Lady Rosamund Confesses
A Rosie and McBrae Mystery novella
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After the terrifying experience of confronting a murderer, Lady Rosamund retreats, along with her father and McBrae, to the home of friends in the country for some much-needed relaxation.
But before long, they find themselves embroiled in the affairs of a neighboring family, and soon this involves a corpse. If this isn’t trouble enough, Rosie can’t figure out what McBrae’s intentions are—not to mention her own. Will he ask her to marry him? What will she reply? And what more must she confess before daring to say yes? This novella takes place immediately after Lady Rosamund and the Plague of Suitors. UNIVERSAL BUY LINK |
Here's an excerpt from Lady Rosamund Confesses
Lady Rosamund is a guest of Lord and Lady Elderwood at their manor house a few hours from London. Lord Elderwood, like Rosie's father, is passionately interested in folklore.
I woke suddenly to the howling of wind and the tumult of a downpour of rain.
I enjoy storms—they are so invigorating—so I climbed out of bed, donned my slippers, and padded over to the window. My bedchamber was at the end of the east wing, a perfect room with two windows—one overlooking the path to the stables, and the other framing the kitchen garden, the orchard, and the valley beyond, which descended to the brook.
At this second, larger window, I threw up the sash to savor the wind and rain. What a wild night! I stood for several minutes at the window, watching the tossing of the trees, getting a little wet in the process but not minding at all.
Was that a light I spied coming up the valley toward the garden? Unlikely; who would be out with a lantern in this gusty weather? Not only that, the light was blue and just barely visible, sparking in and out. Whatever could it be?
The light vanished, and the door in the garden wall blew open. A slight figure in a white nightdress staggered through. Good heavens, who would be out in this sort of weather? A sleepwalker?
A snatch of her despairing wail came to me on the wind. “I can’t…oh, help…” She sank to her knees.
Appalled, I lit a candle and took the nearby servants’ stairs to the garden door below. I struggled with the bolt, dragged the door open, and hurried into the storm. I slogged down the muddy garden path to the girl, who had struggled to her feet again.
She looked up, saw me, and put out a hand. “Help me, please! Hurry! He’s coming, he’ll get me…”
“No one’s coming,” I said. I couldn’t be sure that was so, but in this weather, how likely was it? On the other hand, her arrival was unlikely, too, and whoever “he” might be, I didn’t want to find out. McBrae might tout my bravery, but without my pistol (which would be useless in the rain even if I did have it), I was as helpless as she was.
I shut and bolted the gate, then half dragged, half carried her to the house and, still supporting her, locked the door. The poor child—for she was very young, at that gawky stage at the threshold of adulthood—was covered with mud and fallen leaves, and shivering and shaking with cold and fear. “Come now, let’s get you warmed up and dried off. You’ll have to climb the stairs, I’m afraid. My bedchamber is just above us.”
“I shall manage, thank you,” she said, and I realized then that her accent was cultured; she was no waif or servant girl, but a lady. “This is…this is Lord Elderwood’s house, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I said, climbing slowly beside her to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Oh, good, I haven’t come to the wrong place. I know the way in daylight, but it’s so dark, and what with the wind and rain I couldn’t see the path, but I followed the little blue light.”
“I saw the light from the window,” I said. “What was it? I’ve never seen such a light.”
“Nor have I,” the girl said, “but I expect it was a will o’ the wisp. What else could it be?”
Drat—not another person who believed in folk magic! I hoped she wasn’t a lunatic escaped from an asylum, for Lord Elderwood might be obliged to return her there, a thought I dreaded. I wouldn’t wish that horrid sort of incarceration on anyone, but what else is one to do with a person who is truly mad?
And in any event, how does one distinguish madness from eccentricity? Unless a person is a danger to society—a murderer, for example—surely there is a better way than locking them up.
“Who are you?” she asked suddenly.
I introduced myself, adding, “I’m merely a guest, so I’d best ring for Lady Elderwood’s maid. Or perhaps wake Lady Elderwood?”
