Faithfulness and Blessing
Rosalind knelt by the three gravestones suppressing her tears while gripping the grass tightly. The spring wind blew her black veil across her face with traces of raindrops coming down at random threatening a storm. She stared at the newly carved stone for her young husband that read: In Loving Memory of Martin Elliott, August 28, 1784 – April 3, 1809.
The other gravestones for Rosalind’s father-in-law and brother-in-law were placed beside Martin’s merely a month before. They all began with symptoms of sneezing and trouble breathing after a long day hunting together, but it progressively worsened to fever and coughing up blood over the course of a few days. Rosalind’s father-in-law, passed away after a few weeks of sickness with his youngest son following in death only a few days later. It was unexpected for Mr. Elliott and his youngest son to die and Rosalind was determined for her husband to survive. The doctor explained that it was Consumption Disease that took their lives and it was too late to save Martin. She desperately wanted to stay by Martin’s side, but the doctor refused to let her in the room since she would risk her own life with the sickness being contagious.
Feeling a lump grow in her throat, Rosalind swallowed hard and shut her eyes tightly with stray tears dropping down on her knitted black shawl. She wiped her tears with the handkerchief that once belonged to her husband and breathed deeply the smell of cologne and tobacco. Martin was just a memory and Rosalind had to let go of her mourning. She stood slowly and placed the fresh wildflowers beside the gravestone. Rosalind put her gloved fingertips to her lips, kissed them and touched the gravestone, only pausing to watch two birds flutter by.
After kneeling for a long period of time, Rosalind’s knees stiffened as she turned to walk back up the small hill toward Hastings Manor where a carriage waited for her.
“Make haste, Rosalind,” called Rosalind’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Elliott from the carriage. “You will catch a cold in this rain!”
Rosalind pushed herself to race up the hill through the rain that began coming down harder as every minute passed. As she made it half way through the gardens, Rosalind stopped by the fountain and looked up at the three angel statues. A rose from the rose bush nearby had blown onto the hand of one of the angels. The statue’s hand was stretched out toward Rosalind as if he was offering the rose to her. Rosalind took the flower and held it to her heart, gazing up at the angel’s face.
“Please, Rosalind!” Mrs. Elliott called once more from the carriage. “Mr. Billingsly wanted us to leave before noon! He very well might send the dogs after us!”
With one last glimpse at the angel, Rosalind turned and ran to the carriage. She flung the door open and jumped in with mud and water splattering all over the floor.
“You have ruined your petticoat,” pointed out Mrs. Elliott as she arranged her own skirt to the other side of the carriage. “Why must you run amuck in the mud? You can sleep with the pigs if you insist upon acting like one!”
“It can be washed,” Rosalind said quietly, brushing the dirt off her petticoat.
“All of our expensive things are as good as lost since we must sell them for money to live on,” Mrs. Elliott said through her clenched teeth. “Curse that insufferable Billingsly for throwing us out!”
Rosalind sat quietly as she twiddled with her gloves and stared at the floor trying not to let what Mrs. Elliot said hurt her feelings. Ever since Mr. Billingsly declared to Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott that he would inherit their money and their home, Mrs. Elliott had become unusually ill tempered.
“I am ever so sorry, Rosalind,” said Mrs. Elliott rubbing her temples. “This is all too much to handle. We have lost our home, money and respect in society. I cannot imagine what is to become of us. Please do not think less of me, Rosalind. I have never known life outside the elegance of high society. I’m just so very frightened.”
“We shall manage,” Rosalind said softly looking up at her teary eyed mother-in-law. Rosalind was just as frightened as Mrs. Elliott, but her concern was much more over her husband’s death. She was unsure of how she would continue on with life without him. Two years of mourning would go by rather slowly, but Rosalind felt as though she would be mourning until her own death.
Mrs. Elliott nodded and opened the door wide enough to tell the driver they were ready to begin the journey and she quickly shut the door with a loud snap. The carriage jerked forward and Rosalind turned around to look back at the home that she would never see again. She remembered the happy memories she had over the past year with Martin. The grand staircase of Hastings Manor was where Martin proposed under moonlight. She remembered swinging under the oak tree where they read together as she sipped on her tea and he puffed on his pipe. She and Martin were fond of the outdoors and began each day with a morning stroll. Rosalind could almost see the decorations of white and guests seated in the garden where she and Martin were wed.
“I cannot believe Mr. Billingsly,” said Rosalind with her lips pursed turning away after the house disappeared from view behind the trees. “How could they send us away like this?”
“Calm yourself,” Mrs. Elliott said forcefully with her hands folded in her lap. “Mr. Billingsly is the only man left in Mr. Elliott’s family. Hastings Manor must go to him. Quite frankly, he and his wife can do whatever he wishes with it—including sending us away.”
Rosalind began to wonder where they would live since Mr. Billingsly decided to leave a small amount of money for them to live on.
“Where are we to live, Mrs. Elliott?” Rosalind said as they passed by a field of wheat.
“Brighton,” replied Mrs. Elliott taking a deep breath. “It’s a lovely town on the coast of the Mediterranean. It is a very busy sort of place since it is a port of trade. I expect we will be arriving at Preston Manor in two days. Mr. Bradford was expecting us to make it by tomorrow night.”
“Who exactly is Mr. Bradford?” Rosalind asked as she took a deep breath from the scent of Martin’s handkerchief.
“He was a dear friend of my husband’s,” she replied with a smile. “You would have met him at your wedding last year, but he was unable to attend. He served as an officer in the king’s navy alongside my husband. After travelling on the ship, Mr. Bradford wanted to see more of the world and made trading part of his travels. He has made a profit for himself even though the Bradford family fortune was enough to give him a comfortable life. He wanted to see the world and learn anything he could from it. I think you would like him very much, Rosalind. He has been to all of the places that you read about in your books. He will tell you of his travels, I am quite sure. Mr. Bradford was very kind to offer us the small cottage on the estate and I am unsure how I will repay him for his kindness. It will be difficult at this time since Mr. Billingsly is only leaving us a few hundred pounds a year.”
“Do not be concerned about that, Mrs. Elliott,” Rosalind said taking Mrs. Elliott’s hand. “There will be a way.”
“Perhaps you will find a new husband after your mourning,” began Mrs. Elliott squeezing Rosalind’s hand gently. “I cannot give you what you deserve and you should not have to look after an old, lonely woman. A life of widowhood is not for someone of your age and beauty.”
Rosalind did not want to consider loving anyone other than Martin and decided that she would have to accept her widowhood since not very many widows remarried.
