Rose Adagio

By Sarah Richmond

Rose Adagio

In the gilded age of Edwardian England, when wealth and title were the measures of a man, John Darlington, Seventh Earl of Westhaven, schemes to marry a Wainwright heiress. His ancestral home is near bankruptcy because of death duties and only marriage to wealth will save him.

The issue of a first marriage, the child shuttled off to boarding school and forgotten, Helen Wainwright is a modern woman who supports herself by teaching school. Upon her father’s death, Helen returns to his home to discover her family in turmoil over the earl’s arrival as they seek position and security for two stepsisters.

John must convince Helen that the past is worth preserving and Helen must let go of a past that has rejected her. As the Empire prepares for the coronation of a new monarch, they both learn that life’s greatest gifts are the ones that bring you home.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sarah Richmond
• Release date: Nov 26, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463862612

Sarah Richmond

Sarah Richmond is Senior Lecturer at University College London. She received her PhD in philosophy from Oxford University. She coedits the academic journal, Sartre Studies International.

Book preview

Prologue

England, 1902

Helen, you look as white as a ghost. Are you all right?

Helen Wainwright looked up at Headmaster Ainsworth who peered at her with eyebrows raised. I’ve received a letter from my father’s solicitor.

The staff of Ridgefield School for Girls gazed inquiringly at Helen.

My father has died, Helen said.

Indeed, the Head replied. This is quite sudden. Is this the first you’re hearing of his death?

Helen felt sick to her stomach. Yes, sir.

Mary rose from her chair by the fire and peered over Helen’s shoulder. When did he die?

In March, Helen replied.

Well I never. And here it is almost June, Mary said. This must be quite a shock.

Sophie filled Helen’s cup with tea from the teapot from the sideboard. She set the steaming brew in front of her.

You drink up, she said.

Helen picked up the sugar tongs but her hand trembled. She let them drop and grasped her hands in her lap. She wished to keep her composure. It was expected of a teacher at the Ridgefield Academy for Girls.

You must go to Bristol at once, Mr. Wilkins said. You must pay your respects to your dearly departed father.

The Head cleared his throat. Perhaps a letter of condolences would be more appropriate, given the circumstances.

Helen’s thoughts swam in a tempestuous sea. She hadn’t seen her father and his new family for many years. Father had voiced his displeasure that she’d taken a position at Ridgefield on many occasions. He hadn’t seen the purpose of his daughter earning her own living. She’d held her ground and he’d relented, although he’d continued to send a generous allowance despite her objections.

Learning of her father’s death from a solicitor Helen could only assume was a willful omission, a negligence that went beyond all what was decent and proper.

The staff looked at Helen with great concern. Her heart swelled with affection.

Yes, do send a letter, Helen, Mary said. Let those people know how appalling this is to learn of your father’s death from his solicitor.

Her friend only wanted what was best, but Helen decided her course of action. She’d never been one to doubt her own mind once she’d made a decision.

She smiled gently at Mary. I wish to pay my respects and I will do so in person. I will send a telegram straightaway letting the Wainwrights know of my arrival.

She rose slowly to a chorus of objections. With your permission sir, I will leave for Bristol immediately.

Are you certain? the Head asked.

Dear me, not unaccompanied, Mr. Wilkins said.

Helen smiled to reassure them. They meant well, trying to protect her, careful of her feelings, outraged at this indignity. I’ve made up my mind. I need to say a final farewell to my father and pay my condolences to the family.

Very well, the Head said. He clasped his hands behind his back. We’ll arrange for a substitute to take your classes in the meantime.

Helen folded the letter. She wouldn’t inconvenience them any longer than necessary and she didn’t want them to worry. I’ll be all right and won’t stay long. If you’ll excuse me.

She departed the staff sitting room thinking how she loved her post at Ridgefield. The staff was her family, all the family she needed. No matter what happened, they would welcome her back as families do with open arms and glad hearts.

She would miss Father. She’d wanted him to be proud of what she’d accomplished, of the woman she’d become. There’d been a distance between them that neither had been able to bridge.

As for the rest of the family, traveling to Tauntens Hall was a matter of duty no one with a proper upbringing could ignore. Even though she’d be treated as an outsider, the issue of a first marriage, a girl shuttled off to private schools and forgotten, she would do what every daughter must do and accept the responsibility with the dignity and grace of a modern woman.

‡ ‡

Chapter One

Helen Wainwright arrived in Bristol on the six-fifteen transfer from Redding. As she stepped from the train, the smell of tar, diesel fuel and chimney smoke assaulted her senses. They didn’t offend. They were the smells of progress, surely, of civilization trudging forward, bustling.

