The Duke Wrote Ten Rules for the Wife He Would Choose — She Broke Every One Before the Hunt Ball
Chapter 3
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At dinner, she sat below the salt beside a deaf rector. The talk was of the harvest. It was the year 1816, and there had been no summer to speak of: rain in June, frost in August."Our oats will come in yet," said the Duke from the head of the table. "A fortnight of dry weather is all they want.""They will not come in, Your Grace," said Rosamund.Twenty-two people stopped eating. The third rule was that she should not contradict a gentleman."You are certain, Miss Penrose?""Your oats are still green in the low fields by the river. I walked past them this afternoon. They will be black by Martinmas.""Miss Penrose walks a great deal," said Miss Wexford to the table."I find it gets me from one place to another," said Rosamund.Silence again, thick as the gravy. Clarissa made a small sound into her napkin that might have been a cough."Would someone pass the salt?" asked Rosamund.The Duke passed it himself: he reached down the whole length of the table, past his grandmother and past Miss Wexford's elbow, and set the cellar beside her plate. He did not smile. She thought he was mocking her. She thought it through the fish and the mutton, and was still thinking it when the ladies rose.At 6:00 the next morning, she went out alone into the dark. The fifth rule said she should not walk out unaccompanied; she had broken it every morning of her adult life.The stables at Raxford were built around a court of gray stone with a clock tower stopped at 20 past 4:00. A groom was shouting at a horse, "Stand, you old devil! Stand!"The horse was a big gray hunter, nearly white with age, and he was walking the groom backwards across the cobbles."What is the matter with him?" asked Rosamund."He wants out, miss. He's 16 and still thinks he's going cubbing. His Grace won't have him retired. He's called Abbott.""Does he carry a lady?""He's never been asked to, miss.""Then ask him," said Rosamund.There was one sidesaddle in the tack room under a linen cover gone yellow with years. The leather beneath was dark green, soft as a glove, and had never been creased by a rider."It was Her late Grace's, miss," said the groom slowly. "She never rode out. Not once.""A saddle is meant to be sat on," said Rosamund.The first rule was that she should not hunt. By 7:00, she was out on the moor road behind the cubbing party. Abbott went like a hunter half his age. The sky over the East Riding went from pewter to pale gold, and for one quarter of an hour, Rosamund Penrose was nobody's poor relation: she was simply fast.She saw the Duke once across a beck on a raw-boned chestnut. He saw her. She waited for someone to be sent to order her home; nobody came.On the way back, while the groom rubbed Abbott down, she counted the stalls. Counting was what she did when she did not wish to think: there were 28 hunter stalls at Raxford, and 28 horses in them.Then she passed the estate office. The sixth rule said she should not enter it. The door was open; she went in. It smelled of sealing wax, pipe ash, and a great deal of somebody else's money.