* * *
After two days of travel, Rosalind helped Mrs. Elliott out of the carriage in front of a small stone cottage covered in vines less than a mile from the beach. It would take a while for Rosalind to become accustomed to the smell of salt in the air. Brighton was indeed beautiful, but the town was slightly busier than Rosalind would like. To her liking, Rosalind was glad that the cottage had its own sort of privacy away from town. Rosalind was also thankful for the amount of trees surrounding the cottage since Preston Manor was close by. It was difficult for Rosalind to tear her eyes away from Preston Manor, as it looked very much like Hastings. It had the same color of gray stones with a wide front staircase leading to the gardens, making Rosalind wish the Mr. Billingsly had not forced them to leave Hastings. Because of the likeness of the two mansions, Preston Manor would constantly be a reminder of the joyful memories that she once had at Hastings. Therefore, she decided to go out of her way not to look at the house.
“The cottage is a dreary sort of place,” Mrs. Elliot said as they entered the small parlor and removing a sheet of cloth that covered a loveseat. “But it will do. Mr. Bradford said in his letter that he would invite us to dinner when he returned from town.”
Rosalind nodded as she opened all the curtains in the cottage to let in the afternoon sunlight. She took the time to explore the house to find that there were three bedrooms upstairs and a cold kitchen in the basement. Her heart sank as she walked swiftly through the house room by room. There was not a piano to be found. Mrs. Billingsly claimed the piano for her own even though she already had one. Rosalind tried not to hold a grudge since she would never be in Mrs. Billingsly’s batty old presence again. She distracted herself by unpacking her things onto the bed in her new room that overlooked the cobblestone entryway. Her leather trunk was tossed around during the carriage ride and its contents were sprawled about. All of the dresses were wrinkled and an inkbottle toppled out of its box. She was relieved that the ink only dribbled a little on the bottom most corner of the trunk. Some of her music manuscripts were a little crinkled on the corners, but they could be easily flattened out by her books in her other trunk downstairs. Rosalind felt as though she did not have any need for the manuscripts as she did not have a piano. She decided to gently stow them away in the bottom most drawer of her dresser.
“Rosalind,” called Mrs. Elliott from the dining room.
Rosalind closed the drawer with a snap and rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping on the rug in the foyer.
“Mr. Bradford has asked us to join him this evening,” said Mrs. Elliott holding a letter with a beautiful red seal stamped on the front. “Six o’clock, he says.”
“I suppose we should dress nicely,” replied Rosalind setting the silver candlesticks in the center of the table. “It’s a shame that we sold our best dresses. I suppose we would not be able to wear them anyway for the next two years of mourning.”
Mrs. Elliott nodded as she fumbled with the box full of silverware and picked up a fork, examining the monogram.
“Didn’t Mrs. Billingsly say that she wanted the silverware,” asked Rosalind stepping closer to the wooden box with the letter “E” ornately carved on the top.
Mrs. Elliot smiled and winked.
Rosalind had a feeling that Mrs. Elliott kept a few things that Mrs. Billingsly wanted. Since Mr. Elliott passed away, Mrs. Elliott certainly wanted to hold onto her memories through whatever possessions that once belonged to Mr. Elliott. Rosalind, however, was unable to gather much of anything that belonged to Martin, for Mr. And Mrs. Billingsly kept her under close watch when they arrived the week they wanted the Elliott’s to leave.
They both walked arm in arm down the path toward Preston Manor. Rosalind drifted her eyes at her feet, trying not to acknowledge the house’s similarity to Hastings. The butler ushered them into the house and left them in the parlor. To Rosalind’s satisfaction, the inside of the house did not favor Hastings. It was much more spacious and had columns along the edge of the room. Although Rosalind was determined to keep her eyes locked on the white marble floors, her eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a black pianoforte sat gleaming in the sunset. Without Mrs. Elliott’s consent, Rosalind sat down on the bench and ran her fingers across the keys. She looked around the room and saw that Mrs. Elliott had found a seat in a nearby armchair smiling with approval. It had been a few weeks since Rosalind played and she feared that her fingers would not remember. She did not care; therefore she decided to play a piece from memory. Her fingers hit the keys and Rosalind was pleased with the quality of sound. She found herself lost in song with each chord reminding her of the happy times Martin played his violin with her. Her fingers danced along the keys in rhythm, but she suddenly stopped. Rosalind expected to hear Martin’s violin. There was only silence. She bit her bottom lip and swallowed hard with her mouth drying. Rosalind’s hands trembled slightly as they fell into her lap.
“You play marvelously on the pianoforte, Mrs. Elliott,” said a man’s deep voice that startled Rosalind.
Rosalind immediately stood and curtsied with her eyes locked on the floral design on the rug. She knew it was impolite to play a piano without permission. Her fingers ran along the seam of her dress, feeling a tiny hole with a few stray threads poking out.
“Why did you stop,” he asked.
“It’s a duet, sir,” replied Rosalind twirling one of the longer strands of thread around her pinky with her eyes locked on a golden flower on the rug.
“Ah,” he said.
Rosalind swallowed hard and looked up. She assumed the man who stood in the doorway was Mr. Bradford. He was much younger than what she expected. She supposed he was in his early forties since his dark brown hair had speckles of gray around his ears. Rosalind could not tell if there were dimples or wrinkles about his thin lips, but she decided that they were dimples and felt that his smile was inviting. The dimples reminded her of Martin’s whenever he would laugh or smile.
“It was quite beautiful,” Mr. Bradford said with his hand gesturing toward the piano. “Would you honor us again after dinner?”
“Of course,” replied Rosalind wrapping the thread about her pinky so hard that it began to hurt.
Mr. Bradford greeted Mrs. Elliott with a bow and inquired about her health and family. Rosalind stood awkwardly in the center of the room observing the paintings on the walls. Most were portraits of various people whom Rosalind did not recognize while others were of landscapes. When Mr. Bradford invited Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott to join him in the dining room, Rosalind took one last glance at a marble bust of a Grecian woman and followed closely behind Mrs. Elliott and Mr. Bradford who were politely discussing the weather.
Although Rosalind was quite hungry, she remained as polite at the table as she possibly could, hoping that Mr. Bradford would not notice. She was the first to finish her pea soup, but waited nearly ten minutes before the quail was brought to the table since Mr. Bradford and Mrs. Elliott were much slower eaters. Mr. Bradford inquired about the cottage and asked if it was satisfactory. He offered to send a few servants to the cottage and to bring in more furniture or update the linens. Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott explained that the cottage was in perfect order, but Mr. Bradford insisted for them to inform him within the next day of any needs that they would have. He also encouraged Rosalind to visit his trading shop in town once or twice a week. She was embarrassed to say that she could not afford to spend money on a weekly basis and began to refuse his offer.
