The Tarrant Rose

by Veronica Heley

  “Jasper is safe?”

  “Yes. He sent word he would try to obtain lodgings in the city of Carlisle itself. I think that would be folly, but there is no arguing with the lad at the moment. He is drunk on the smell of powder. You have not told Sophia what Jasper is doing?”

  “No, but I wish you would tell her. She has learned her lesson, I think. She was jealous of your attentions to Marjorie.”

  “A poor excuse. If I couldn’t trust her with such a small secret, how can I trust her with anything of importance? Granted that it was not Maijorie who broadcast the tale, but …”

  “I am pretty certain that the spy is Sophia’s maid. I have seen her skirt disappearing round corners once or twice, after I have been talking to you. I think we are safe in here, now that I have had that heavy curtain draped over the door—it keeps the drafts out so nicely, too—but I think you ought to have her watched.”

  “I will set Mr. Dodge—or better still, Chivers—on to her. If the Jacobites were to learn what Jasper is doing, his life would not be worth a rush. On the other hand, if I wanted to feed the Jacobites some misleading information, I could tell Sophia and leave the rest to her.”

  “For shame! You do not mean that, Philip!”

  He shrugged, but his color rose. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. She is behaving very badly, you will agree. I have asked her to take over the management of this house, and she has declined to do so. I have asked her to be more discreet with Sir John and Mr. Dalby, and she is seen everywhere with them. I confided my political ambitions to her, and she has mocked them in public and in private, calling me Philip the Bold, and Philip the Cold and suchlike names. I tell myself that I can afford to ignore her pinpricks, but …”

  “But they hurt,” said Miss Nan. “Of course, you understand that she is merely trying to attract your attention, and that the more you ignore her the more outrageous she becomes? Why don’t you woo her? Why don’t you take her in your arms and tell her that you love her?”

  He inspected his fingernails. “What makes you think that I do?” She did not reply. A coal rustled itself into a new position in the grate. He said, as if every word hurt him, “I did try to tell her, once. She laughed at me. I deserved her scorn. I wasn’t offering her marriage, at the time. I offered to make her my mistress. It was before I thought marriage between us might be possible, and I wanted her so badly that …” He clenched his hand, and then relaxed it. “Anyway, she made it clear that she did not reciprocate.”

  “You insulted her, and she retaliated. Well, that is quite clear. Why did you marry her, then?”

  “Guilt, for depriving her of her home and a suitable marriage? Perhaps out of revenge, also, because she detested me.”

  “Does she, now?” said Miss Nan, in a meaning tone. “Believe me, she wouldn’t go to all this trouble to annoy you if she were indifferent to you. I wasn’t going to tell you at first, but now I think I will. She has arranged to go with Sir John to a masquerade at Ranelagh tonight.”

  “She told me she was going to a card party at Lady Midmain’s.”

  “Exactly. Now I think that a good quarrel between you two would clear the air. You must put her over your knee, or rape her, or slap her; anything to prove to her that you are her husband, and not ‘Philip the Cold.’”

  “Madam, I am not in the habit of forcing myself on women who are not attracted to …”

  “Philip! And you so wise about other people’s problems. … The girl is swooning for you. It is your duty to exercise your matrimonial rights. I suggest that you send to the stables at once to countermand her instructions as to having the coach brought round at nine. Sir John, being a careful man with his money, prefers to use your coach on these occasions … so stupid of him! If he had hired a coach, I might never have heard of the venture, but Chivers naturally told me, the moment he heard.”

  Philip bent over her hand. “Thank you, my dear. I will do as you suggest; and you may tell Hugh Denbigh that I think he is a very lucky man.”

  Miss Nan blushed to the frill round her very becoming cap, and told him to be about his business.

  “I hear you’ve countermanded my instructions to the servants! How dare you!” The Countess of Rame swung through the double doors of the drawing-room and slammed them shut behind her. She wore a domino of dark blue over a low-cut dress of pale blue silk. The Earl was engaged in writing a note at the desk in the corner of the room. He looked up, and advised her to moderate her voice if she did not wish to have the servants pry into their affairs.

