Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  *****

  Rose knew that what she was doing was foolish, even as she was rising to her feet, opening the first stall she came to, as she was climbing upon the horse’s bare back and galloping out into the yard, towards the stretch of trees west of the castle.

  She was riding astride, first of all. Something she had never before done. Bareback, no less.

  And she was stealing a horse. A crime worthy of hanging.

  What was she thinking?

  She wasn’t thinking. Or maybe it was that she was thinking too much. She needed to get home, preferably before her father really did have a conniption and her mother really was driven to her death bed.

  In the story she had relayed to Robert, the handsome stable hand that made words she had never before spoken—not even to her brother, Charles, her closest confidant—flow out of her mouth like water flowing downstream, her mother was dead. And, to be honest, she sometimes wished it were true. How much more pleasurable her life would be to not have a mother who was overbearing and tirelessly nipping at Rose’s heels, pointing out every flaw she did not herself see in the looking glass.

  She propelled the horse across the field and into the cover of the trees. Behind the thicket of trees, placed for pictorial effect, were rolling hills as far as the eye could see, ending at a natural forest—if it could be called such a thing—with more paths that were lesser used.

  Rose knew that she could have taken the road. It would have been a far easier, safer journey, but it would have been expected. As soon as she was discovered missing, and the horse with her, she knew there would be a search sent out for the recovery—of the horse, of course—and she would be far less likely to be caught if she did not stick to the road. Instead, she would take the back way home, through the fields and forests.

  She had made the trek once before when she was a child, shortly after learning about her planned marriage. That day stood out like a knife in her life. That was the day that her childhood ended. She had been talking with her sisters, listing the attributes of the perfect gentleman—the man they would each one-day fall in love with and marry—when her mother dropped the anchor that sent Rose’s stomach sinking to the flooring. Rose would not marry any such man who came and swept her off her feet, her mother had hissed from the doorway where she was lurking, a glass half-full of amber liquid dangling in one hand. Rose would marry whom she had been promised to marry.

  And for the first time she had understood her mother. Rose was old enough to recognize her mother’s disgust, her hatred towards her children. And now she knew why, because she felt the same loathing. Her mama had been married off at the age of sixteen. She had hardly seen anything of London before her parents had her saddled with the Earl of Blythe.

  Rose had already known all that, but she had also known that such was to be expected. Even at the age of eight, she knew the reality that it was a lady’s duty to marry and produce heirs. But she’d come to understand her mother that day, if only slightly. Her mother had been without a future of her own choosing, and now Rose shared in that same fate.

  But understanding did little to assuage the bitterness of the truth.

  Rose did not want to be her mother.

  And so it was, that day, after she was dismissed from her mother’s company, that she ran away. She packed a bag of clothes—stopping in the kitchen on the way out to sneak a few biscuits out from under Cook’s nose—before setting off into the wilderness alone. She walked for hours, until her knees were wobbly and her stomach rumbling. She would have turned around if it weren’t for her pride. And of all places, she ended up at Brighton Castle, directly east of her home, separated by miles of English landscape.

  She had collapsed outside of those very stables in which she had found herself today. Her parents were summoned and she was sent on her way, back to her life of gilded imprisonment.

  Now she was making her way back to that life of her own free will. She was charging through the scenery, hands clasped in the mane of the mare, her skirts pulled up clear to her waist to allow her stockinged legs to wrap around its girth.

  She could easily go anywhere but home. She could go anywhere that she wanted. But she wasn’t lying when she told Robert that she was raised to accept her responsibilities. Marriage was what she had been promised for, and marry she would. Whether Lord Brighton liked her or not.

  Besides, she had nothing. The basket she had taken with her from home had a bit of money in it but it had disappeared along with her bonnet when she was nearly killed. She had no money or clothing or food. There was nowhere she could go but home. She just hoped that she remembered the way. She had only made this journey once—as a child, no less—and now it was already approaching dark.

  She would remember.

  She pushed the horse to run as fast as it could, through puddles of mud that splashed up at her, over the hills and through the forest, taking the stone barrier marking the edge of the property without hesitation, despite the fact that she hadn’t jumped in years, had never jumped without a saddle, and certainly not astride. She leaned forward into the horse’s neck, tightening her grip, as animal and rider sailed through the air in a heartbeat frozen in time.

  The horse’s hooves pounded back onto the earth as her head jerked backwards, her hold on the animal slipping involuntarily as she was thrown from her seat and into the open air. The fall happened so fast, she hardly knew what had happened until she hit the packed earth of the forest floor, shoulders first. Her body rolled backwards over her head, every bone in her body creaking in discontent. The momentum came to a quick halt as it turned her back over onto her bottom. But Rose couldn’t hold the position, and she rolled down onto her side, where she laid, unable to do anything but fight for the breath that refused to come.

  Her lips parted on a silent scream as she struggled to fill her lungs. And when it didn’t come, there was nothing to do but wait for death to overcome her as she watched the horse’s hooves kick up the dirt of the forest, a show of its unease.

  At least I won’t die alone.

  She was just grateful to be off of Lord Brighton’s property. So grateful she could have breathed a sigh of relief. If only she could breathe…

  I cannot die like this.

  It was that thought that forced her to sit up. The world turned to doubles and shadows, her head seemingly detaching itself from her body.

  Breathe, Rose, she willed.