“Please join me tomorrow morning,” he said after taking a sip of brandy. “Brighton is a difficult town to pass through if one does not know where to go.”
Rosalind hesitated, but agreed to go, knowing that it would be wise to have someone lead her through a town that she had never visited.
Dinner was pleasant, but Rosalind was disappointed that Mr. Bradford did not forget about her playing the piano once more. She reluctantly played three songs upon Mr. Bradford’s request feeling as though she was not prepared. After she finished playing, Mrs. Elliott declared that she and Rosalind were exhausted from their travels and needed rest. Of this, Rosalind was rather thankful as her fingers were cramped. After one last cup of tea, Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott walked back to the cottage with Mr. Bradford escorting them through the torch lit path.
“He is an amiable gentleman,” yawned Mrs. Elliott after she closed the door and making sure Mr. Bradford was out of earshot.
“Yes,” Rosalind replied hoping the bed at the cottage would be comfortable. “Quite amiable.”
“You must tell me about your day with him,” Mrs. Elliott yawned again as they walked up the stairs. “For now, I must bid you good night.”
Rosalind mumbled back with a yawn. She got ready for bed in the darkness without candlelight and found that she could not fall asleep. It was not that the bed was uncomfortable, but, her room was exceedingly cold and she did not have enough blankets.
The next morning, Rosalind asked Mr. Bradford if there were any blankets that could be spared since the house became drafty in the evening. He immediately sent a servant to retrieve a set of thick blankets explaining that they would be at the cottage waiting for her.
Even though Brighton was less than a mile away, Mr. Bradford asked Rosalind if she would not mind walking instead of taking a carriage.
“It isn’t quite the way of a gentleman,” said Mr. Bradford as he placed his hat on his head. “I’m fond of walking, you see.”
“As am I,” Rosalind laughed knowing that she was not like other women who preferred to spend their time indoors.
They walked into town, where Mr. Bradford’s trade-shop was by the docks, talking about music. Rosalind was surprised that Mr. Bradford was knowledgeable about so many composers. He even enjoyed attending operas while in London, which interested Rosalind since she always wanted to go. The trade-shop was not at all what Rosalind expected. It had a number of trinkets from different countries that Mr. Bradford traveled to on a number of his voyages. There were fur coats from Russia, spices from India and even fireworks from China. Thinking the shop only sold trinkets, Rosalind was not aware that the building extended out along the dock where Mr. Bradford owned a bakery, a meat shop, and a winery. There was even a market along the dock with fresh vegetables that Mr. Bradford owned.
Rosalind particularly liked the trade-shop since she longed to travel. She admired Mr. Bradford’s collections and wondered what stories lay behind each trinket. Rosalind quietly walked past a carving of a stone dragon, but her hand clumsily knocked over a set of tiny brass bells that chimed loud enough for anyone in the shop to hear.
“Mrs. Elliott,” said Mr. Bradford as he turned the corner. “Are you hurt?”
“Not at all,” she replied feeling her face grow hotter by the moment. “It was an accident. I am ever so sorry!”
“No matter,” Mr. Bradford laughed as he placed the bells back on their table. “These bells will never sell. You are welcome to have them. I also brought you a basket of food from the market. Mrs. Elliot will be pleased.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Rosalind with her hand over her heart knowing that the food would give her and Mrs. Elliott flexibility for their small amount of money.
“I insist,” Mr. Bradford said with a smile.
Mr. Bradford guided Rosalind around Brighton over the course of the afternoon, carrying her basket full of food and the tiny brass bells. He showed her the ships along the dock—which ones were his, which ones belonged to friends of his and which ones belonged to foreigners. Rosalind was interested in everything Mr. Bradford showed her in Brighton, taking in every ounce of being in a new environment. She did not care for the busy atmosphere, but she very much liked being with Mr. Bradford.
After Mrs. Elliott and Rosalind had dinner once more with Mr. Bradford that night, Rosalind immediately wanted to find a place in the house for the tiny brass bells. Each bell had a different pitch and they sounded very clear. She did not have interest in playing them, but she found a piece of thick string in her sewing box and tied each one on the string. The next morning, she tied the string of bells outside beside the front door so that the wind from the sea could blow on them to make sounds.
Once or twice a week, Mr. Bradford would walk with Rosalind into Brighton and he would carry her basket full of food back to the cottage. Rosalind enjoyed spending the time with Mr. Bradford, but she would quickly look away anytime their eyes met. Most men were not interested in widows, even in their early twenties. All widows that Rosalind had heard of never remarried and generally lived their lives alone. There were times that Rosalind did not want to be alone for the rest of her life. She often wondered if she could have another chance with love, but she felt guilty for wanting to be with someone other than Martin. She loved and missed him, but Rosalind felt that she was not made for a life of loneliness.
Rosalind’s heart ached with the memory of Martin. Mr. Bradford was an amiable gentleman and Rosalind caught herself any time she would think of Mr. Bradford past friendship. Rosalind was aware of her place and she knew that it was an impossible match since she was no longer a lady in high society. Mr. and Mrs. Billingsly robbed her and Mrs. Elliot of their fortune with no sons to carry on the family name, so they were left in a position of low respect. Mr. Bradford was much too wealthy and his reputation would be severely harmed if he even considered Rosalind as a possible future wife. Rosalind often shook her head in frustration and tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach any time Mr. Bradford was around her. She still held onto the memory of her love for Martin, but she did not know what there was about Mr. Bradford that made her like him so much. He was very kind to Rosalind and she began to like the warm feeling she felt when he smiled or offered his arm to her during their walks into town.
One warm afternoon in July, Rosalind sat on a bench under a tree as she sewed her initials on a plain white handkerchief. She was afraid that she would ruin Martin’s old handkerchief and she wanted to have one of her own that she could actually use. With multicolored thread balls sprawled about her lap, Rosalind hummed to herself sewing a red flower on a corner of the handkerchief. A man’s shadow slowly came into view on the patch of grass by Rosalind’s feet and she quickly looked up to see Mr. Bradford holding fresh wildflowers of purple, orange, blue and white.
“Good day,” he coughed with deep breaths trying to give his usual warm smile, but looking rather pale.
“Are you ill?” said Rosalind guiding him to sit on the bench beside her.
