A Trace of Roses

by Connolly, Lynne

  Her face turned yellow as it drained of all color, and her eyes clouded over. She wasn’t seeing him anymore.

  He couldn’t climb down the rope ladder, or use the winch, so he took her to the bed and laid her down, ensuring the chamber pot was within reach.

  “One of you, get back to the house and tell Lady Carbrooke what has happened. Assure her that I’ll take her back to the house. The other, stay here. I’ll need your help.” Then he addressed Baker. “Get the bosun’s chair ready.”

  Behind him, she moaned and turned to use the pot. “Sorry,” she whispered when she was done.

  Her apology angered him. She should not feel that way.

  Thank God he knew what to do. If he hadn’t seen her like this before, he would have panicked. “Don’t be foolish,” he said. “Quiet now. Try to sleep.”

  She was broken, utterly undone, and Grant refused to stand by and act the gentleman. The ship’s movements, gentle though they were, wouldn’t help her any. She needed her home.

  Half an hour later, Dorcas weakly assured him that she was ready to go home. In fact, she insisted on it. Obviously, he was not yet forgiven as his suggestion that he’d send for her sister-in-law, maid and anyone else she wanted was instantly rejected.

  Getting her ashore was the worst part. Once they’d achieved that, and he’d unstrapped her from the bosun’s chair, he carried her to the waiting carriage.

  Although her carriage was not crested and the attendants not in livery, the vehicle was easy to pick out. Grant shoved his way through the people gathering ashore. He stepped over the ropes, nets and suchlike in his way, his aim to reach her carriage before she was sick again. He nearly got there, too.

  Grim-faced, the footman opened the door, and Grant stepped inside. He didn’t let her go until they’d traveled to her house, and he put her gently into her own bed. By then, she was deeply asleep.

  Then he left, brushing away her brother’s stammered thanks.

  Shaken by the sight of the vibrant Dorcas drawn low by illness, satisfied she was in the best place, Grant returned to his ship. He wanted this business sorted out, his ship unloaded, reloaded with the cargo waiting for it in his warehouse, and back on its way to China. All his pleasure in this journey had turned to dust.

  He would find out who destroyed her plants, and he would make them pay for it. They would never work for him again. When he took an order, he wanted it fulfilled properly. Even if someone he didn’t know had ordered those roses, he would have been mortified by the failure of the mission.

  His temper barely in check, he strode aboard. He ignored the curious stares of the crew still aboard, and went to find the quartermaster. He would not wait on the man.

  He found Baker below decks, checking items off on his list.

  “What happened?” he demanded without preamble.

  Baker lowered the list, and stared at Grant over the top of his gold-framed spectacles. Grant couldn’t remember where he’d seen them before, then he did. Dorcas’ sister used similar ones, when poring over her books. The image of them propped on Lady Delphi’s nose as she studied some ancient text written in a hand too tiny to read with the naked eye flashed into his mind.

  He waited.

  “Pardon me, your grace, what are you referring to?”

  He clicked his tongue. “The plants for Lady Dorcas. What happened? They were as dry as twigs. Dead.”

  Baker shrugged. “They may come around. Give them to a gardener.” He must have seen the fury in Grant’s eyes, as he shook his head and let his expression melt into exasperation. “Truly, your grace, I have no idea.”

  Interesting that he used Grant’s full honorific, where Grant usually accepted the less formal “sir”. Apparently, he finally understood the danger he was in.

  “When I take an order, I expect it to be fulfilled as well as possible. If we accept it, then it must be treated with as much care as a full cargo of tea.”

  Baker paused, then put the manifest down on a nearby crate. The decks above creaked, but that was normal for a ship in water. Still, the creaking was more than normal. Grant would ensure the decks were carefully examined and repaired before the ship set sail again.

  “Indeed, your grace, I regret the injury to her ladyship’s plants. I presume they were lost aboard and forgotten.” When Grant would have spoken, he carried on. “I will discover who was responsible for the upkeep and send them away. We won’t employ them again.”