Amid a swirl of activity, of kisses on both cheeks, of ladies holding on to their hats, of lusty wailing babies and laughter, Helen wove through the station, absorbing every sound and sight, taking in the breadth of humanity. The trip was an adventure, a rare journey outside the confines of her school. She’d been to London, accompanying the Headmaster, his wife and their three children. She’d seen the city through the eyes of children, a bright, shiny penny with wondrous things to discover.

This time, at the age of six and twenty, she was on her own. Despite the circumstances, she welcomed this reunion with her family. She’d put off a visit for far too long.

As quick as the flurry of activity happened, a great silence followed. The friends and loved ones had been bundled off into grumbling automobiles or creaky carriages. Others had scurried to the corner to board the clanging trolley.

Helen stood at the curb, her satchel in her hand, her case at her feet, waiting for her greeting.

Where could they be? She’d been most specific in detailing the day and time. The train had arrived as scheduled. She began to worry that she’d made a dreadful error in time or date.

Excuse me, Miss.

A thin boy wearing a flat cap approached Helen. Would you be needing a cab?

Before she could answer, he grabbed her case and hurried down the pavement.

No, stop, she shouted after him, fearing she’d fallen victim to a thief. The boy turned the corner of the station and disappeared. There was nothing she could do but to follow. When she reached the end of the sidewalk, the youngster was handing her case up to a man in a hansom cab.

The boy held the door open for her, a wide grin on a grimy face. She couldn’t help but smile.

You’re an enterprising young man, she said as she caught up to him.

He took off his cap and bowed.

She opened her reticule and took out a shilling when a penny would do. The boy’s eyes widened.

What is your name? she asked.

Tom, Miss.

Tell me, Tom, she said. Why is such a fine lad as yourself not in school?

Coo, Miss. School’s not for the likes of me.

Nonsense, she said. I should think an ambitious boy would do well in school.

The compliment had the desired affect. The boy beamed proudly.

A light rain started and Helen gave the boy the shilling and climbed into the cab.

Where to then, Miss? the boy asked.

Sneyd Park, please, she answered. Tauntens Hall.

The boy shut the door and conveyed the destination to the driver.

The carriage lurched forward and Helen gripped the leather armrest. The boy waved, his coin clutched in his hand.

Helen waved back, missing her classroom, missing the eager faces of her students.

She sat back in her seat and listened to the horse’s hooves clip-clopping on the cobblestones.

They traveled through the Broadmead, the towering buildings a sight to behold, passed Park Street and the neo-Gothic façade of the new University. She’d read that Bristol University would be the first college, amid great controversy, to admit women for a degree.

What a wonderful day and age, she reflected.

Helen craned her neck to see all of it, the classic architecture, the Victorian embellishments, the statues of fallen heroes, generals and royals. They started up a long hill. The horse strained against his tack, the chains jingling with each labored step. The hansom driver called out behind her, urging the beast forward. The rain came steadily now, pouring over the stones, darkening them.

They left the city, the shops, the cries of the newsboys. Row houses lined the street with their stacks of chimney pots on gray slate roofs. At this time of the day, families were gathered around a cozy coal fire having their tea. Perhaps a shepherd’s pie or wedges of farmhouse cheese and thick sausages.

The staff at Ridgewood would be sitting down to their tea, speculating about her. She felt a frisson of homesickness.

When they reached the top of the hill, the driver pulled the horse to a stop for a much needed rest. Helen saw a park with tall chestnuts trees, beeches and elms. Muddy pathways crisscrossed newly mown grass. Honeysuckle perfumed the air.

The cab started off again, rounding the splendid park. The thick clouds moved to the east, lighter for their effort. The sky had begun to ripen as dusk approached.

A Georgian mansion dominated the avenue and the carriage slowed to a stop in front of its iron gates. The driver jumped down from his perch and removed her case. He opened the door, holding his threadbare jacket fast against his chest.

She paid him what he asked and added a tip.

Many thanks, Miss, he said. Anytime I can be of service, you just ask for Jack Robbins.

She told him she would. He smiled with a mouth full of tobacco-stained teeth. With a quick salute, he took his position in the cab and spoke sharply to the horse. The cab moved away, leaving her alone at the imposing gate of the grey-stoned mansion.

The stately home rose three stories in perfect symmetry. A grand staircase led to the front door, flanked by crabapple trees. Helen was awe-struck by the magnificence of the place. She’d never dreamt that father lived in such an inspiring residence nor that his fortunes had taken him to such heights. Surely there must be some mistake.