She heard a few twigs crack, and Rosalind spun around seeing the rotund gardener crouched behind the bushes. Rosalind scowled at him and he slowly made his way through the bushes and back toward the gardens.
“The servants are talking,” he explained handing the flowers to Rosalind and coughing a little more severely.
Rosalind looked up at the windows of the house and saw a couple maids peering through the windows, and then suddenly disappearing from view. Mr. Bradford was right. She did think it was rather strange over the past few days when they walked into town together when the passersby spoke in hushed voices and looked at them suspiciously. Rosalind knew that it must look scandalous to outsiders observing a young, poor widow clutching the arm of an older wealthy bachelor. It was obvious to Rosalind that they thought she was planning to use Mr. Bradford for his money. Of course, it was not her intent in the slightest. She could never dream of taking advantage of Mr. Bradford’s kindness, for she cared too much about him.
“I suppose they make assumptions all too quickly about you and me,” wheezed Mr. Bradford with his hand clutching his chest. “We make an unlikely pair especially as I could easily pass as your father.”
Rosalind felt her face grow hot and she began twiddling with the corner of the handkerchief. If Mr. Bradford only saw Rosalind as a daughter, she would not have difficulty with resolving her confusion about her feelings for him. She could remain loving the memory of Martin and would not have to worry about Mr. Bradford’s reputation with a poor widow. She decided that Mr. Bradford was indeed much too old for her and he deserved an older woman who was respectable in society to make him happy. After accidentally poking her finger with the needle, Rosalind turned to Mr. Bradford who had just bent over to cough copious amounts of blood onto the grass. Rosalind did not know what to do and her hands began trembling.
“Mr. Bradford,” she said fearfully watching as he helplessly fell to the ground. “Mr. Bradford!”
Rosalind crouched in shock over him while holding his hand in hers. Mr. Bradford was still breathing, but he appeared unconscious. There was nothing she could do for him on her own.
“Help!” she called looking up at the house feeling hot tears swell up in her eyes. “Help!”
A servant boy walking by halted in his tracks with his eyes wide.
“Please,” cried Rosalind tossing her sewing aside and stepping toward the boy. “Send for help. Send for a doctor.”
The next few hours went past rather slowly. After the servants carried Mr. Bradford to his room, Rosalind sat outside his door in a rather uncomfortable armchair. There was hardly any noise from inside the room, which made her nervous. She was very grateful that the door did not close all the way when the doctor arrived. She watched as the doctor sat on Mr. Bradford’s bed. Rosalind peeked through the crack in the door seeing Mr. Bradford, looking quite pale.
“I’m afraid that it is Consumption Disease,” said the doctor putting his instruments into his black leather bag. “It’s fatal and there are very few who survive. There is not much I can do, Mr. Bradford, except try to keep you comfortable. I’m sorry, sir.”
“You can’t give up on him,” Rosalind said, not caring about eavesdropping or being rude as she pushed the door open.
Mr. Bradford coughed into a towel covered in blood and his breathing became a struggle.
“Who are you,” the doctor asked startled. “You gave me a fright, child.”
“Rosalind,” she replied stepping forward aware of how inappropriate it was for her to intrude. “I am a close friend…almost family. He’s practically the only family I have. Please, sir. You simply cannot let him die! What can I do to help him?”
The doctor still looked shocked that someone would barge in on his time with his patient. He raised his eyebrows at Rosalind and sighed. Rosalind knew the doctor thought ill of her because of the intrusion, but he seemed to be a kind sort of gentleman who must have seen much grief with his patients and their loved ones. The doctor told Rosalind to place a cold, wet cloth on Mr. Bradford’s neck and forehead to help with the fever. He also explained that he needed to drink water and eat something regardless of his lack of appetite.
Despite the gossip of the servants around the house, Rosalind did not leave Mr. Bradford’s side for a number of days. Rosalind knew how scandalous it seemed for a young widow of low status to be in the dormitory of a sick and wealthy middle-aged man. She felt as though it was a repetition of Martin’s death process. Although she never told Mr. Bradford, Rosalind grew to love him and she could not bear to lose another. Mr. Bradford, like Martin, did not deserve death. Rosalind felt as though she was just beginning to feel as though her bondage from mourning left her completely. Martin was gone and he would not return to her. She hardly left Mr. Bradford’s room and did not care if she would catch the sickness. The servants were very kind to Rosalind and helped her take care of Mr. Bradford when the doctor was not there.
Early one morning before dawn, Rosalind found herself sleeping by Mr. Bradford’s feet. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes while looking at Mr. Bradford. His chest was not rising and falling, as it should. With her lips trembling, and her eyes swelling with tears, Rosalind moved slowly toward Mr. Bradford knowing that his skin would be ice cold and his body would be stiff. Rosalind hesitated with her fingertips inches from his face. She bit her bottom lip and placed her fingers on his cheek. It was not cold, clammy or stiff. Instead, Mr. Bradford’s eyelids moved and he turned over to look at Rosalind. Holding her breath, Rosalind could not believe what she saw. Mr. Bradford sat straight up and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said clearly as though nothing was wrong. “Thank you for caring for me.”
“It was the least I could do for your kindness,” Rosalind replied with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mr. Bradford opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor, Mrs. Elliott, and a few others flooded in. The doctor examined Mr. Bradford smiling and shaking his head.
“I am not quite sure how this happened,” the doctor said with a laugh. “The good Lord has blessed you with a miracle, Mr. Bradford!”
The next day or so, the doctor ordered Mr. Bradford to remain in bed with the least amount of commotion so as to not interfere with his healing. Rosalind entertained Mr. Bradford by reading poetry at his bedside or playing the piano downstairs loud enough for him to hear. The more time Rosalind spent with Mr. Bradford, the more she could not imagine being separated from him. She knew she loved him, but she was afraid that Mr. Bradford did not share the same feelings because of his age and status.
“I know that you miss Martin,” said Mr. Bradford quietly one afternoon as Rosalind helped him walk along the beach. “It has been ever so difficult for me these past few months. I’ve tried not to give you too much attention since you still need to mourn. I want to see you happy more than anything. I shall not bother you in the remainder of your mourning if you would like. It is understandable that you and I are very different in respect to our place in society. You were once a lady of privilege and your title was stripped from you because of widowhood; which is preposterous. If you would have me, I would be honored to spend the rest of our days together. If you do not think I could make you happy, I shall not ever bother you again. I want more than anything to see you happy.”
“Mr. Bradford,” Rosalind began, dropping her basket full of shells with tears in her eyes.
“Please, Rosalind,” Mr. Bradford said smiling, as he wiped away her tears with his fingertips. “Call me William.”
