The Countess's Groom by Emily Larkin

together to imply a falsehood. Will sent up a silent prayer of apology, I’m sorry, mother .
    Mr. Theed’s eyebrows lifted slightly. Behind him, the shopman smirked.
    “It’s an exceptionally superior piece.” Theed picked up the necklace again, frowning. “A French setting. I’ve only ever seen one other like it.”
    Will’s heart seemed to stop beating for an instant. Had Theed seen the necklace before? Did he know it had belonged to a well-born French lady, not a nobleman’s mistress?
    “Very similar, that piece was,” Theed said, his frown deepening.
    The wig felt as if it were tightening around Will’s skull. I should have gone to Birmingham, not London.
    …
    Rose began to feign a growing melancholy. She was listless, she picked at her food. She wrote in the journal in her escritoire, the one Boyle could read if she chose to spy on her, describing her dread of Henry’s return and wishing she were dead. At night, once the servants were asleep, she crafted a suicide letter and sprinkled drops of water over it, as if she’d wept while writing it. And after that was written, she wrote in her secret journal, detailing her dreams of her future with Will. An orchard and a vegetable garden, chickens and a cow to milk. And if God smiles upon us, children. They will not be cribbed and confined, as I was. They shall run in the meadows and climb trees and laugh.
    Nine days passed. Ten. Eleven. The moon grew larger.
    Boyle was reading the journal in her escritoire; twice Rose found the ribbon marking the pages folded wrongly. The only place where I am fractionally happy is the lake , she wrote for the maid to read. When I kill myself, I think it will be there. At night, when all is dark and peaceful . And she sprinkled drops of water on the page.
    …
    The fourteenth day after Will’s dismissal dawned clear. Her afternoon picnic at the lake approached with glacial slowness. Finally the clock struck two. Dancer caught Rose’s mood, prancing eagerly along the path. The water came into sight, the folly, the little rowboat. Tension grew in Rose’s chest until she could barely breathe. She looked for the stone Will had said he’d leave to signal his return.
    It was there.
    Relief flooded through her. Tears sprang to her eyes and spilled over.
    “Ma’am...” the under groom said awkwardly. “Is something wrong?”
    No. It’s joy . “I beg your pardon, Simpkin.” She wiped her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m not myself today.”

    The hours tumbled past, as fast as they’d previously been slow. It took immense effort not to fidget while Boyle readied her for bed. She wanted to shoo the woman from the room. Out! Out! Hurry!
    “Simpkin tells me you were upset today, at the lake,” Boyle said while she tucked Rose in bed.
    “Oh?” Rose said listlessly. “Maybe.” She pressed her face into the pillow, hiding a smile.
    “I think you’re becoming overwrought, Countess. I must ask that you drink this.”
    “What?” She turned her head to find Boyle holding out a glass.
    “Laudanum.”
    Rose’s heart seemed to stutter to a terrified halt. Laudanum? But then I’ll sleep all night!
    “It’s either this, or I lock your door.”
    “What?” Panic surged inside her. She pushed up to sit. “No!”
    “Don’t think I can’t get this down your throat,” the maid said grimly. “The footmen will help, if you give me too much trouble.”
    “You can’t do this to me!”
    Boyle smiled with thin-lipped satisfaction. “Your husband gave me permission to manage you how I see fit. Now which is it to be? Laudanum or—”
    “Lock the door,” Rose said through numb lips.
    “Very well.” The maid put the glass on the bedside table, crossed the room, and closed the door behind her. The key rattled in the lock. The heavy tread of her footsteps faded.
    Rose scrambled out of bed and ran to the door, tugging the handle uselessly. How will I reach Will?
    She swung around and ran across the room, flung open the