s beauty.

“At your service, madam,” he said at last.

The words were said in a way that they seemed to imply more than the usual courtesy.

‘He really is a most intriguing gentleman,’ thought Rosaleena and she cast an imploring glance at her mother.

Lady Rosscullen interpreted the glance correctly as, after a moment’s hesitation, she graciously invited him to join their table.

“It is not often my daughter has the opportunity of discussing her homeland,” she explained to Colonel Joyce.

The Colonel then replied that, alas, he himself had not visited his homeland for some years, as he had been stationed abroad for the duration of the Napoleonic War.

Hearing this, Rosaleena could barely contain her excitement. Since it was only three years since the Battle of Waterloo, then the Colonel must have fought under the Duke of Wellington! In a tone of awe, she asked whether he had ever encountered Napoleon in the flesh.

Colonel Joyce replied that he had never seen him and then deftly changed the subject.

“I would far rather hear something about your own life, with your mother’s permission, of course.”

This Lady Rosscullen granted him, unused to such interest from a distinguished stranger.

Rosaleena proceeded with her history.

“I was born at Rosscullen House,” she said, “in the year 1789, but I don’t remember the place at all. My father died when I was only six months old and my mother and I were brought to England to live with Uncle Uriel.”

She paused for a moment in surprise at the strange look that briefly crossed the Colonel’s face. Before she could decipher it, he gave an encouraging smile.

“Go on, Miss Rosscullen.”

She looked at her mother.

“Uncle Uriel is not my uncle by blood. He is my mother’s step-brother, you see, and so he is really my step-uncle. He has a house in Portland Terrace and – that is where I grew up.”

“How kind of him to take you under his wing,” observed Colonel Joyce.

Rosaleena looked at him sharply.

Surely she had detected a dry tone to his remark?

But again he disarmed her with yet another smile.

“My father, shortly before he died, appointed Sir Uriel Reece as my Guardian,” she continued.

Colonel Joyce regarded her with interest.

“Might I venture to enquire how your father, who must have been very young, met his death?”

Lady Rosscullen drew in her breath sharply, but Rosaleena affected not to hear.

She regarded the Colonel gravely.

“I know when my father died, but on the subject of how no one has ever cared to elaborate. We don’t speak of him much at all.”

Before the Colonel could respond, Lady Rosscullen put her hand to her bosom.

“It’s too distressing a subject to be discussed,” she whispered. “My heart broke forever when – when he died.”

Without even turning her head, Rosaleena extracted a handkerchief from her sleeve and gave it to her mother.

“She will cry,” she told the Colonel, across whose features danced a flicker of amusement.

“Rosaleena!” chided her mother, while pressing the handkerchief to her eyes. “You speak out of turn.”

“I am sorry, Mama.”

There was an awkward silence for a moment before the Colonel resumed,

“So, Miss Rosscullen, you and your mother live in London with your uncle?”

“And Oswald, when he is not away.”

“Oswald?” The Colonel’s eyes glinted.

“My Uncle Uriel’s son. He is away at University so I don’t see too much of him, for which I am sometimes grateful. I should feel sorry for him, I know, because his mother is dead, just like my father, but then Oswald can behave so badly. And Uncle Uriel never minds, although he is very forbidding with me.”

“Oh, Rosaleena,” sighed her mother reprovingly, handkerchief still in hand. “That’s enough! Uncle Uriel has been so good to us. He has given us a home all these years and he is putting himself to much trouble arranging tomorrow’s ball for you.”

Rosaleena squirmed a little.

“I know he is. I am sorry, Mama.”

Then, catching the Colonel’s look of enquiry, she went on.

“Tomorrow is my twenty-first birthday and it is an important day for me because I come into my estate.”

The Colonel bowed his head.

“My congratulations. I hope that your ball is a great success, Miss Rosscullen.”

She turned in sudden excitement to her mother,

“Mama? Would it not be a grand idea to invite the Colonel to my ball?”

Lady Rosscullen appeared to flail for a response.

“I see no reason why not,” she said at last, although her face suggested she wished she could find a hundred.

Rosaleena smiled at the Colonel happily.

“Please say you will accept!”

The Colonel, although he had clearly noted Lady Rosscullen’s reluctance, inclined his head in assent.

“I should be delighted. I am at Buswells Hotel in Covent Garden, if you care to send a formal invitation.”

Eyes low, Rosaleena hugged to herself the thought that she had invited a guest to her ball of her very own choosing, not one approved beforehand by her Uncle Uriel.