She looked behind her, ready to call out, but Jack Robbins and his cab had disappeared. A new cloud opened up and a sheet of rain drenched Helen in seconds. She opened the cold iron gates and hurried to the steps.

The door to the hall opened and a man wearing a dark suit and carrying an umbrella came out and descended the rain-soaked staircase.

Beg your pardon, Miss? he asked, stiffly. The servant’s entrance is at the side gate.

Good afternoon, she replied with dignity. I’m Helen Wainwright. My father is…was George Wainwright.

Beg your pardon, he bowed slightly. I’m Peterson, the butler at Tauntens Hall.

How do you do. I am expected. I sent a letter I was coming. Again she feared there was some kind of miscommunication—the letter had not been received and her appearance at their doorstep was not anticipated.

Peterson only nodded. With an air of resignation and a glance at the heavens, he held the umbrella over her head and picked up her case. Helen carried her satchel. They climbed the wide expanse of steps. When she reached the door, a maid stood inside, wringing her chapped hands.

Helen stepped across the threshold and couldn’t believe her eyes. The hall was a rich man’s showcase of expensive furnishings and elaborate decorations. The splendor of the room took her breath away. This was not what she’d expected. This was nothing like the home she’d left so many years ago.

This is so like a fairy tale, she thought, one in which I take a part.

Peterson handed the case to the maid. Agnes will take your things to your room.

Agnes, burdened with the heavy case, reached out for Helen’s satchel. She had a pretty face with lively, dark brown eyes.

I can manage this one, Helen said.

The lady of the house will receive you, the butler said.

I should like to wash up first, Helen replied, resting her satchel at her feet. She unbuttoned her coat and drew off her new kid gloves. She took the pin out of her hat and secured it in the hatband. Without another word, Peterson started down the hallway. Helen had no experience with butlers but his one did seem rather officious in nature and certain he would be obeyed.

Maybe you should go and announce yourself, Agnes whispered.

The girl picked up the satchel. She’d been so bold to remind Helen to remember her manners. Helen’s lack of experience in being received at a stately home was that obvious.

Helen squashed her hat upon her head and followed Peterson. The butler stood before a set of double doors, straight as an arrow, wooden as a post, giving no indication of his thoughts or preferences. It was going to be difficult getting used to such formality.

She placed her hand to her breast. The moment had arrived, the moment she’d been anticipating.

I’m very nervous, she told him. My heart is beating like a baby bird’s.

Peterson’s mouth twitched, revealing a flicker of emotion and kindness shone in his eyes. She was delighted to have detected a hint of compassion from the man. She suspected they would in time become friends.

Her nerves settled and she smoothed down the skirt to her traveling suit. I must look a fright, she thought with dismay and she would rather have presented herself in a better state, but the reunion must proceed without further delay.

Peterson opened the double doors into a large room with bright lights and warmth. Tall windows overlooked the front gardens and courtyard. An expansive stone fireplace dominated the far wall. A tall man leaned against the mantel, his ankles crossed. A bevy of three ladies sat across from him.

The occupants, the gentleman and three ladies stopped their conversation and looked at Helen as she walked into the room.

Miss Helen Wainwright, madam. Peterson bowed and left the room, closing the doors behind him.

Helen turned her attention to the ladies. The older woman was dressed in black, widow’s weeds of smooth satin, which shimmered in the soft glow of the fire. The grieving widow didn’t look to be grieving at all but desperately anxious as she wrung the life out of a black fringed handkerchief.

The two young ladies wore soft gowns of filmy chiffon trimmed with an abundance of lace. The colors were subdued, one in pink and the other in pale yellow.

This was not at all a household in mourning, Helen mused, not even the customary half-mourning. She could only assume an exception had been made because the girls were young.

So you have arrived, Arabella Wainwright said in a high-pitched voice. She didn’t look surprised to see Helen. She didn’t look happy either.

Just now. Helen realized, with a start, that she hadn’t gotten the time or date wrong but that her stepmother had willfully not sent a carriage for her arrival. She could fathom no reason for this discourtesy.

The woman sat perfectly straight but her gaze darted from daughter to daughter.

The girls, for their part, ignored their mother.

"Fiona, Constance, do greet your sister.

One of the girls read a Lady’s Realm magazine. She glanced briefly at the sister she’d never met and then returned to her reading. Naturally, she was younger than Helen, not yet twenty. The other, a girl of fifteen or sixteen, looked sullen. Both girls resembled their mother with high cheekbones and long angular noses. They were not well-bred girls, Helen decided, for they were neither polite nor welcoming.

