Never say she wasn’t of a practical bent.
In fact, she’d had a lifetime of challenging experiences to nurture that pragmatism.
She actually slept for the first time that night, reconciled to the realities of Fitz’s ephemeral passions and if not precisely content, at least no longer burdened with useless hope.
HAVING REACHED WHAT she felt was a reasonable assessment of her brief and pleasant liaison with Fitz, Rosalind was surprised at the hot wave of jealousy that swept over her when Clarissa walked into her shop two days later. Not that she knew her name; she knew only that the woman had been with Fitz at the Turner exhibit and had flaunted her intimacy with him as a lover would.
The pretty blonde was even more voluptuous at close range, Rosalind peevishly thought, her summer walking dress of rose pique displaying her considerable assets in the form-fitting style currently in fashion. Her breasts were impressive under the tailored bodice, as was her wasp waist and the swelling curve of her hips. She wore a wide-brimmed leghorn straw hat embellished with large cabbage roses and gracefully tipped to one side in order to display her magnificent ear drops of pink diamonds.
Her stylish appearance made Rosalind feel dowdy and graceless in her plain blue skirt and white blouse. She might as well have had a sign on her forehead that proclaimed Shopkeeper, she sourly reflected.
Clarissa didn’t even bother to pretend she’d come in for a book. She made directly for Rosalind, recognizing her as the woman Fitz had followed out of the Turner exhibit. Coming to a stop before the counter, she placed her fingertips encased in fine white kidskin on the countertop, leaned forward slightly, and said with a distinct scowl, “Where’s Fitz? Tell me.”
Rosalind was taken aback at the sharpness of her tone and her startling demand.
“You needn’t look so surprised. I know you’re taking him to bed,” Clarissa tartly said. What she didn’t say was that her maid had spoken to a maid at Groveland House and she’d discovered that the bookstore lady from the Turner exhibit was regarded as Fitz’s latest paramour.
That she’d resisted the inclination to view her competition for so long had to do with her tiresome husband’s unexpected return to the city on business. She’d been obliged to play the dutiful wife-disgusting role-but he was gone once again and she very much deserved a reward. So she was here for a dual purpose: to see her rival and also find Fitz, the latter far outweighing petty curiosity.
“For heaven’s sake, speak up. Tell me where he is this instant.” After several days of Harold’s unrelenting tyranny, she needed some personal gratification, and who better than Fitz to deliver pleasure?
“I have no idea where he is,” Rosalind cooly replied, tamping down her temper with effort. Already feeling deprived with Fitz having decamped, Rosalind was accutely sensitive to the differences between herself and this intruder; the stark contrast between the chic aristocrat’s wealthy trappings and her relatively meager ones not only aggravated her but also put her out of humor. “You might want to check his home,” she sullenly said.
“I already have, you simpleton,” Clarissa snapped. “No one knows where he’s gone.” Julia had been away from home, not that she would have enlightened Clarissa in any event. As for the servants, they knew better than to divulge the whereabouts of the duke. “Do you expect him tonight? We both know he’s been sleeping with you.”
Rosalind nervously glanced around, the woman’s voice having risen in volume. “I haven’t seen him for days,” she quickly replied, needing to rid herself of this dangerous interrogator before a customer took notice. This was not the time for false modesty since the woman knew Fitz had been with her. “I have no idea of his whereabouts and I doubt I’ll see him again.”
“Is that so?” Clarissa’s smile was gloating. “I suppose he tired of your common ways,” she snidely declared, surveying Rosalind with a contemptuous glance. “Dear Fitz has such a droll sense of adventure, not to mention a libertine’s indiscretion. He allays his boredom with women like you,” she said with pointed rudeness. “I hope you didn’t get your hopes up.”
Rosalind swallowed her heated retort. She dared not antagonize this woman, the risk too great with customers near. “I believe you’re right. Ultimately, he was bored.” She even went so far as to look down in feigned mortification.
“I do believe you’re toying with me, you little trollop,” Clarissa murmured. “If you’re not telling me the truth about Fitz’s whereabouts, I’ll make a scene, you little bitch.” Her smile was chill. “Consider your reply carefully, Mrs. St. Vincent. I care nothing for your reputation.”
Having been unmasked as an actress, Rosalind was momentarily at a loss. She wished to ask, How do you know my name? But more important, she needed this woman gone. “As you apparently know, the duke visited on occasion, but I assure you, he left several days ago without mentioning his plans. I have no idea where he is. And that’s the truth.”
Clarissa stared at her, her gaze coldly appraising.
Rosalind turned red under the scrutiny. “If it matters,” she said, “I have no illusions about my position in the duke’s life. We are the merest acquaintances.” There, that was the best she could do other than pray for deliverance.
“Hmm…” Clarissa weighed Rosalind’s words for a moment. With deceit so prevalent in her life, she recognized dishonesty better than most. “You’re right, of course,” she finally said. “It’s best you have no illusions about Fitz. He’s quite out of reach for someone like you.” Then without another word, she turned and swept from the store.
Only after Clarissa’s carriage pulled away from the curb did Rosalind allow herself a sigh of relief. Disaster had been averted.
And whomever her fashionable visitor had been, the lady wasn’t likely to return-rather like Fitz, Rosalind ruefully decided.
NOR DID SHE see him in the following week, her life reverting once again to a familiar routine.
Sofia stopped by to visit, and Rosalind’s Saturday night lecture was a smashing success thanks to the strong interest in new job opportunities for females of the laboring class. The lecture offered definitive information on the skills required, suggested various scholarships that were available for training programs, and explained how to apply not only for them but also for college scholarships at schools receptive to women. The enthusiasm of her audience was heartwarming. Rosalind felt as though she was making a small difference in the lives of the working poor.
Her sense of satisfaction was partially mitigated by the lingering sense of loss over Fitz. But she wasn’t so foolish as to expect to see him again. She knew better; it would just take time to forget him.
And so Sofia reminded her. Since she was the quintessential person to give advice about leaving lovers behind, Rosalind couldn’t discount her counsel. But after the Saturday night lecture, when Sofia suggested, “Let me have Arthur bring along a friend tomorrow. We’ll go on a picnic,” Rosalind shook her head.
“I wouldn’t be very good company.”
Sprawled on the sofa as usual, Sofia studied Rosalind for a moment “How long has it been? ” There was no need to elaborate.
“Slightly more than a week-ten days actually.”
“You know, darling, he’s not apt to come back. It’s just his way,” her friend added, looking at Rosalind over her wineglass. “He’s a selfish man.”
“I know.” Rosalind smiled faintly. “I’m fine-really. I don’t talk about him with anyone but you. And I’m getting better.”
“You are. I saw you laugh tonight-more than once.”