Page 6 of Duke of Rath

“Ohhh,” the first woman whispered back and stole a curious and worried glance at the Roses. “How awful. What a scandal!”

“Oh yes,” said the second woman. “Bad business. He was their last hope to improve their fortune. Now Mr. Rose is at the verge of complete ruin, in London trying to sell their estate. Not worth much anyway.”

Mama fidgeted, her eyes reddened with tears, her mouth in a straight line. Patience laid her head on Mama’s shoulder and stroked her hand.

Thankfully, the mass was over in a few minutes, and the Roses were the first to shoot to their feet and leave. As Patience walked after her sisters and mama, the voices, the rustling of clothes and shuffling of feet against polished stone of the church echoed loudly. Mama seemed more agitated than usual, covering one gloved hand with the other to hide a patch and a large seam Patience’s sister Anne had repaired so well. She was the embroiderer and the seamstress in the family.

When they stepped out of the church and into the fresh March air, Patience sighed with relief, and was just about to start down the packed dirt path back home to Rose Cottage when, to her surprise, Mama called, “Let us stay awhile.”

This was so unlike her, the fidgeting, the strained smile that didn’t reach her big, worried eyes.

“Are you certain, Mama?” asked Patience.

“Everyone’s going to come out now, Mama,” said Anne, glancing at the rough stone church surrounded by well-kept bushes and a cut lawn.

Mama’s eyes darted towards the doors, where the voices of the congregation could be heard growing closer and closer. “Indeed,” said Mama, and they stepped to the side of the gravel path. “I have an idea that might help Papa. Positive thoughts, right, girls? While he’s in London, I’m going to try and do my own bidding here. It won’t hurt, right?”

“That depends,” said Patience’s oldest sister, Emily, who was twenty-eight.

“You will see,” Mama said and put on a smile that was so false it set Patience’s teeth on edge. Just like Mama, all of the sisters put on a smile, as well.

One after another, the congregation exited the church. The more affluent parishioners, draped in their Sunday finest of silks and velvets, walked out with a leisurely grace, and the village’s simpler folk followed them. The tenants and local farmers wore sturdy clothes, their fabrics coarse yet clean. The village bakers, tailors, and craftsmen in slightly better, practical garments, mingled among them.

As they passed by the Rose family, their conversations faltered momentarily; their steps hesitated. With subtle shifts in their paths and quick, evasive glances, each deliberately widened the gap, ensuring a clear distance of at least five steps between them and the Roses, as if the air around them was tainted with the shadow of scandal.

Finally, Lady Justina Fitzroy, the Marchioness of Virtoux, came out with her son.

Patience fiddled with the edges of her dress. The marchioness was a beautiful woman, tall and quite broad-shouldered; she had the air of a queen, unapproachable and proud. She was dressed in a modern, high-waisted gown with an imperial silhouette, which was quite unusual for women her age, who generally preferred the styles they had worn when they were younger, with fitted waists and full skirts. Lady Virtoux was the patroness of the Harringer parish and owned one of the estates nearby where she sometimes spent the winter before heading to London for the season, which would start soon.

Her son carried the honorable title of Viscount of Mique, inherited from his father. He was a man in his forties, well-built and with handsome, sharp features, a strong nose, and a square jaw. He had narrowly set green eyes and a generous mane of wavy dark hair.

Lady Virtoux threw a puzzled and disgusted look at Mama, Patience, and her sisters. Then she averted her eyes, walking in the other direction and whispering something to the viscount. Patience bit her lip and wished they would have left as they had every Sunday for years now, hurrying out before their presence would offend everyone else, none of whom had exposed family secrets or scandals surrounding their name.

Mama’s hands trembled as she clasped them together. She drew in a deep breath, as though steeling herself for something, and walked straight towards the marchioness.

“Mama!” Patience hissed, and Anne threw her hand out as though to stop her.

It was like watching an accident about to occur and having no power to stop it.

“Lady Virtoux,” Mama said as she approached the lady and curtsied. “Lord Mique.” She curtsied to the gentleman.

Both stared at Mama with expressions of utter horror and stepped back.

“I beg your pardon,” said Lady Virtoux as she turned her back to Mama, about to walk away.

“Please!” exclaimed Mama. “I wouldn’t have approached you were I not so desperate. Just a moment of your time.”

Patience and her sisters exchanged glances. Anne’s eyes were tearing up, her cheeks ablaze.

“What is she doing?” whispered Emily. “Clearly, her presence is not desired.”

“Keep your tears away, Anne,” whispered Beatrice, the second oldest. “Pull yourself together. We do not need another humiliation. Smile, everyone. Like always.”

Patience watched in horror as they stretched their lips, but they looked like a child’s drawings, with sad eyes, their thin mouths wide and crooked.

At that moment, the parish vicar, Mr. Menon, came out. A short man in his fifties with a round, egg-like head and a large stomach, he had a big smile on his face…but as his eyes fell on Mama and Lady Virtoux, it vanished.

He frowned, and Lady Virtoux sighed heavily. “I suppose one must be virtuous and charitable, especially after Sunday mass. What can I do for you, Mrs. Rose?”