The other gravestones for Rosalind’s father-in-law and brother-in-law were placed beside Martin’s merely a month before. They all began with symptoms of sneezing and trouble breathing after a long day hunting together, but it progressively worsened to fever and coughing up blood over the course of a few days. Rosalind’s father-in-law, passed away after a few weeks of sickness with his youngest son following in death only a few days later. It was unexpected for Mr. Elliott and his youngest son to die and Rosalind was determined for her husband to survive. The doctor explained that it was Consumption Disease that took their lives and it was too late to save Martin. She desperately wanted to stay by Martin’s side, but the doctor refused to let her in the room since she would risk her own life with the sickness being contagious.
Feeling a lump grow in her throat, Rosalind swallowed hard and shut her eyes tightly with stray tears dropping down on her knitted black shawl. She wiped her tears with the handkerchief that once belonged to her husband and breathed deeply the smell of cologne and tobacco. Martin was just a memory and Rosalind had to let go of her mourning. She stood slowly and placed the fresh wildflowers beside the gravestone. Rosalind put her gloved fingertips to her lips, kissed them and touched the gravestone, only pausing to watch two birds flutter by.
After kneeling for a long period of time, Rosalind’s knees stiffened as she turned to walk back up the small hill toward Hastings Manor where a carriage waited for her.
“Make haste, Rosalind,” called Rosalind’s mother-in-law, Mrs. Elliott from the carriage. “You will catch a cold in this rain!”
Rosalind pushed herself to race up the hill through the rain that began coming down harder as every minute passed. As she made it half way through the gardens, Rosalind stopped by the fountain and looked up at the three angel statues. A rose from the rose bush nearby had blown onto the hand of one of the angels. The statue’s hand was stretched out toward Rosalind as if he was offering the rose to her. Rosalind took the flower and held it to her heart, gazing up at the angel’s face.
“Please, Rosalind!” Mrs. Elliott called once more from the carriage. “Mr. Billingsly wanted us to leave before noon! He very well might send the dogs after us!”
With one last glimpse at the angel, Rosalind turned and ran to the carriage. She flung the door open and jumped in with mud and water splattering all over the floor.
“You have ruined your petticoat,” pointed out Mrs. Elliott as she arranged her own skirt to the other side of the carriage. “Why must you run amuck in the mud? You can sleep with the pigs if you insist upon acting like one!”
“It can be washed,” Rosalind said quietly, brushing the dirt off her petticoat.
“All of our expensive things are as good as lost since we must sell them for money to live on,” Mrs. Elliott said through her clenched teeth. “Curse that insufferable Billingsly for throwing us out!”
Rosalind sat quietly as she twiddled with her gloves and stared at the floor trying not to let what Mrs. Elliot said hurt her feelings. Ever since Mr. Billingsly declared to Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott that he would inherit their money and their home, Mrs. Elliott had become unusually ill tempered.
“I am ever so sorry, Rosalind,” said Mrs. Elliott rubbing her temples. “This is all too much to handle. We have lost our home, money and respect in society. I cannot imagine what is to become of us. Please do not think less of me, Rosalind. I have never known life outside the elegance of high society. I’m just so very frightened.”
“We shall manage,” Rosalind said softly looking up at her teary eyed mother-in-law. Rosalind was just as frightened as Mrs. Elliott, but her concern was much more over her husband’s death. She was unsure of how she would continue on with life without him. Two years of mourning would go by rather slowly, but Rosalind felt as though she would be mourning until her own death.
Mrs. Elliott nodded and opened the door wide enough to tell the driver they were ready to begin the journey and she quickly shut the door with a loud snap. The carriage jerked forward and Rosalind turned around to look back at the home that she would never see again. She remembered the happy memories she had over the past year with Martin. The grand staircase of Hastings Manor was where Martin proposed under moonlight. She remembered swinging under the oak tree where they read together as she sipped on her tea and he puffed on his pipe. She and Martin were fond of the outdoors and began each day with a morning stroll. Rosalind could almost see the decorations of white and guests seated in the garden where she and Martin were wed.
“I cannot believe Mr. Billingsly,” said Rosalind with her lips pursed turning away after the house disappeared from view behind the trees. “How could they send us away like this?”
“Calm yourself,” Mrs. Elliott said forcefully with her hands folded in her lap. “Mr. Billingsly is the only man left in Mr. Elliott’s family. Hastings Manor must go to him. Quite frankly, he and his wife can do whatever he wishes with it—including sending us away.”
Rosalind began to wonder where they would live since Mr. Billingsly decided to leave a small amount of money for them to live on.
“Where are we to live, Mrs. Elliott?” Rosalind said as they passed by a field of wheat.
“Brighton,” replied Mrs. Elliott taking a deep breath. “It’s a lovely town on the coast of the Mediterranean. It is a very busy sort of place since it is a port of trade. I expect we will be arriving at Preston Manor in two days. Mr. Bradford was expecting us to make it by tomorrow night.”
“Who exactly is Mr. Bradford?” Rosalind asked as she took a deep breath from the scent of Martin’s handkerchief.
“He was a dear friend of my husband’s,” she replied with a smile. “You would have met him at your wedding last year, but he was unable to attend. He served as an officer in the king’s navy alongside my husband. After travelling on the ship, Mr. Bradford wanted to see more of the world and made trading part of his travels. He has made a profit for himself even though the Bradford family fortune was enough to give him a comfortable life. He wanted to see the world and learn anything he could from it. I think you would like him very much, Rosalind. He has been to all of the places that you read about in your books. He will tell you of his travels, I am quite sure. Mr. Bradford was very kind to offer us the small cottage on the estate and I am unsure how I will repay him for his kindness. It will be difficult at this time since Mr. Billingsly is only leaving us a few hundred pounds a year.”
“Do not be concerned about that, Mrs. Elliott,” Rosalind said taking Mrs. Elliott’s hand. “There will be a way.”
“Perhaps you will find a new husband after your mourning,” began Mrs. Elliott squeezing Rosalind’s hand gently. “I cannot give you what you deserve and you should not have to look after an old, lonely woman. A life of widowhood is not for someone of your age and beauty.”
Rosalind did not want to consider loving anyone other than Martin and decided that she would have to accept her widowhood since not very many widows remarried.
