“Browning. I want to know when he is coming back.” Rose felt a twisting sensation in her stomach, but that was all.
“I think you may have to wait awhile. He has other things on his plate.”
“Such as?”
“His marriage has been announced. In the Chronicle. Mary saw it.”
She kept her voice even but found it surprisingly easy to say, even though Ernest had turned his attention steadfastly upon her.
“So he is marrying the twit.”
“It would seem so, Your Grace.”
“And how do you feel about that?”
“I beg your pardon, Your Grace?” Why would he be asking her that question, Rose thought. What did he know? She felt a frisson of panic.
“Well, he is your friend, and you have been friends for a long time. How do you feel about him marrying someone ten years younger than him who he has only just met.”
Rose knew she had to get him off the subject because she could feel things beginning to unravel inside of her rapidly.
“Well, you are more than ten years older than me, Your Grace, and we have not known each other long.”
“Yeeesss,” Ernest drew out the word’s letters as he didn’t take his eyes from hers. “But you are not a ton debutante.”
“Not any longer, Your Grace, no, more’s the pity.” Rose forced a smile.
“We are all aging, my dear,” Ernest said kindly. Rose still couldn’t get over him being so pleasant. “But we can only hope we do it with wisdom.”
Rose was not sure she was gaining any wisdom at all. She still felt like a mixed-up teenager with no idea which direction to turn.
She watched as Ernest picked up the letter he had been writing and scrunched it into a ball.
“Well, I guess there is no point sending this letter after all. We can just hope that Mr. Browning comes to his senses before he signs his life and fortune away.”
“Are you sure you are quite right in yourself?” Ernest asked her.
“I am quite well, Your Grace,” she insisted.
“You look peaky, as my old nanny used to say. You are very pale. Perhaps you should take to your bed and get some sleep.”
Rose was grateful for the escape route. She admitted she did feel exhausted and took her leave, trailing back to her room to lie down. The bubble lay down with her. Every time Rose’s mind wandered to Will, she felt herself begin to think of something else instead. It would not let her focus on him or what he might be doing on this lovely summer’s evening. Eventually, she let herself fall gently asleep.
The next couple of weeks passed in a blur. Ernest came downstairs more and more often and joined her in the drawing room. He started to take an interest in the castle, which was a good thing, as she seemed to be taking less and less interest in anything.
“Do you know,” he said one morning as he stood drinking a cup of tea and looking out over the gardens. “I never saw the beauty in this old place before. But now the gardens, the stonework, and the old relics like the keep, seem to possess a charm I never appreciated. Don’t you think so, Rose?”
Rose had only been half-listening to him, her mind miles away as she sat staring into space.
“I am sorry, Your Grace,” she said then. “I didn’t catch everything you said.”
His “No” was kindly, but he studied her for at least thirty seconds before turning away.
He did not press his suit on her, for which Rose was very grateful, and had not mentioned the wedding again. A couple of times, he touched her shoulder as he walked into the drawing room, and she was already there. It didn’t make her recoil anymore. It didn’t make her feel anything. She just let his hand rest on her shoulder, or occasionally her arm, until he removed it.
The doctor told Ernest that, as far as he was concerned, his liver had healed to the point that as long as he took it easy and avoided alcohol, he could begin to live a normal life. It was the diagnosis Rose had dreaded. She was sure Ernest had been waiting for that moment to set a wedding date. When the doctor had taken his leave, Ernest walked back into the room as if he had something to say, and Rose braced herself for the inevitable.
“I need to go to London,” he announced.