  “The whole Town shall hear,” she threatened. “It must be all over the house already that you have prevented me from going out tonight. What will everyone think?”

  “That I’m being very sensible. It is raining, and Ranelagh is full of riffraff nowadays. I dare not think what insults you might have had to suffer if you attended a masquerade there.”

  “But … I was going to a card party at my aunt’s.”

  “Dressed like that? By the way, you need not worry that Sir John will fret; I am sending a footman round to his lodgings to inform him that you are indisposed this evening.”

  “Indisposed! Yes, I am sick—sick of you!”

  He folded his letter, and began to write the superscription. “Do pray moderate your tone. You sound like a fishwife.”

  “A fishwife?”

  “You repeat yourself, I think.”

  She picked up a paperweight from a nearby table, and lacking a more appropriate target threw it into the fireplace. It did not break, but rolled back onto the carpet. “Oh!” She beat both hands against the panniers of her dress.

  “Temper!” remarked the Earl.

  She looked around for something else to throw. A book lay on the table. The temptation was too great. She threw it at his head. He caught the book and set it down with care. “A good shot, for a woman.”

  She ran at him, fingers raised and crooked. He rose, but not quickly enough. His heel caught in the leg of his chair and they both went over, onto the floor. Clawing, biting, her nails seeking his cheek, she closed with him. Her aim was to mark his face, and at first he was content merely to defend himself without hurting her. She put her weight on his weak arm, and felt pleasure as he gasped. He had recovered his usual strength, but rage lent her energy. Their breathing became short and sharp. A table went over. It winded her momentarily, and he secured her right arm, holding it above her head. She groped around on the floor with her free hand … something round … another paperweight … she threw it at his head; it missed, and a mirror shattered behind him. They were both on their feet, glaring at each other. He had cut his hand, and lost his wig. The lace at his throat hung loose and one sleeve had been torn from the shoulderseam. She pointed at the blood which was dripping from his hand, laughed, and picked up a fallen chair to use as a weapon. He caught the chair and deflected it onto the floor, following through to grasp her elbow and twist it, using his weight to throw her to the floor once more. She struck at him with her free hand. He caught that, too, and held it above her head, forcing her to lie flat on her back … she could not move her arms. She kicked, and he sat on her. She had a hand free … raking at his face … her hand was caught again … her wrist! He was crushing her wrists … and then her skirts were being pulled up, billowing up … and then. …

  His weight was more than she could bear. She could not bear it. She could not shift him. She tried to scratch, but he had both her wrists fast in his grasp. The blood trickled down his cheek onto hers. She twisted and turned, but her body was no longer her own to control, and … “Oh!” she cried, in a breathless voice that she did not recognize. “Oh!” Then with a shudder he was still, lying across her, and his grip tightened, and then relaxed, so that her hands fell apart on the carpet.

  Her hair had come down. His cheek was warm against hers. She could feel his breath hot against her lips.

  He rolled off her. She was free to get up. She didn’t want to move. She continued to lie there, with her hands above her head,
her hair half over her face, and her skirts round her waist. After a while she heard the door open, and then close. She turned her head, then. It cost her a great effort to move even her head. The room was empty. He had gone.

  Presently she got to her feet. Her knees trembled. Her skirt was ripped from side to side, and bruises were coloring up on her arms and wrists. There were bloodstains on her hands. She looked at herself in a mirror, starred where she had broken it, and her reflection stared back, split into a dozen segments, none of which matched its neighbor.

  A sound attracted her attention. Several of the servants were at the door, peering in. She walked through them and up the stairs into her bedroom. She would not explain. There was, perhaps, no need to explain. It must be obvious to everyone what had happened, and the news would be all over Town tomorrow.

  Philip felt humiliated. He had been trained never to let his temper get the better of him, and yet he had beaten and raped a woman whom he had sworn to respect. One moment he told himself that he must beg her forgiveness, and the next he was recalling with guilty pleasure the moment her body had responded to his. As had happened before in his dealings with Sophia, he was ashamed of the line he had taken, and aware that he would do the same again if need be.