  “We had better not.” That was the least of it.

  Still not mollified, Grant understood he would get no more today. “I want replacements ordered, and delivered to Lady Dorcas at my expense.”

  “Yes, your grace. But it will take at least half a year to get the order to her. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

  His gaze was graver now, his eyes gleaming in the half-light filtering through from above, and the single candle set carefully on a barrel.

  Considering the danger of fire aboard, the candle was covered with a glass tube, which also enlarged the flame, making the flickering orange tongue reach higher for the air it needed. Shadows flickered over Baker’s weather-worn face. “I’ll find her original order and try to get as good or better.”

  “Add an extra plant,” Grant said, uncaring of the price. It would be expensive, he was sure of it. But these days, he could afford it, and he begrudged Dorcas nothing.

  “Yes, sir.”

  At least they were back to “sir”.

  The creaking from above shifted.

  Grant stared up at the deck and then back at Baker, who met his gaze, alarm in his eyes. “Should there be anybody up there?” he asked.

  “No, sir. That storage area was cleared this morning.”

  “Where does it lead?”

  “From the main deck to the stairs at the end, leading down here. They’re coming down. I’m not expecting anybody.”

  Grant puffed out a frustrated breath. “Excise, most likely. They’ll want their taxes.”

  “We pay it at the normal place. They’re over at the warehouse, counting barrels and putting their mark on them.”

  Grant nodded and fixed Baker with cold eyes. “Everything is done properly, isn’t it? Taxes are ridiculously high, but we need to pay them, so we can call our produce honest and legal. People buy from us because of that.”

  Baker bowed his head. “Yes, sir. Everything is in order.”

  Footsteps clattered down the stairs, the pace urgent. A shout went up. “Here they are!”

  More feet, more noise. But Grant wasn’t concerned with them right now because the man from the shore charged him, bowling him off his feet and pushing him against a table.

  His attacker on the quay was no casual pickpocket. And this time, the man had a gun.

  Grant shouted, and lashed out, trying to get hold of the pistol before the man could use it, but the impetus had taken him off guard, and his aim was off. Kicking out, he swung up, preparing to dodge. The man with the gun fell back with a satisfying thump, rocking the boards beneath them.

  Raising his fists, Grant hit out as a blinding crack to his temple made him see stars. His vision faded. The last thing he saw was the first man, his nose gushing blood, pulling back the hammer of the pistol.

  Chapter Nine

  “Blackridge delivered your things,” Gerald told Dorcas two days after pain had struck her down, when she could finally open her eyes properly and even eat a light meal. She’d stayed in bed, because there wasn’t much else she could do and on the third day, finally the heaviness had gone, and she felt like herself again.

  “What things?”

  “The seeds.”

  While she’d been lying very still, she had nothing to do but think. Occasionally, she tolerated her maid reading to her, which relieved the tedium.

  People without this condition didn’t understand that as well as excruciating pain, waiting for it to pass was terribly boring. She couldn’t think properly, and she couldn’t put up with much light, either.


  Reading was out of the question. Noise, as long as it wasn’t too loud, was fine, but the servants still tiptoed around her room when she was having an attack.

  What made this so unfair was that her sisters didn’t suffer from it. Not that she would wish it on them, but she alone suffered from this condition. The megrims, her doctor called it. Her brother had scoured London for a physician that did not either prescribe opiates or patronize her, calling the agony “hysterical” or “in her imagination”.

  The pain had passed, and now she felt as if she’d been wrung out and hung out to dry. She was sitting up in bed, having consumed her first dish of tea for days.

  He grimaced. “You told him to dispose of the rose plants. I’m sorry, Dorcas.”

  She lifted a shoulder in a half-shrug. “So am I, but there’s not much point thinking about it now.”

  “Will you send for more?”