* * *
After two days of travel, Rosalind helped Mrs. Elliott out of the carriage in front of a small stone cottage covered in vines less than a mile from the beach. It would take a while for Rosalind to become accustomed to the smell of salt in the air. Brighton was indeed beautiful, but the town was slightly busier than Rosalind would like. To her liking, Rosalind was glad that the cottage had its own sort of privacy away from town. Rosalind was also thankful for the amount of trees surrounding the cottage since Preston Manor was close by. It was difficult for Rosalind to tear her eyes away from Preston Manor, as it looked very much like Hastings. It had the same color of gray stones with a wide front staircase leading to the gardens, making Rosalind wish the Mr. Billingsly had not forced them to leave Hastings. Because of the likeness of the two mansions, Preston Manor would constantly be a reminder of the joyful memories that she once had at Hastings. Therefore, she decided to go out of her way not to look at the house.
“The cottage is a dreary sort of place,” Mrs. Elliot said as they entered the small parlor and removing a sheet of cloth that covered a loveseat. “But it will do. Mr. Bradford said in his letter that he would invite us to dinner when he returned from town.”
Rosalind nodded as she opened all the curtains in the cottage to let in the afternoon sunlight. She took the time to explore the house to find that there were three bedrooms upstairs and a cold kitchen in the basement. Her heart sank as she walked swiftly through the house room by room. There was not a piano to be found. Mrs. Billingsly claimed the piano for her own even though she already had one. Rosalind tried not to hold a grudge since she would never be in Mrs. Billingsly’s batty old presence again. She distracted herself by unpacking her things onto the bed in her new room that overlooked the cobblestone entryway. Her leather trunk was tossed around during the carriage ride and its contents were sprawled about. All of the dresses were wrinkled and an inkbottle toppled out of its box. She was relieved that the ink only dribbled a little on the bottom most corner of the trunk. Some of her music manuscripts were a little crinkled on the corners, but they could be easily flattened out by her books in her other trunk downstairs. Rosalind felt as though she did not have any need for the manuscripts as she did not have a piano. She decided to gently stow them away in the bottom most drawer of her dresser.
“Rosalind,” called Mrs. Elliott from the dining room.
Rosalind closed the drawer with a snap and rushed down the stairs, nearly tripping on the rug in the foyer.
“Mr. Bradford has asked us to join him this evening,” said Mrs. Elliott holding a letter with a beautiful red seal stamped on the front. “Six o’clock, he says.”
“I suppose we should dress nicely,” replied Rosalind setting the silver candlesticks in the center of the table. “It’s a shame that we sold our best dresses. I suppose we would not be able to wear them anyway for the next two years of mourning.”
Mrs. Elliott nodded as she fumbled with the box full of silverware and picked up a fork, examining the monogram.
“Didn’t Mrs. Billingsly say that she wanted the silverware,” asked Rosalind stepping closer to the wooden box with the letter “E” ornately carved on the top.
Mrs. Elliot smiled and winked.
Rosalind had a feeling that Mrs. Elliott kept a few things that Mrs. Billingsly wanted. Since Mr. Elliott passed away, Mrs. Elliott certainly wanted to hold onto her memories through whatever possessions that once belonged to Mr. Elliott. Rosalind, however, was unable to gather much of anything that belonged to Martin, for Mr. And Mrs. Billingsly kept her under close watch when they arrived the week they wanted the Elliott’s to leave.
They both walked arm in arm down the path toward Preston Manor. Rosalind drifted her eyes at her feet, trying not to acknowledge the house’s similarity to Hastings. The butler ushered them into the house and left them in the parlor. To Rosalind’s satisfaction, the inside of the house did not favor Hastings. It was much more spacious and had columns along the edge of the room. Although Rosalind was determined to keep her eyes locked on the white marble floors, her eyes drifted to the corner of the room where a black pianoforte sat gleaming in the sunset. Without Mrs. Elliott’s consent, Rosalind sat down on the bench and ran her fingers across the keys. She looked around the room and saw that Mrs. Elliott had found a seat in a nearby armchair smiling with approval. It had been a few weeks since Rosalind played and she feared that her fingers would not remember. She did not care; therefore she decided to play a piece from memory. Her fingers hit the keys and Rosalind was pleased with the quality of sound. She found herself lost in song with each chord reminding her of the happy times Martin played his violin with her. Her fingers danced along the keys in rhythm, but she suddenly stopped. Rosalind expected to hear Martin’s violin. There was only silence. She bit her bottom lip and swallowed hard with her mouth drying. Rosalind’s hands trembled slightly as they fell into her lap.
“You play marvelously on the pianoforte, Mrs. Elliott,” said a man’s deep voice that startled Rosalind.
Rosalind immediately stood and curtsied with her eyes locked on the floral design on the rug. She knew it was impolite to play a piano without permission. Her fingers ran along the seam of her dress, feeling a tiny hole with a few stray threads poking out.
“Why did you stop,” he asked.
“It’s a duet, sir,” replied Rosalind twirling one of the longer strands of thread around her pinky with her eyes locked on a golden flower on the rug.
“Ah,” he said.
Rosalind swallowed hard and looked up. She assumed the man who stood in the doorway was Mr. Bradford. He was much younger than what she expected. She supposed he was in his early forties since his dark brown hair had speckles of gray around his ears. Rosalind could not tell if there were dimples or wrinkles about his thin lips, but she decided that they were dimples and felt that his smile was inviting. The dimples reminded her of Martin’s whenever he would laugh or smile.
“It was quite beautiful,” Mr. Bradford said with his hand gesturing toward the piano. “Would you honor us again after dinner?”
“Of course,” replied Rosalind wrapping the thread about her pinky so hard that it began to hurt.
Mr. Bradford greeted Mrs. Elliott with a bow and inquired about her health and family. Rosalind stood awkwardly in the center of the room observing the paintings on the walls. Most were portraits of various people whom Rosalind did not recognize while others were of landscapes. When Mr. Bradford invited Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott to join him in the dining room, Rosalind took one last glance at a marble bust of a Grecian woman and followed closely behind Mrs. Elliott and Mr. Bradford who were politely discussing the weather.
Although Rosalind was quite hungry, she remained as polite at the table as she possibly could, hoping that Mr. Bradford would not notice. She was the first to finish her pea soup, but waited nearly ten minutes before the quail was brought to the table since Mr. Bradford and Mrs. Elliott were much slower eaters. Mr. Bradford inquired about the cottage and asked if it was satisfactory. He offered to send a few servants to the cottage and to bring in more furniture or update the linens. Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott explained that the cottage was in perfect order, but Mr. Bradford insisted for them to inform him within the next day of any needs that they would have. He also encouraged Rosalind to visit his trading shop in town once or twice a week. She was embarrassed to say that she could not afford to spend money on a weekly basis and began to refuse his offer.