One never knew how servants would react to something outside their normal sphere, but Lady Elderwood wouldn’t be fazed.
“Yes, please,” she said, “Lady Elderwood will know what to do.”
We reached the top of the stairs, and who should be there, holding a lantern, but my hostess herself.
The girl saw her and burst into tears.
Lady Rosamund is a guest of Lord and Lady Elderwood at their manor house a few hours from London. Lord Elderwood, like Rosie's father, is passionately interested in folklore.
I woke suddenly to the howling of wind and the tumult of a downpour of rain.
I enjoy storms—they are so invigorating—so I climbed out of bed, donned my slippers, and padded over to the window. My bedchamber was at the end of the east wing, a perfect room with two windows—one overlooking the path to the stables, and the other framing the kitchen garden, the orchard, and the valley beyond, which descended to the brook.
At this second, larger window, I threw up the sash to savor the wind and rain. What a wild night! I stood for several minutes at the window, watching the tossing of the trees, getting a little wet in the process but not minding at all.
Was that a light I spied coming up the valley toward the garden? Unlikely; who would be out with a lantern in this gusty weather? Not only that, the light was blue and just barely visible, sparking in and out. Whatever could it be?
The light vanished, and the door in the garden wall blew open. A slight figure in a white nightdress staggered through. Good heavens, who would be out in this sort of weather? A sleepwalker?
A snatch of her despairing wail came to me on the wind. “I can’t…oh, help…” She sank to her knees.
Appalled, I lit a candle and took the nearby servants’ stairs to the garden door below. I struggled with the bolt, dragged the door open, and hurried into the storm. I slogged down the muddy garden path to the girl, who had struggled to her feet again.
She looked up, saw me, and put out a hand. “Help me, please! Hurry! He’s coming, he’ll get me…”
“No one’s coming,” I said. I couldn’t be sure that was so, but in this weather, how likely was it? On the other hand, her arrival was unlikely, too, and whoever “he” might be, I didn’t want to find out. McBrae might tout my bravery, but without my pistol (which would be useless in the rain even if I did have it), I was as helpless as she was.
I shut and bolted the gate, then half dragged, half carried her to the house and, still supporting her, locked the door. The poor child—for she was very young, at that gawky stage at the threshold of adulthood—was covered with mud and fallen leaves, and shivering and shaking with cold and fear. “Come now, let’s get you warmed up and dried off. You’ll have to climb the stairs, I’m afraid. My bedchamber is just above us.”
“I shall manage, thank you,” she said, and I realized then that her accent was cultured; she was no waif or servant girl, but a lady. “This is…this is Lord Elderwood’s house, isn’t it?”
“It is,” I said, climbing slowly beside her to make sure she didn’t fall.
“Oh, good, I haven’t come to the wrong place. I know the way in daylight, but it’s so dark, and what with the wind and rain I couldn’t see the path, but I followed the little blue light.”
“I saw the light from the window,” I said. “What was it? I’ve never seen such a light.”
“Nor have I,” the girl said, “but I expect it was a will o’ the wisp. What else could it be?”
Drat—not another person who believed in folk magic! I hoped she wasn’t a lunatic escaped from an asylum, for Lord Elderwood might be obliged to return her there, a thought I dreaded. I wouldn’t wish that horrid sort of incarceration on anyone, but what else is one to do with a person who is truly mad?
And in any event, how does one distinguish madness from eccentricity? Unless a person is a danger to society—a murderer, for example—surely there is a better way than locking them up.
“Who are you?” she asked suddenly.
I introduced myself, adding, “I’m merely a guest, so I’d best ring for Lady Elderwood’s maid. Or perhaps wake Lady Elderwood?”
One never knew how servants would react to something outside their normal sphere, but Lady Elderwood wouldn’t be fazed.
“Yes, please,” she said, “Lady Elderwood will know what to do.”
We reached the top of the stairs, and who should be there, holding a lantern, but my hostess herself.
The girl saw her and burst into tears.
Content copyright 2025, Barbara Monajem. All rights reserved.