  She paused. If she told him she couldn’t afford it, he’d offer to help her as he had before. This time, she wanted to do this on her own. “Not yet,” she said eventually. “I can spend the time experimenting with the seeds and practicing my grafting technique.” That sounded right.

  He watched her carefully. Nobody knew her better than Gerald, not even her sisters. He’d brought her up, he’d sat with her when her megrims turned so painful that she thought she was going to die.

  Despite the feeling that she’d been wrung out and left damp, Dorcas tried hard to explain to him. He knew how much developing the yellow rose meant to her, and understood some of the implications.

  “With the revolution in landscape design and hothouses, horticulturalists are creating species that are the stuff of legend. I want to be part of it.” Forced to speak in a soft monotone, she had to force the passion out of her voice. At this time, passion hurt.

  The megrims affected every part of her, not just her head. Gerald understood.

  Her maid entered the room and trod softly over to the bed. She held a small china basin, with several cloths draped over the edge. “Thank you, Brigstock, but I don’t need the damp cloths anymore,” Dorcas said. “I appreciate your care. Could you ask in the kitchen if there is something light to eat, please? A small bowl of broth, a piece of bread, something of that nature.”

  In a few hours, her stomach would rumble. She’d only drunk barley water for the past couple of days. “And some more tea,” she added. That would be perfect.

  Brigstock, a pretty woman about the same age as Dorcas, bowed. “The kitchen will, I’m sure, expend its best efforts, ma’am.”

  Brigstock had come to Dorcas a mere six months ago, but she’d proved her worth over and above her careful conservation of the fine gowns Dorcas now owned. Her understanding and care of her mistress when the megrims struck helped Dorcas enormously with her recovery.

  Trust was important to Dorcas. Brigstock had never gossiped, and society remained generally uninformed about Dorcas’ sudden illnesses.

  Although Blackridge knew. After helping to care for Dorcas during a trip to visit the Observatory at Greenwich had gone wrong, he had also proved his worth. He understood the necessity of quiet and dim lighting, and the calm atmosphere that helped her recover. That had brought them together.

  And then there were those kisses. His courtship had been low-key, gentle, but determined. His absence left a void in Dorcas’ life.

  “I missed the contract signing.” That meant it hadn’t happened.

  “He left a message for you.” Gerald continued. He handed her a note. Dorcas broke the seal.

  Dear Lady Dorcas,

  I was sorry you were so indisposed. However, I am forced to inform you that I have come to my senses. We cannot marry under any circumstances, you must understand that our union is impossible. I regret my words. I am to marry an old family friend, as we always planned. We will speak no more of our recent foolishness. I believe we were both carried away in the moment. My best regards,

  Blackridge.

  “That’s all he has to say?” Dorcas bit her lip. Her tantrum on the ship must have given him the worst possible opinion of her. Although she had good cause, nothing excused her behavior. Blackridge must have a dislike of her now. He didn’t mention the betrothal, not once, as if it had never happened.

  She gave Gerald the note to read.

  Closing her eyes, she groaned. She should be furious, but she didn’t have the energy. No doubt that would come.

  Gerald touched her hand where it lay on top of the sheets, and gently squeezed it. He said nothing, but his sympathy transmitted itself to Dorcas. Blackridge had courted her all season, but the message told her that was over.

  “Will society say he jilted me?”

  Gerald heaved a sigh. “I don’t know, Dorcas. But he asked you to marry him in the hearing of witnesses. We could sue him for breach of promise.”

  “Oh, no!” She couldn’t bear it. All the gossip would be too humiliating. Bad enough that he had walked away from her. Worse to know everyone was laughing at her.

  “I only suggested it in case you wanted to,” Gerald said. “But at least this is the end of the season. If we don’t mention it, then perhaps the gossip will fade away by the time we visit Chatsworth.”

  That would happen in August, over a month away. “I won’t go if he is going.”

  “No. None of us will. We’ll leave for our home in Hampshire at the end of the week, then go up to the Derbyshire house two weeks after that. A few quiet weeks at home will benefit us all.”