“Please join me tomorrow morning,” he said after taking a sip of brandy. “Brighton is a difficult town to pass through if one does not know where to go.”
Rosalind hesitated, but agreed to go, knowing that it would be wise to have someone lead her through a town that she had never visited.
Dinner was pleasant, but Rosalind was disappointed that Mr. Bradford did not forget about her playing the piano once more. She reluctantly played three songs upon Mr. Bradford’s request feeling as though she was not prepared. After she finished playing, Mrs. Elliott declared that she and Rosalind were exhausted from their travels and needed rest. Of this, Rosalind was rather thankful as her fingers were cramped. After one last cup of tea, Rosalind and Mrs. Elliott walked back to the cottage with Mr. Bradford escorting them through the torch lit path.
“He is an amiable gentleman,” yawned Mrs. Elliott after she closed the door and making sure Mr. Bradford was out of earshot.
“Yes,” Rosalind replied hoping the bed at the cottage would be comfortable. “Quite amiable.”
“You must tell me about your day with him,” Mrs. Elliott yawned again as they walked up the stairs. “For now, I must bid you good night.”
Rosalind mumbled back with a yawn. She got ready for bed in the darkness without candlelight and found that she could not fall asleep. It was not that the bed was uncomfortable, but, her room was exceedingly cold and she did not have enough blankets.
The next morning, Rosalind asked Mr. Bradford if there were any blankets that could be spared since the house became drafty in the evening. He immediately sent a servant to retrieve a set of thick blankets explaining that they would be at the cottage waiting for her.
Even though Brighton was less than a mile away, Mr. Bradford asked Rosalind if she would not mind walking instead of taking a carriage.
“It isn’t quite the way of a gentleman,” said Mr. Bradford as he placed his hat on his head. “I’m fond of walking, you see.”
“As am I,” Rosalind laughed knowing that she was not like other women who preferred to spend their time indoors.
They walked into town, where Mr. Bradford’s trade-shop was by the docks, talking about music. Rosalind was surprised that Mr. Bradford was knowledgeable about so many composers. He even enjoyed attending operas while in London, which interested Rosalind since she always wanted to go. The trade-shop was not at all what Rosalind expected. It had a number of trinkets from different countries that Mr. Bradford traveled to on a number of his voyages. There were fur coats from Russia, spices from India and even fireworks from China. Thinking the shop only sold trinkets, Rosalind was not aware that the building extended out along the dock where Mr. Bradford owned a bakery, a meat shop, and a winery. There was even a market along the dock with fresh vegetables that Mr. Bradford owned.
Rosalind particularly liked the trade-shop since she longed to travel. She admired Mr. Bradford’s collections and wondered what stories lay behind each trinket. Rosalind quietly walked past a carving of a stone dragon, but her hand clumsily knocked over a set of tiny brass bells that chimed loud enough for anyone in the shop to hear.
“Mrs. Elliott,” said Mr. Bradford as he turned the corner. “Are you hurt?”
“Not at all,” she replied feeling her face grow hotter by the moment. “It was an accident. I am ever so sorry!”
“No matter,” Mr. Bradford laughed as he placed the bells back on their table. “These bells will never sell. You are welcome to have them. I also brought you a basket of food from the market. Mrs. Elliot will be pleased.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly,” said Rosalind with her hand over her heart knowing that the food would give her and Mrs. Elliott flexibility for their small amount of money.
“I insist,” Mr. Bradford said with a smile.
Mr. Bradford guided Rosalind around Brighton over the course of the afternoon, carrying her basket full of food and the tiny brass bells. He showed her the ships along the dock—which ones were his, which ones belonged to friends of his and which ones belonged to foreigners. Rosalind was interested in everything Mr. Bradford showed her in Brighton, taking in every ounce of being in a new environment. She did not care for the busy atmosphere, but she very much liked being with Mr. Bradford.
After Mrs. Elliott and Rosalind had dinner once more with Mr. Bradford that night, Rosalind immediately wanted to find a place in the house for the tiny brass bells. Each bell had a different pitch and they sounded very clear. She did not have interest in playing them, but she found a piece of thick string in her sewing box and tied each one on the string. The next morning, she tied the string of bells outside beside the front door so that the wind from the sea could blow on them to make sounds.
Once or twice a week, Mr. Bradford would walk with Rosalind into Brighton and he would carry her basket full of food back to the cottage. Rosalind enjoyed spending the time with Mr. Bradford, but she would quickly look away anytime their eyes met. Most men were not interested in widows, even in their early twenties. All widows that Rosalind had heard of never remarried and generally lived their lives alone. There were times that Rosalind did not want to be alone for the rest of her life. She often wondered if she could have another chance with love, but she felt guilty for wanting to be with someone other than Martin. She loved and missed him, but Rosalind felt that she was not made for a life of loneliness.
Rosalind’s heart ached with the memory of Martin. Mr. Bradford was an amiable gentleman and Rosalind caught herself any time she would think of Mr. Bradford past friendship. Rosalind was aware of her place and she knew that it was an impossible match since she was no longer a lady in high society. Mr. and Mrs. Billingsly robbed her and Mrs. Elliot of their fortune with no sons to carry on the family name, so they were left in a position of low respect. Mr. Bradford was much too wealthy and his reputation would be severely harmed if he even considered Rosalind as a possible future wife. Rosalind often shook her head in frustration and tried to ignore the flutter in her stomach any time Mr. Bradford was around her. She still held onto the memory of her love for Martin, but she did not know what there was about Mr. Bradford that made her like him so much. He was very kind to Rosalind and she began to like the warm feeling she felt when he smiled or offered his arm to her during their walks into town.
One warm afternoon in July, Rosalind sat on a bench under a tree as she sewed her initials on a plain white handkerchief. She was afraid that she would ruin Martin’s old handkerchief and she wanted to have one of her own that she could actually use. With multicolored thread balls sprawled about her lap, Rosalind hummed to herself sewing a red flower on a corner of the handkerchief. A man’s shadow slowly came into view on the patch of grass by Rosalind’s feet and she quickly looked up to see Mr. Bradford holding fresh wildflowers of purple, orange, blue and white.
“Good day,” he coughed with deep breaths trying to give his usual warm smile, but looking rather pale.
“Are you ill?” said Rosalind guiding him to sit on the bench beside her.
She heard a few twigs crack, and Rosalind spun around seeing the rotund gardener crouched behind the bushes. Rosalind scowled at him and he slowly made his way through the bushes and back toward the gardens.
