Page 8 of The Perfect Rose

The sun that shone through the window of the drawing room was a happy beginning to the day. For Rose, a drawing room was a sort of second bedroom. She’d spent so much time within the walls of drawing rooms, perfecting her many accomplishments, that she felt calm and confident here, even though she could feel the nervous energy from the other women which roamed about the room. It was as if they were all expecting a spider to fall from the ceiling before their faces at any moment.

Her mother had taken breakfast in her rooms, so Rose was left to her own devices. It was quite unfamiliar footing. For all that she’d been in society this season, she had precious little time without her mother watching over her like a hawk. This could be a rare opportunity to make friends. She wanted friends. The trouble was, she wasn’t certain where to begin. Her many acquaintances did not fill a void within that told her people were more than pawns in some social game her mother was determined to play. Rose took up her embroidery and breathed deeply. Stitching always calmed her nerves. The yellow roses she had been working on were beginning to jump out from the white fabric in a beautiful, crisp pattern.

“Perhaps she is only shy.” The loud whisper cut across the room.

Rose did not rise to the bait. She was not shy, but she had yet to be invited into any conversation. She noted a couple of the young women walking across to her and she studiously kept her eyes on her working hands. Ought she to put her stitching down and walk about the room? Or would that make it too obvious that she was without a companion? Perhaps, if she invited the women to join her . . . but would that seem desperate?

“Lady Rose, what beautiful stitching.” The compliment sounded at least half sincere. She lifted her gaze to see Miriam Hastings arm in arm with Miss Haybury.

“Thank you, Miriam. You are very kind.” And friendly, Rose added in her mind. Perhaps Miriam would one day walk arm in arm with her around a drawing room, sharing stories and laughing. Rose could only dream of such a thing.

“Not at all. I wish I had half the skill you do with a needle! Would you . . . would you care to teach me how to create a rose like that? I’ve never seen that one before.”

Rose was surprised at the young lady’s enthusiasm. Was there a hidden agenda in asking for an embroidery lesson? None came to mind. And hadn’t she debated asking them to join her not moments ago? This was going better than she could have possibly imagined. Not of her own doing, she realized.

She scooted over on the settee where she was perched and told Miriam to grab her stitching. “I’d be delighted to teach you. Miss Haybury, would you care to join us?”

Miss Haybury looked as if there were a wild animal that had died and rotted at Rose’s feet. Her nose scrunched up, and she looked quite close to becoming ill. “There is nothing you can teach me with a needle, Lady Rose.” She puffed out her chest and fairly stomped from the room.

Had she said something wrong? She watched the now empty doorway curiously. No, it wasn’t that. If she thought about it, she’d seen the way Miss Haybury had looked at her during dinner the previous night, and she chided herself now for not seeing such a reaction coming.

Miriam wrung her hands together. “Oh dear, I’m sorry about that. She . . . well, she . . .”

“It’s nothing to fuss over, Miriam. I am unscathed.” Rose knew precisely what Miriam could not quite put to words. Miss Haybury hated her, and that was putting it mildly, it would seem. Rose was accustomed to being hated. She could read the signs a mile away. It was not often that they were thrust upon her in such close range, however. Ballrooms tended to bring out the worst in some people. But jealousy and unkindness were masked better when her mother stood behind her. Apparently, without her mother as a buffer, she would need to prepare her own defenses against unsavory company. Rose imagined wielding a shield that stopped the remarks from cutting her.

Her mother had taught her to ignore the barbs thrown her way. Letting hateful comments fester was like allowing weeds to grow. Weeds did nothing for a rose bush, and Rose found wisdom in the advice to avoid discontent over petty things. But it had caused her to wonder, many times this past season, why she was so unpopular amongst her own sex. She couldn’t recall a breach of propriety on her part.

Miriam pulled out her embroidery frame and replaced the thin muslin inside to work with a blank slate. “Where did you obtain the pattern? Was it from Ackermann’s Repository?”

Rose shook her head slightly; she could feel an unnatural heat creeping up her neck. “I’m afraid not. I drew the pattern myself.” She held her breath. It was one of her favorite designs she’d come up with in the past year. The idea that something so personal to her was under scrutiny made her hands clammy.

“You drew it?” Miriam sighed. “Of course you did. Leave it to you to have a perfectly creative mind and hand.”

Rose didn’t know how to respond. Miriam seemed less than enthusiastic about the pattern than she had a few moments ago. “It is far from perfect. Although it has come a long way over the course of the past few weeks. I hope to be able to use the design for a pillow once I get it right.”

“It is beautiful already.” Miriam’s enthusiasm recovered a bit. “So, where do we begin?”

Rose dug into her sewing basket and pulled out her drawing of a rose. She didn’t use the pattern anymore; she was trying to make the drawing come to life at this point. The fine silk threads could be sewn to show such depth only in reality. “Here, you can have this. I’ve memorized it.” She handed the drawn pattern to Miriam. “What color would you like to begin with?”

Miriam was an eager student, and although she struggled through many of Rose’s instructions, she never gave up trying. With someone displaying such interest, it was refreshing for Rose to share her pattern with Miriam. The pattern and countless others she had designed were one of Rose’s passions. Speaking of drawing and creating the images brought her a peaceful confidence that she rarely felt. Her mother hadn’t shown any interest in Rose’s designs, and a lady didn’t speak of her own skills in front of gentlemen. How long had it been since Rose had interacted with a female peer without the ever-looming countess in the background? She couldn’t recall a single meeting that hadn’t been in a public gathering, nothing that would inspire confidence or trust. Yet here she was, on the second day of a house party, feeling like Miriam was more her friend than her own sisters.

Rose pulled her yellow thread back and forth through the crisp fabric, a layer of long satin stitches creating a base for her rose. She looked over at Miriam.

Miriam’s eyes flew back and forth from the pattern to her stitching with a frown. “It doesn’t look right.”

“Do you mind?” Rose held out her hand for the hoop and Miriam gave it up willingly. As Rose placed her own hoop in her basket, she looked over the stitching, Miriam wringing her hands next to her. She’d done it earlier as well. What could be causing her such distress? The stitching was as it should be, just unfinished. Without adding layers, that was how it ought to look. “Ah, yes. Just here.”

Miriam leaned closer to see where Rose was pointing.

Rose then moved her finger, pointing to Miriam’s heart. “It’s just missing a bit of confidence. The stitches are lovely. You simply need to believe in yourself and in the pattern.”

Miriam’s face flushed. She shook her head. “That might be easy for you to say. But you have so much to be confident about. It must be nice knowing how good you are at everything.” There was a vulnerability as well as a sharpness to her words that Rose hadn’t expected to be there.

Yes, Rose knew she was quite talented, but she still had much to learn. And being accomplished didn’t fill the void that came from a lack of personal attachment to anyone. Miriam had relationships with those around her, and it was a far more important trait than being talented. She seemed so free and happy most of the time. Very few of Rose’s so-called accomplishments brought her joy. More often than not, she felt more like a servant, constantly in demand to perform one task or another. Play the pianoforte, draw, practice your stitches, sing, write, read, dance. It was a busy life, with little to no joy attached to it when it was all done for her mother. Even servants had friends; she had stooped lower than even a servant. Rose shook her head to clear her thoughts. She wanted to have more in her life than a loveless marriage, but perhaps she could start with something as simple as friendship. Dared she hope that opening herself up to Miriam could help her gain a friend?

She took a deep breath. “Being confident comes at a steep price for me,” she whispered.

Miriam flinched and her brows pulled together.