Lady Rosabella's Ruse - By Ann Lethbridge Page 0,39
weak.
It wasn’t here. A lump formed in her throat. Hot moisture stung the backs of her eyes. Grandfather was right. Father hadn’t cared.
All hope fled.
She’d have to write to Grandfather again. On behalf of the girls. She didn’t care about herself.
She glanced up to find Stanford watching her intently.
‘It’s not here,’ she said, trying to sound casual, and failing miserably as her voice broke.
‘I’m sorry.’ He sounded sorry. And uncomfortable.
She turned to put back the drawers and surreptitiously wiped her eyes. He didn’t need to know how hard this blow had hit. ‘I suppose we should put this back where we found it.’
‘I doubt anyone will care. Is there anywhere else you want to look? There’s a chest over in that corner. I could dig it out.’
Surprised, she darted a glance at his face. For once he looked genuinely concerned. Almost as if he believed her.
She looked at the chest, brown leather and bound in brass. It wasn’t something she recognised. ‘I suppose we could look inside.’
Once more he cleared a path through the items piled up in the room. Dust flew up in clouds while the rain drummed on the roof, inches above their heads.
Thankfully the chest wasn’t locked and she easily lifted the lid.
‘Oh,’ she said, realising instantly what she was seeing. The tools of her mother’s trade. Wigs and feathers and face paint. Even a costume or two.
Stanford leaned over her shoulder. ‘Any luck?’
It was possible her father had hidden the will in here. Of all the places her grandfather was likely to look, this would be the last. Anything to do with her mother’s lowly profession made him shudder with revulsion.
Carefully she lifted out a pair of old-fashioned green leather shoes with paste buckles, faded ribbons and paper stuffed in the toes.
‘I say,’ Stanford said, leaning over her. ‘Look at this.’ He pulled out a mask. The kind revellers wore in Venice, turquoise, with fancy embroidery, a pointed beak and feathers. A peacock’s face.
‘It is beautiful.’ She set the shoes aside.
He dropped the mask on top of them. ‘Hah, what about this one?’ He placed the scary devil mask against his face, his eyes gleaming through the eyeholes. ‘Am I a handsome fellow?’
‘Much better looking than usual.’
‘Oh, a wisty caster,’ he said with a wink.
She lifted out a diaphanous piece of fabric covered in spangles. At first she thought it must be a shawl, then when she looked closer, she realized it was a gown. Something her mother had worn on stage.
‘Very nice,’ Stanford said, his eyes dancing. ‘Would you care to try it on?’
Mortified, she folded it carefully and added it to the pile beside the chest. She lifted out the rest of the costumes without investigating what they were until the bottom of the chest sat bare before them. ‘It’s not here,’ she said.
‘I see that.’ He glanced around. ‘There doesn’t seem to anything else that might contain a hiding place.
Rosa couldn’t take her gaze from Mama’s trunk. She hadn’t even known it existed. She would love to have been able to keep it. To look through it properly. Reluctantly she put everything back and closed the lid. No doubt Grandfather would throw it away if he saw it and its contents. She had the feeling that once that happened it would be as if Mama never existed.
Sadness squeezed her heart. And not just because Father had forgotten her and her sisters. It seemed he’d also forgotten their mother. The woman for whom he’d been prepared to give up everything. Perhaps in the end he’d decided he’d made a mistake.
With a sigh she rose to her feet and let her gaze sweep the cramped space. ‘I don’t think there is anywhere else to look.’
Saying the words brought her situation home with the force of a gale. Her hopes were built on a foundation of sand and everything was about to tumble down around her ears.
Now what should she do? Write to Grandfather again? Beg him to look after the girls, even if he wouldn’t lift a finger for her? It wasn’t their fault she’d borrowed the money. If he wouldn’t help, they would have to fend for themselves.
She was the one who had incurred the debt. She was the one who would have to go to prison.
Even if she landed a role as an opera singer in London, it might be weeks before she earned enough to pay off the debt unless the moneylender would accept something on account. It was a hopeful thought.