Page 5 of The Earl’s Gamble (The Lovers’ Arch: Later in Life)

5

Rose

“ G riff has been unusually busy this week,” Rose said, accepting the garment Clarissa handed to her—a dark green knitted cardigan—and beginning to search it over for holes in the fabric. It was a relief to finally have her bandages off. A scar split her palm, but the wound had closed up nicely in the three weeks since she’d arrived at Harpenden Manor.

Clarissa took another from the pile. They sat in her dressing room, an extravagant space decorated in dusty peach. At present, much of the colour was hidden, however—given that Mrs Mercer had recently sighted a dreaded clothes moth in Clarissa’s wardrobe. “Well, it’s harvest season. There’s much to be done.”

“I confess I know little of harvests.” Rose straightened out the folds in the fabric, ensuring there weren’t any tell-tale holes before adding it to the neatly-folded safe pile.

“Spring barley is first.” Clarissa tutted as she discovered a missing chunk of fabric in the jumper she was examining, throwing it onto the floor between them. “Then winter wheat. Tenant farmers used to do much of the work themselves, but we haven’t replaced the farmers who have either passed or moved away. It’s brought much of the estate back under our control—but it’s quite a job during harvest season. The estate is split into three sections, around two thousand acres apiece. Two surround the estate, but the third is over near Stevenage.”

Rose nodded, now examining a woollen scarf. Six thousand acres of land. There was nothing to contextualise the number in her mind. How many acres did Spitalfields cover? More? Less? “It must be quite a job. Does he manage it alone?”

“No, there’s a land agent,” Clarissa said, picking up the next garment. “At dinner last night, Griff mentioned he’d booked you in to see a physiotherapist. When does your first sessi—oh, heavens.” She held up a long, embroidered item of clothing that Rose recognised as a christening gown. Lace edged around the neck, but the more she looked, the more damage she could see. The bodice was ripped, as were the lace robings travelling down to the hem. Clarissa pressed her lips together, the picture of sad acceptance; the damage, Rose gathered, wasn’t new. “This was Griff’s christening gown.”

“What happened to it?”

“It was…necessary to have it washed after the christening.” Clarissa sent her a meaningful look. “Griff was a baby at the time, mind you. They’re quite adept at dirtying clothing. Anyway.” She waved her hand. “It was going through the mangle when the lace snagged on a nail.”

“I’m sorry,” Rose said truthfully.

Clarissa stroked her hand along the ruffles. “My mother passed it down to me before she went on to her rewards. I had hoped to pass it down to Griff for his children.”

A pang of something went through her. The children he was going to have with Lady Jilly.

Curse the woman , she thought, before immediately chiding herself.

Griff wasn’t hers. She didn’t own him just because he’d been nice to her. Or because they’d nearly kissed in the lift .

Hadn’t they? Perhaps she’d misinterpreted things and he was merely being kind.

Rose sized up the gown with a seamstress’s eye. “But it’s not beyond hope. It’s fixable.”

“I did try once.” Clarissa turned the gown over, pointing out an area of fabric that did appear to be partially fixed. “I insisted the seamstress work here at Harpenden Manor to allow me to keep an eye on things, and thank heavens I did.”

“Tch,” Rose grimaced. The lace had been stitched back together, but no attention had been paid to the delicate pattern in the lace, leaving it hopelessly misaligned. The longer she looked, the worse it became. Whatever needles the seamstress had used to baste the fabric together were ill-suited for such a fine material, resulting in a line of conspicuous holes.

“If my mother was still alive, she would have had it fixed in a trice.” Clarissa let the gown run through her fingers as she draped it over the arm of her chair.

“Could Mrs Mercer not do it?” Fine needlework was usually assigned to lady’s maids, was it not?

“Mrs Mercer is primarily the housekeeper who assists me as a lady’s maid on special occasions, rather than a lady’s maid by trade.” Clarissa shrugged, picking up a pale pink knitted cardigan. Her eyes travelled over the garment, seeking moth bites. “After the fiasco with the seamstress, I’d rather not go through the whole rigamarole again. We don’t get everything we want in life, do we?”

“No,” Rose murmured, her mind on that moment in the lift with Griff—his eyes drifting down to her lips. A stab of pain reminded her he was destined for Lady Jilly, whilst she was lucky to have been rescued from the misery of the workhouse. Rose didn’t get a happy ending, but then she was a seamstress. Perhaps she could put her talents to good use, to help Clarissa get hers. “We don’t.”

Of all the rooms in Harpenden Manor, the orangery was Rose’s favourite.

It extended out above her like a cathedral, vines creeping around the heavy columns holding up the long glass panels. At the very end sat a pretty goldfish pond, the endless movement of water a calming backdrop to the twittering of birds outside.

Even so…

“I do feel a wee bit silly,” Rose admitted, lying flat on her back on the floor. A blanket had been laid out beforehand, in addition to a tasselled cushion on which to rest her head. She was comfortable, at the very least, but if anyone poked their nose in through the windows, they would be very confused to see the lord of the manor and his female guest lying on the floor doing nothing.

