POVERTY'S PRIDE

CHAPTER FOURTEEN (Part Two)

                                                 CHAPTER FOURTEEN (Part Two) 

As Rosalind approached the cottage through the woods carrying her carpet bag she saw Maggie just closing the cottage door. They met on the path.

     ‘Her Highness demanded a fire,’ Maggie said by way of explanation. ‘Why in this warmth, I don’t know.’ She gave Rosalind a sharp glance. ‘I don’t envy you one bit, Roz. She has a tongue like a wasp’s sting. I wonder why Mr Cedric ever married her.’

     ‘She is beautiful.’

     ‘Huh!’ Maggie’s lip curled. ‘Beauty is as beauty does, as my old mam would say.’

     ‘He must have loved her once.’

Rosalind tried to quell the quiver of jealousy her own words stirred. Such feelings were inappropriate for a girl in her circumstances.

     ‘I can’t think why!’ Maggie said with derision. ‘She’s no different now than when I first came to work at the house. An unnatural mother, that’s what I call her. Her poor children never did get much affection.’

     Rosalind felt a touch of embarrassment. They should not be gossiping about the family.

     ‘I’d better be getting on, Maggie,’ she said gently.

     ‘Don’t let her wear you down, Roz,’ Maggie said as they parted.

     Rosalind walked on to the cottage and let herself in. A fire was raging in the big fireplace and the room already felt greatly overheated.

     Cynthia Trevellian was standing at the other end of the room, where most of her paintings were stored, examining one of them.

     ‘Are you ready for breakfast, Mrs Trevellian?’ she asked tentatively.

     Cynthia turned to her, her expression supercilious.

    ‘You’re late. You should’ve been here at six to do the fire,’ she said. ‘I am badly neglected. Bring me a tray of tea and toast immediately.’

     ‘Yes, Mrs Trevellian.’

     ‘Here!’ Cynthia exclaimed as Rosalind started to make her way to the kitchen, holding out the painting she had been examining. ‘Throw this to the flames.’

     ‘Ma’am?’ Rosalind stared in astonishment.

     ‘Do it!’

     ‘But...’

     ‘Huh! I’ll do it myself.’ Cynthia moved quickly to the fireplace and flung the unframed painting into the flames. The oil paint flared up immediately with frightening intensity.

     Alarmed Rosalind spoke without thinking. ‘Do be careful!’

     ‘How dare you speak to me with such familiarity?’

     ‘It’s dangerous, Mrs Trevellian,’ Rosalind said calmly.

     ‘Speak when you are spoken to in future.’

     ‘Yes, Mrs Trevellian.’

     Rosalind made the tea and toast and brought it to the drawing room. The fireplace was alive with flames and she saw that more paintings were being destroyed.

     ‘The tray is ready, Ma’am.’

     Cynthia was at the far end of the room amongst the paintings.

     ‘They must all go,’ she said as though to herself. ‘I’ll not be free of my old life until they are no more.’

     After a moment she came and sat. ‘Pour my tea,’ she said curtly.

     Rosalind did as she was told and was about to retreat to the kitchen when Cynthia spoke again.

     ‘Do you understand love, girl?’

     The question was so unexpected that Rosalind could think of no answer.

     Cynthia gave a twisted smile. ‘I think you do. I saw the way you looked at Cedric yesterday in the hall. One glance was so revealing.’

     Rosalind gasped in dismay and put her hand over her mouth. Was she so transparent? Had he noticed it too? She felt mortified at the notion.

     ‘You’re mistaken,’ she said weakly trying to convince herself.

     Cynthia gave a mocking laugh. ‘I think not. But don’t get high hopes, miss,’ she said in a hard tone. ‘He would never look at you, an impoverished relative who takes his charity.’

     ‘What do you care who he looks at?’ Rosalind retorted without thinking. ‘You who have spurned him and his children.’

     Cynthia’s eyes opened wide with surprise and then her lips thinned. ‘You are impertinent!’

     ‘So are you,’ Rosalind declared. ‘I may be impoverished but at least I have my pride and my morals. I have not descended into the gutter.’

     Cynthia’s nostrils flared in rage. ‘That’s not what I heard,’ she said. ‘I heard you were lately denounced from the pulpit as being a cheap whore.’

     Rosalind stared at her in consternation. The household were still gossiping about her it seemed. Cynthia Trevellian could only have heard of her ordeal through the servants’ grapevine by way of Phoebe, Lady Daphne’s maid.

     ‘It’s all lies,’ she said defiantly. ‘The local curate is seeking to destroy me for his own reasons.’

     ‘Ha! A likely tale.’

     ‘I’ll not discuss my life here with you,’ Rosalind said firmly. ‘And you have no right to say such things.’

     ‘You’d better get off that high horse or I’ll complain of your attitude to Sir Leopold,’ Cynthia said curtly.

     ‘I think we both know Sir Leopold is hardly concerned with your opinion of his servants, banished as you are, Mrs Trevellian.’

     There was a heavy pause when both looked at each other like two fighting dogs Rosalind thought, not without shame.

     ‘My lover will come for me soon,’ Cynthia said at last, a gloating tone in her voice. ‘He’s a man of great wealth and power.’

     ‘But very little honour, I suspect,’ Rosalind said quickly.

     Cynthia looked furious.

‘In the meantime, Mrs Trevellian,’ Rosalind went on resolutely. ‘I will cook, clean and attend your needs. Other than that I see no need for us to converse.’

Turning on her heel Rosalind went into the kitchen feeling she had triumphed. As she busied herself she could hear the continued roar of flames from the drawing room. Cynthia was intent on burning her past utterly.