Millicent prepared to leave after breakfast, Rosalind barely accepting she'd likely never see her friend again. Isabelle served her tea for the last time, the two of them sharing an embrace by the carriage later that morning. Their quiet driver had prepared the horse and was now loading Millicent's trunk.
"I will write you as often as I can," Millicent promised Rosalind, Isabelle now by the door. "Take care not to mention Isabelle in your replies. I can't have anyone finding out she's here. She knows we won't be speaking again."
"You won't mind not hearing from her?"
"I already trust she'll be well here. Spend time with her and make sure she doesn't take on too much."
After one last goodbye hug, Rosalind watched her friend depart. Isabelle remained by the door.
"I'll tidy the kitchen," she said at once.
"It can wait. Come sit with me so we can have a proper talk."
Rosalind showed much restraint in her conduct, even if she wanted to take Isabelle by the arm and guide her along. The slightest touch was disallowed; she needed to act with decorum despite her indecorous thoughts.
Isabelle waited to be told where to sit rather than choose her seat. Rosalind saw she needed to unlearn these behaviours and it would take time. Rosalind was most comfortable in her rose Damask armchair, a single embroidered cushion resting in the small of her back, an ache there developing. She was only considered old by society's standards, she'd yet to reach the age of forty, her appearance still lovely, according to Millicent. She wore her raven-coloured hair down more after Philip died, he'd always ordered her to keep it up and neat. Only wanton women wore their hair that loose.
"Forgive my nervousness," Isabelle said. "Living in wait of other people has made me this way."
"I understand, which is why I won't make demands of you. But there are some things I struggle with that I didn't when I was your age. If you'd be willing to help, I'd appreciate it. I want you to feel you can deny me, regardless. You were raised to only ever say yes to your duties, which saddens me."
"But it kept me from a harm greater than being a servant. Millicent took wonderful care of me when she could have cast me out. And I was close to her other maid, the two of us spent many nights awake in our little quarters, trying not to wake anyone up as we shared stories."
Rosalind lacked these friendships through most of her childhood, her adolescence just as lonely. She remained an only child, her father disinterested in helping her accumulate her own wealth and status. He couldn't have married her off fast enough, her mother also indifferent to her.
"I am sorry you aren't able to write to your friend, or Millicent."
"They understand why. Penelope and I made sure we'd said our proper goodbyes. She wasn't looking forward to going to Ireland. She might still marry a nice Irish boy, or return to the city when she's older."
"What has you convinced you couldn't do the same?"
Isabelle glanced away. "I seem to have no desire for it. The idea doesn't quicken me the way it does other girls. It never has. Millicent invited a family around whose son took some interest in me. I was polite to him, but when I found myself alone with him, he frightened me. He made no moves to touch me, he was perfectly kind. Millicent still told me to be wary of being alone with some men."
"It's true, not all of them are bad. But you're entitled to your own thoughts about it. The only men I see are when I bother to have something delivered, or if I'm walking by the nearby farm and the owner happens to be tending to his sheep. Even then, I don't remain to converse or exchange many pleasantries. There's nothing wrong preferring the company of others more like yourself."