  Sophia avoided him for two days, and then sent him a note asking if he meant to go with her to the Lincolns’ that evening. Never before had an olive branch been so eagerly accepted, but as he was dressing to go out, a footman brought a note from Lord Carteret, summoning Philip to dine.

  Philip understood very well that this was an order. Normally he would not have hesitated to obey, but … tonight of all nights … what would Sophia think if he refused to accompany her at the last minute? Could he afford to jeopardize his chances of reconciliation with Sophia? No, decidedly he could not.

  He tore his uncle’s note into small pieces and let them drop into the fire. Then he sat back and indicated that Chivers might paint his face. The summons from Lord Carteret was unexpected; what did the old devil mean by it? There was something at the back of it, of course. But what?

  Philip closed his eyes, and thought hard.

  “Your coat, my lord.” Philip shrugged it on, and inspected himself in the mirror. Gone were the days when he had not cared how he looked.

  “Her ladyship is waiting for you in the morning room.”

  “I must make my apologies. I have to go to my Lord Carteret’s, instead.” Chivers managed to convey his disapproval without uttering a word.

  Philip said, “Yes, I, too, am disappointed.” He sighed. How many more times must he put duty before pleasure?

  Chapter Twelve

  It was exactly as Philip had thought, and Lord Carteret was planning a coup which would return him to power. Over dinner Lord Carteret talked fluently of the balance of power in Europe, of “Antimac”—and the treaty which had recently deprived France of her biggest ally, and of subsidies and armies and of the future, when he, Carteret, should once more be in power.

  “For who can withstand me now?” The question was intended to be rhetorical, for Lord Carteret could not conceive of there being any opposition. Had he not been proved right? Was he not the greatest statesman of his generation?

  Philip listened, drank sparingly, and watched the clock. What would Sophia be doing at that moment? She had returned him no answer to his apology for not being able to accompany her. If only he had the right to go to her room, and talk to her quietly as he talked to her aunt. She had given him certain rights by marrying him, but he had forsworn them, and then been forsworn. He had broken his word to her. She had every right to despise him … and yet … how lovely she had looked in her rage. …

  “… and so,” concluded Lord Carteret, “I believe the time is now ripe to strike. The King will dismiss Newcastle and his followers, and invite me to form a new ministry. The Prince of Wales has promised to support me; one or two of his followers will have to be accommodated … that man Bute, for instance. … But for the rest, we will have men about us who know what they are doing; men of culture; men who understand the broader point of view. I shall, of course, take charge of Foreign Affairs once more, and you Philip …”

  Philip sat up straight.

  “… you shall have Harrington’s place, the Secretaryship for Northern Affairs. What say you to that?”

  Power was at present divided between the two secretaryships, one held by Newcastle, and the other by Harrington. Effectively this meant that Carteret was offering Philip the second highest office in the land. For a moment Philip was tempted. It even crossed his mind to wonder whether he were capable of doing the job. He decided that he probably was. Then his common sense reasserted itself, and he shook his head.

  “I regret—I very much regret that I must decline.”

  Lord Carteret drew in a hissing breath, but he was not yet angry. That was to come later.

  The clock on Miss Nan’s mantelpiece chimed the hour of midnight.

  “… and so I left him,” said Philip. He was seated in “his” chair, sipping a posset specially prepared for him. The house was quiet around them. “There will be a fight, of course. There will be scenes in and out of the Closet, but if I do not back him—and even if I were so foolish as to do so—the result would be the same. My uncle cannot grasp the fact that the nature of politics has altered, and the power now lies not with the King, but with the Commons, who control the pursestrings of the Crown. Newcastle understands that. I hold no brief for Newcastle, but he is honest and painstaking and he understands the party machine. I respect him, although I cannot admire him. Without money, the King cannot continue to reign, and therefore, no matter how many tears are shed and threats uttered, Newcastle will continue in office.”

  “Which means that you have been forced at long last to choose between your uncle and Newcastle. You must have hated that.”

  “I hope my uncle will forgive me in time. At the moment he accuses me of having sold out to Newcastle, in order that I may go as Ambassador to The Hague, or wherever. I am ungrateful, treacherous—what you will!”