“The servants are talking,” he explained handing the flowers to Rosalind and coughing a little more severely.
Rosalind looked up at the windows of the house and saw a couple maids peering through the windows, and then suddenly disappearing from view. Mr. Bradford was right. She did think it was rather strange over the past few days when they walked into town together when the passersby spoke in hushed voices and looked at them suspiciously. Rosalind knew that it must look scandalous to outsiders observing a young, poor widow clutching the arm of an older wealthy bachelor. It was obvious to Rosalind that they thought she was planning to use Mr. Bradford for his money. Of course, it was not her intent in the slightest. She could never dream of taking advantage of Mr. Bradford’s kindness, for she cared too much about him.
“I suppose they make assumptions all too quickly about you and me,” wheezed Mr. Bradford with his hand clutching his chest. “We make an unlikely pair especially as I could easily pass as your father.”
Rosalind felt her face grow hot and she began twiddling with the corner of the handkerchief. If Mr. Bradford only saw Rosalind as a daughter, she would not have difficulty with resolving her confusion about her feelings for him. She could remain loving the memory of Martin and would not have to worry about Mr. Bradford’s reputation with a poor widow. She decided that Mr. Bradford was indeed much too old for her and he deserved an older woman who was respectable in society to make him happy. After accidentally poking her finger with the needle, Rosalind turned to Mr. Bradford who had just bent over to cough copious amounts of blood onto the grass. Rosalind did not know what to do and her hands began trembling.
“Mr. Bradford,” she said fearfully watching as he helplessly fell to the ground. “Mr. Bradford!”
Rosalind crouched in shock over him while holding his hand in hers. Mr. Bradford was still breathing, but he appeared unconscious. There was nothing she could do for him on her own.
“Help!” she called looking up at the house feeling hot tears swell up in her eyes. “Help!”
A servant boy walking by halted in his tracks with his eyes wide.
“Please,” cried Rosalind tossing her sewing aside and stepping toward the boy. “Send for help. Send for a doctor.”
The next few hours went past rather slowly. After the servants carried Mr. Bradford to his room, Rosalind sat outside his door in a rather uncomfortable armchair. There was hardly any noise from inside the room, which made her nervous. She was very grateful that the door did not close all the way when the doctor arrived. She watched as the doctor sat on Mr. Bradford’s bed. Rosalind peeked through the crack in the door seeing Mr. Bradford, looking quite pale.
“I’m afraid that it is Consumption Disease,” said the doctor putting his instruments into his black leather bag. “It’s fatal and there are very few who survive. There is not much I can do, Mr. Bradford, except try to keep you comfortable. I’m sorry, sir.”
“You can’t give up on him,” Rosalind said, not caring about eavesdropping or being rude as she pushed the door open.
Mr. Bradford coughed into a towel covered in blood and his breathing became a struggle.
“Who are you,” the doctor asked startled. “You gave me a fright, child.”
“Rosalind,” she replied stepping forward aware of how inappropriate it was for her to intrude. “I am a close friend…almost family. He’s practically the only family I have. Please, sir. You simply cannot let him die! What can I do to help him?”
The doctor still looked shocked that someone would barge in on his time with his patient. He raised his eyebrows at Rosalind and sighed. Rosalind knew the doctor thought ill of her because of the intrusion, but he seemed to be a kind sort of gentleman who must have seen much grief with his patients and their loved ones. The doctor told Rosalind to place a cold, wet cloth on Mr. Bradford’s neck and forehead to help with the fever. He also explained that he needed to drink water and eat something regardless of his lack of appetite.
Despite the gossip of the servants around the house, Rosalind did not leave Mr. Bradford’s side for a number of days. Rosalind knew how scandalous it seemed for a young widow of low status to be in the dormitory of a sick and wealthy middle-aged man. She felt as though it was a repetition of Martin’s death process. Although she never told Mr. Bradford, Rosalind grew to love him and she could not bear to lose another. Mr. Bradford, like Martin, did not deserve death. Rosalind felt as though she was just beginning to feel as though her bondage from mourning left her completely. Martin was gone and he would not return to her. She hardly left Mr. Bradford’s room and did not care if she would catch the sickness. The servants were very kind to Rosalind and helped her take care of Mr. Bradford when the doctor was not there.
Early one morning before dawn, Rosalind found herself sleeping by Mr. Bradford’s feet. She sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes while looking at Mr. Bradford. His chest was not rising and falling, as it should. With her lips trembling, and her eyes swelling with tears, Rosalind moved slowly toward Mr. Bradford knowing that his skin would be ice cold and his body would be stiff. Rosalind hesitated with her fingertips inches from his face. She bit her bottom lip and placed her fingers on his cheek. It was not cold, clammy or stiff. Instead, Mr. Bradford’s eyelids moved and he turned over to look at Rosalind. Holding her breath, Rosalind could not believe what she saw. Mr. Bradford sat straight up and smiled.
“Thank you,” he said clearly as though nothing was wrong. “Thank you for caring for me.”
“It was the least I could do for your kindness,” Rosalind replied with tears streaming down her cheeks.
Mr. Bradford opened his mouth to speak, but the doctor, Mrs. Elliott, and a few others flooded in. The doctor examined Mr. Bradford smiling and shaking his head.
“I am not quite sure how this happened,” the doctor said with a laugh. “The good Lord has blessed you with a miracle, Mr. Bradford!”
The next day or so, the doctor ordered Mr. Bradford to remain in bed with the least amount of commotion so as to not interfere with his healing. Rosalind entertained Mr. Bradford by reading poetry at his bedside or playing the piano downstairs loud enough for him to hear. The more time Rosalind spent with Mr. Bradford, the more she could not imagine being separated from him. She knew she loved him, but she was afraid that Mr. Bradford did not share the same feelings because of his age and status.
“I know that you miss Martin,” said Mr. Bradford quietly one afternoon as Rosalind helped him walk along the beach. “It has been ever so difficult for me these past few months. I’ve tried not to give you too much attention since you still need to mourn. I want to see you happy more than anything. I shall not bother you in the remainder of your mourning if you would like. It is understandable that you and I are very different in respect to our place in society. You were once a lady of privilege and your title was stripped from you because of widowhood; which is preposterous. If you would have me, I would be honored to spend the rest of our days together. If you do not think I could make you happy, I shall not ever bother you again. I want more than anything to see you happy.”
“Mr. Bradford,” Rosalind began, dropping her basket full of shells with tears in her eyes.
“Please, Rosalind,” Mr. Bradford said smiling, as he wiped away her tears with his fingertips. “Call me William.”