As you can see, we have a guest, her stepmother said.

Helen turned to return the gaze of the gentleman standing by the fire. He looked out of place in this assembly of women.

"The Right Honorable John Darlington, the Seventh Earl of Westhaven. My lord, Arabella said the title as if he was a saint. My stepdaughter, Helen."

Lord Westhaven regarded Helen with an amused look on his face. He bowed elegantly.

It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance, he said, his voice strong and masculine.

Her heart fluttered unsuitably.

Lord Westhaven is here to pay his condolences for the death of my dear husband. Her stepmother raised a cream-colored handkerchief bordered with a black strip to her cheek for the tears that didn’t come.

As am I, Helen said to the Earl.

Please accept my sympathy, he said.

Thank you. She appreciated that he acknowledged her as a member of the family. She couldn’t speak for the others but her loss was deeply felt.

He stepped forward and reached for Helen’s hand. He was clean-shaven which struck Helen as being very modern. His eyes were the color of mahogany, deep-set and curious. His sensitive mouth expressed a half-hearted smile, not rakish but something else, some sentiment he wished to hide. Maybe ennui, she decided, for the salon of a merchant class family would hardly be his milieu.

He wore a black-striped white shirt adorned with a gold pin in his white necktie. A gold chain peeked out of the pocket of his white waistcoat. His trousers were charcoal colored and pleated, expertly tailored and defined, without any imagination, his athletic physique.

She’d never seen a more attractive man, nor a man more suited to his name.

He kissed her knuckles lightly. A disturbing thrill raced down her spine and she pulled out of his grasp.

His demonstration was too attentive, too deliberate toward a water-logged, newly arrived relation who must look out of place in this company.

Helen is my husband’s daughter from a previous marriage, her stepmother explained unnecessarily.

Indeed, the Earl said.

The Earl’s gaze never left Helen’s face.

Helen didn’t curtsy or call him my lord but she did meet his gaze. His good manners were nothing but a display to show his rank and privilege, which set him apart from the present company.

She wondered why he was here. No doubt he was the cause of her stepmother’s anxiety.

Have you come a great distance? he inquired of Helen.

I’ve just come by train from Ridgefield by way of Redding. My school isn’t far from there.

Your school?

Yes. I’m the second form teacher at Ridgefield Academy for Girls, she answered proudly.

That’s somewhat unconventional, he said, and a first for me. I’ve never met a female teacher before.

You do agree that a formal education for English girls is vitally important to this new century, Helen answered defensively.

That she’d sought his views on the subject, she immediately regretted. What he thought of the matter of academics for girls was of no importance to her.

Before he could reply, indeed, if he did have an opinion, her stepmother rose from her chair, the satin of her gown rustling.

Of course, the matter is debated in the best circles. Arabella Wainwright looked with exasperation at Helen and then addressed the Earl. I’m sure she’s had a tiring journey. We won’t keep her any longer.

Helen was being banished from the room.

I look forward to seeing you at dinner, the Earl said, with a quick nod.

Helen found herself smiling. His charm was difficult to resist.

She tore her gaze from him and addressed her stepmother. May I ask after my grandmother?

You may. She’s resting.

Grandmother takes her tea in her room, Fiona explained.

Her stepmother pulled a long green velvet cord. You can go to Mother later.

Helen’s gaze returned to his lordship. He watched her with an improper amount of curiosity. His attitude rankled her but she’d spoken rashly to him, an unbecoming behavior. An apology was in order but Arabella interrupted before Helen could open her mouth.

Come along, she said.

Helen turned away from the company, feeling as an outsider must.

Arabella walked her to the door. Now that you’re here, you will make yourself useful.

It was an offensive remark even in the most trying of families."

Useful in what way? Helen replied but agreeably. She did not want to begin her visit on a sour note.

Yes, well. The woman hesitated. The Earl expects you will join us for dinner. Do you have something appropriate to wear?

I do.

Dinner starts promptly at ten. We have an important guest. Do not bore him with talk of modern education or any other newfangled notions you may have. All you have to do is listen. They do teach manners at your school?

Arabella didn’t wait for an answer. She turned and flashed the Earl a warm, treacly smile.

Do not keep us waiting, she said out of the corner of her mouth.

The door opened with Peterson in attendance.

Helen left the room. Her arrival was inopportune indeed. Obviously, the family didn’t want their guest to know she was a woman of reduced circumstances, a poor relation who must earn her own living. No doubt she embarrassed them.

She followed Peterson to the staircase. The balustrade smelled of beeswax polish, a familiar