“It may feel strange to start with,” the handsome young Doctor Woodbridge assured her, the dappled sunlight catching the golden notes in his hair. “But it’s like building a house of cards. You have to start with the bottom layer—the smaller muscle movements—before you work your way upwards. Now bend your knee, keeping your foot flat on the floor. That’s it, tuck your foot as high as it can go without straining yourself. ”

“Quite right.” Griff turned his head, following Doctor Woodbridge’s instructions.

The next exercise was almost identical, except it was the straightened leg that was doing the work—simply straightening it as far as she could. “Oh.” She frowned. “Yes, I do believe I notice a difference between the two now.” She could easily hold the stretch on one leg, but her weak leg began to judder with exertion after a few seconds.

By the time Doctor Woodbridge bade them farewell, Rose had noticed a whole host of differences. Walker delivered them tea not long afterwards, wearing a snide grimace of politeness that reminded her more of a rodent than a dutiful butler.

The three weeks she’d been at Harpenden Manor had not been without issue there. It didn’t take long to figure out Walker did not like her. She’d asked him for directions to the library a couple of days after she’d arrived—and she ended up in the scullery, bursting in on two very confused scullery maids.

Presumably because that was insinuating where she belonged. How very clever of him. She hoped he hadn’t strained himself.

She’d given him a wide berth after that, but he still rained down narrowed eyes on her whenever Griff’s back was turned. Rose had shot them right back, of course. Walker was a bully, plain and simple.

Reclining against the wall, she stirred in a spoonful of sugar—a luxury she was beginning to get used to. Good lord, how am I going to live without easy access to sugar when I leave?

“You did well for your first session,” Griff told her, waving away the sugar dish.

Rose smiled at him. She shifted her newly-injured hand away from the heat of the tea through the hand-painted teacup. It was still raw after being jabbed with a sewing needle whilst she plotted out her plans to fix Griff’s christening gown. “How did you even know that this type of thing existed ? Physiotherapy?” She’d been quite convinced the word was gobbledegook the first time he mentioned it.

“The major in command of my unit in the army fractured his femur. Major Fraser. He’s coming to my birthday dinner, now I think of it. But I digress. At the beginning of the war, an injury of that magnitude was almost a death sentence.”

“Goodness. How did he survive?”

“Well, thankfully for him, the fracture happened halfway through the war, after the army implemented a new type of splint to help the healing process along. Even so, he needed a great deal of physiotherapy to get him back onto his feet. I know your difficulties aren’t the same as a broken leg, but everyone could benefit from keeping their muscles active.”

She was glad he wasn’t expecting miracles, but it couldn’t hurt. Bit by bit, Griff was helping her regain control of her life, and that was truly invaluable. “Does that mean you’ll join me for the rest of the sessions?” she asked, expecting a no.

Griff surprised her. “I would never disobey an order from you.” He smirked. “And it’s quite nice having a lie-down in the middle of the day.”

Rose laughed, sipping on her tea—and shivering with revulsion at the hideously salty taste invading her mouth. A comical noise ushered from her.

“What’s wrong?” Griff’s concerned voice came, just as she felt her teacup being lifted from her hand.

She forced her eyes open, eager to wash the taste from her mouth. “That isn’t sugar,” she said hoarsely, pointing at the salt dish. “It’s salt.”

And seeing as Walker had delivered the tray up to them, she had a sneaking suspicion who was to blame. Miserable old bastard .

“ What? It can’t be.” He gingerly took a sip before his face scrunched up in disgust. A second later, he blinked, shaking his head and placing the teacup on the floor. “I don’t know why I even tried it.”

Rose couldn’t help but laugh. “No, I don’t either.”

“Stupid thing to do.” Griff’s head fell back against the wall, a heart-stoppingly handsome smile curving his mouth. His complexion was tanned, far more so than when they’d met in Hyde Park. He’d caught the sun over the past couple of weeks managing the harvest. “My apologies. Cook must have mixed up the sugar with the salt.”

But then his gaze snagged on something—her hands. “I thought you were all healed,” he murmured, cradling her injured hand.

“I was.” Her breathing hitched at the feel of his hands on hers, wishing she could know how it felt elsewhere. “This is from something I’ve been working on.”

“Oh?”

She turned to face him, the edge of her lips quirking. “It’s a surprise.”

“For who?” he asked, lowering his voice to a whisper as he turned to face her too.

This was a mistake , she realised, and a dangerous one at that. Because it brought them perilously close. Her eyes trailed down towards his lips—just as she caught herself.

Both in what she had been about to do and for what she had been about to tell him.

“You’ll have to wait and see.” Because it wasn’t just for Clarissa, it was for Griff too.

Or, more precisely, his children. The ones he’d be having with Lady Jilly.

Griff looked dubious, but he still hadn’t let go of her hand. “How many injuries will you have accumulated by the end?”

“Hopefully just this one to my hand.” And the one to my heart.