  She appreciated her brother’s support more than she could say, so she just squeezed his arm. They were to stay in London until the end of June, but leaving early would suit. In a month, she could pretend indifference with more confidence.

  A tear ran down the side of her face, and she was too weak to suppress it.

  Gerald murmured, “Never mind,” and touched the tear.

  She shook his hand off. She would not cry for her lost suitor. After all, he had wrecked her rose plants. Why should she care what he thought of her?

  But she did.

  Chapter Ten

  Consciousness came slowly. Grant’s head throbbed, and when he turned it on the soft surface—a pillow, he realized—a sharp pain added to the throb. What had happened to him? The scent of ivory soap, lavender and sandalwood told him where he was. “I’m at home, aren’t I?”

  “Yes.” The cool voice of his valet answered him. “You have been very ill, your grace, but you are on the mend now.”

  “Johnson.” He remembered his valet’s name with relief. His mind was fuzzy, but his senses were returning. He knew who he was, who others were. He’d been in and out of consciousness, and he had no idea how long he’d been here. He had flashes of memory, opening his eyes to bright day and being forced to take food, opening his eyes to darkness and asking for something to drink. Someone had always been there for him. “How long?”

  “A week, sir.”

  Dear God, a week? Vague memories came to him of disembodied pain, people talking in soft voices.

  “We called a physician, the one your mother uses when in London. He told us to keep you sedated, and pray.”

  “My mother is here?”

  “She brought your brother to London the day after the attack.”

  Just in case he died, Grant thought grimly, and left his brother to inherit.

  Grant opened his eyes a slit. The light dazzled him. “Close the curtains, Johnson, would you?”

  “They are closed, your grace. May I suggest you take your time opening your eyes.”

  It sounded like a good idea to Grant. His mother must be disappointed. David would not inherit just yet, after all. “Tell me all. Remind me. How was I hurt?”

  “You were attacked on board your ship, The Voyager, at the Pool of London. Your quartermaster was with you.”

  “Baker?”

  “The very one, sir.” The valet was moving around the room, quietly shifting things. Grant heard water pouring into a basin. “If you will allow me, s
ir, I will wash you now. The physician ordered the wound be kept clean. If you feel up to it, of course.”

  “Naturally.” He remembered Baker, but he couldn’t remember seeing him recently. The only memory he had was before the Voyager had set out on the long voyage to China. “So the ship has returned, then?”

  The trickle of water stopped. “Yes, your grace. You went down to the Pool of London to see the dinner service you ordered. And to check the manifests, you said.”

  Grant swallowed his panic down. All this was new to him. He remembered ordering the service, but not the ship arriving at the Pool. Lifting his arm, he touched his head gingerly. And yelped in pain. “So I was hit on the head?”

  “Severely, your grace. You must have fought hard before you went down. At first, we despaired of you, but once the swelling subsided, you seemed to recover. Your fever went and you slept better. The physician told us that your brain was swollen inside your head, and that was the main danger.”

  The cool voice buoyed him. Johnson rarely showed much emotion, but Grant knew him better than most. The calmness overlied relief and concern.

  This time, he managed to open his eyes. He lay still and recalled what he could of recent events.

  He was lying in his bed in his London house. The season was nearly over. He was planning to go to the country very soon.

  But he couldn’t remember a damned thing about his week in bed or what happened immediately before it. Not the ship, or seeing Baker or anything else. “How is Baker?”

  Johnson paused. He was folding towels, stacking them in a neat pile. “He fought the attackers bravely, sir. He was taken to his home, and he is recovered. He is waiting to discuss the matter with you, your grace.”

  “Send word to him. I’ll see him as soon as possible,” Grant said. Something nudged at his memory, but when he tried to chase it, it melted away. He needed to discuss this. Something told him this attack was not an opportunistic attempt to rob him, but something else. More sinister.