  He gazed into the fire, deep in thought.

  “What do you see in the fire, Philip?”

  “I was thinking how chance had altered my life. If you had told me, a year ago, that I would one day turn down an offer to be Secretary of State, I would not have believed you. I was tempted. I have a certain capacity for administration, and for interfering in other people’s lives which I had not suspected in myself, even a short time ago. I thought I could remain aloof from politics, but a bungled robbery on the highway, a girl jumping out of a hedge, and the course of my life is altered.” He sighed, put his cup down, and remarked that it was more than time that Miss Nan was in bed.

  “I have been thinking about Jasper,” she said. “I, too, was looking into the fire, and I thought I saw … perhaps I was mistaken, but I thought I saw Jasper in a dark room, with his wrists in gyves.”

  “He is well, so far as we know,” said Philip.

  She tried to smile. “I know that. I would rather you did not tell Sophia. She has not been quite herself these last few days.”

  His face burned.

  “I have decided,” said Sophia to her aunt, “that I must bear him a child. It is my duty to do so. On the other hand, I see no reason why I should countenance his visits to that Irish adventuress, and to Marjorie. If he will give them up, he will find me a dutiful wife. I will even stop seeing Sir John and Mr. Dalby, if he so pleases.”

  “Enjoyed it, did you?”

  Sophia colored. “That is not the point. Women marry to supply their husbands with heirs, and at the moment I am not fulfilling my part of the contract. I shall tell him so, when next I see him.”

  “I would advise you to do so soon. He is a busy man, and it won’t be long before he realizes you are pregnant, and then your argument will fail to hold water, won’t it?”

  “I’m not!” gasped Sophia. “Well, I suppose I might be, but it’s far too early to …”

 
; “Another thing. You’ll have to do more than say you’ve changed your mind to get him into bed with you. You’ve said some hard things to him, by all accounts. You’ll have to coax him a little. Don’t look so shocked! Sit on his knee, stroke his cheek, pull off his wig and ruffle his hair. Find out where he likes to be kissed, and whether he’s ticklish or not. You know the sort of thing I mean.”

  “I … do … not!” declared Sophia. “I’m surprised at you, Aunt. Where have you been learning this? Have you been making love to a man, behind my back? Yes? Why, who the devil could it be! Ah, it’s Mr. Carramine, isn’t it? He’s forever in the house.”

  “Don’t be absurd, Sophia.” Miss Nan almost ran from the room.

  Sophia knelt down by the fire and stared into it. Presently she blushed so deeply that she had to put her hands over her cheeks to cool them.

  “I couldn’t,” she said to herself. “Not with Philip. It would be impossible. …”

  Sophia bit the end of her quill, and considered the note she had penned to her husband. Several times over the last few days she had tried to bring about a reconciliation with him, and failed. She realized that she was herself largely to blame for this failure, for her temper was uncertain and tears sometimes rose to her eyes without warning. She would begin by saying something soft, and then spoil the effect with a jibe at which he would turn on his heel and leave the room. Therefore she was now resorting to pen and ink to state the terms on which she would be willing to receive him into her bed.

  She had not seen him that day, for he had been out until quite late. He had not come home, in fact, until after the evening meal had been cleared away. Then he had gone up to see Thomas, while Sophia had paced the drawing-room, rehearsing what she wished to say to him. He was dressing to go out for the rest of the evening; so much she had gleaned from Chivers, who was proving unexpectedly sympathetic. If he went out without seeing her, it would mean the loss of another day, and she didn’t think she could bear it. She rang the bell, committed her note to a footman, and began to pace the floor again. She paused to check on her appearance in a mirror. She had ordered some of the mirrors and most of the knicknacks to be cleared from the room. She thought it looked better without all that clutter, but she still did not admire the decorations. The fire had burned low, so she put some more coal on. Now she had got her hands dirty. Damn. She knew she ought to have rung for a servant to make up the fire for her, but it was difficult to remember to ask servants to do things when she was perfectly capable of doing them for herself.