She’d ask permission for use of the duke’s carriage, and she’d pack the best of her things and her mother’s in the trunks. Some she might sell, and there was the jewellery, of course. The pearls and other small items wouldn’t fetch much but the ruby set was another matter. With that, she might even be able to purchase partnership in a millinery shop, or something of the sort.
There were endless possibilities and, even a few days ago, Rosamund would have viewed them with excitement. Now, the thought of exerting herself to be enthusiastic was only fatiguing.
She placed her hand on the leather box containing the precious jewels. If there were any other way, she’d avoid parting with them. They’d been her mother’s after all, and her grandmother’s before that—but she had to be practical.
A woman must shape her own destiny, rather than letting herself be carried on the strongest tide.
Rosamund only hoped the duke wouldn’t be too greatly offended. Surely, he’d only to attend the Season for a few weeks to find some other young woman suitable to perform the role he intended for her. His heart was not involved.
She ought to speak to him—about her mother’s funeral, if nothing else. He’d asked about hymns hadn’t he?
And she was determined to get dressed.
Where was Jenny?
It had been some while since Rosamund had tugged on the bell, but no one had come.
With a sigh, she made her way to the door. Someone must be about. A pot of coffee would be welcome, and hot water for a wash—though she'd likely have to settle for tea. Then, she could make herself presentable to go downstairs.
However, when she turned the handle, the door didn’t budge.
It was old and had a tendency to stick, but it had never jammed altogether. She gave a good tug, then rattled the handle, in case the mechanism needed help to fall into place.
Drat!
Still nothing.
Hadn’t the key been in the door that morning? Not that she tended to use it, but the key was there if she desired privacy. Now, there was no key at all. It hadn’t fallen to the floor, and she didn’t remember taking it out. Glancing about, Rosamund didn’t see it anywhere.
Had she been locked in?
The idea brought a rush of fury. She wasn’t a child; nor was she hysterical.
She shouted through the door, but there was no answer, nor any footstep on the other side.
Was this Mrs. Cornwort’s work? She wouldn’t put it past her to do such a thing, all in the name of it being for her own good. She’d never liked Rosamund, and the feeling was mutual.
Had she also told the maids not to attend to the bell, and that she’d come herself when she thought fit?
Pushing aside her aversion, she tried the other entryway, which led to her mother’s room. But, no matter how she pulled and twisted the handle, the door refused to open.
In a fit of temper, Rosamund gave it a thump with her fist, then a kick, which inspired Pom Pom to start barking.
“There, there, it’s alright.” Returning to the bed, she took the puppy onto her lap. “Someone thinks we need looking after, that’s all.”
Pom Pom didn’t look terribly reassured.
Nor did Rosamund feel it.
A nasty prickle had come over her and she felt suddenly very cold. It wasn’t only because there was no fire lit.
What had Jenny said? About feeling watched? Bessie had mentioned girls being brought up from Weymouth orphanage but not staying long.
And there was the laudanum.
Rosamund couldn’t think what reason the duke had to encourage her mother to take it, nor what benefit her death could bring—but there was something wrong about it all.
“Oh, Pom Pom, I don’t understand what’s going on.” Rosamund pressed her cheek to his soft head.