  The first breath came in on an exaggerated shudder as her lungs expanded fully, pulling in a hiccup of air that felt like knives. The second came just as painful. But by the third, she was prepared for the agony that tore through her chest.

  Slowly, the world began to expand, the dark corners of it lightening to reveal the dark earth colors of the forest surrounding her. Her breathing steadied, the pain subsiding with the shock. She reckoned she didn’t have any broken bones—Not yet, anyways…

  She moved to stand, balancing her unsteady body against the trunk of a wide tree for support. She brushed her skirts back down around her ankles. Leaves littered her hair, and stains of mud and grass covered her clothes, but she hadn’t the energy to care.

  She was alive. And now she needed to be away.

  Rose stumbled over to the horse who’d remained just a few feet away, calming it by rubbing its velvet nose with the palm of her hand. Then, leading the mare over to a fallen trunk, she stepped upon it and hoisted herself up, the movement taking greater effort than expected.

  Back on top of her unsteady world, Rose judged it should take no more than an hour or two to be restored to the comfort and warmth of her home… if she kept up the pace. She hoped that her estimation was correct, for already the sun was making its steady descent to the horizon, and she knew that the farther it dipped the faster it fell, like gravity was pulling it down, forcing the night to come more and more quickly. And Rose could not bear the thought of spending the night in this wilderness.

  She pushed the horse forward, desperate to make it home before
nightfall, through the farm fields, where the smell of manure was strong but at least the ground under the horse’s hooves was even and dry. She pushed the horse until her thighs grew slick from its sweat and her arms grew tired of holding on. Her head was throbbing again, and she couldn’t help but think that it was because of all the motion.

  Why did she have to go and hit her head?

  If only she had not rolled out of the way earlier in the day. If only she had been trampled by that man and his horse. If only her neck had snapped when she’d fallen from the horse. Then she wouldn’t be heading for home right now, wouldn’t be worrying about her future with the duke. She wouldn’t be worrying about anything.

  She would be dead.

  Even as the thought crossed her mind, Rose dismissed it. She didn’t want to die. She wasn’t fatalistic like that. She was just dreadfully unhappy and the thought of death was, in some moments, ideal. Though, if she were given the choice to live or die, she would always choose life. It wasn’t even a contest.

  Rose did not want to die.

  She may not have a future to live for, but she did have a family. Her brother and her sisters. Charles would survive without her, but what of Isabelle, Madeline, and Beatrice? How would their reputations suffer if she were discovered, unchaperoned, wearing a maid’s attire, trampled to death? She needed to live. She needed to marry the duke and ensure her sisters’ futures were as bright as they could be. She could give that to them.

  Rose was a scant five miles off the estate’s boundaries when the horse’s shoulder sunk to the left, making her heart pitter-patter in her chest. The horse stopped abruptly, nearly toppling her off, and refused to push onward. “Go, damn it,” she said, cursing the beast. She never used such language—such was vile upon a lady’s tongue—but she cursed now. She kicked her boots into his sides, and still he did not budge.

  “No,” she moaned, sliding down off the chestnut’s back and onto the damp ground, realizing at once that she had pushed the horse too hard.

  She hadn’t considered it during her grand escape—all she had considered was the need for a horse, it hadn’t mattered which. And of course she picked the one Robert had just been riding upon—riding into the ground, more like.

  The horse was shifting, and Rose saw at once why. He was attempting to keep his weight off his left front hoof. Rose sank to her knees on the ground and took the horse’s hoof gently into her hands, making calming, cooing noises as she did.

  “Damn,” she muttered, as though if she spoke the curse aloud for the second time in five minutes the earth would open up and she’d fall through a pit in the ground, straight into Hell.

  She had pushed the animal too far and it would no longer carry her on its injured leg.

  The horse remained obediently at her side, his head dipped as she took in the scenery. It was considerably more difficult though to tell the direction from such a lower, and slower, vantage. It would be infinitely tougher to find her way home this way. Longer too, for that matter. But what other option did she have?

  Deciding on the direction, Rose slipped her hand into the horse’s mane and guided him beside her, walking slowly, the animal’s hot, heavy breathing in her ear. It wasn’t as though she could leave him, slap his rear and send him home. He was injured and would have to be returned to his home somehow. Besides, the poor beast stood no chance of survival in the wilderness alone.

  Neither did she.

  Soon, Rose felt much like the horse. Her lungs were burning. So was every bone and muscle, too. She was used to being cooped up in a drawing room, making pointless conversation over tea. The most exertion she endured was walking about the room or the garden. Now she was trudging through the wild landscape of Lincolnshire. She didn’t remember this journey being quite so difficult when she was young. But she wasn’t old now, she told herself, as she pushed forward.

  Finally, the scenery gave way to country in its purest form, transforming from farmed land to untamed fields for grazing.

  It got dark quickly and Rose found it more and more difficult, as the light faded, to find her way. And once the last light drained from the sky, she found herself falling all too often. Tripping over unseen holes, falling face-first into puddles of mud, and running into sharp thickets which tore at her clothing and her skin.

  Without the sun to guide her, she had no way of telling her direction, of whether she was walking in circles, and she feared she would never make it home. But as that terrifying thought formulated, the sky opened up, the few clouds masking the moon’s light retreating again as they had that morning.

  The boots, borrowed from her maid Helen, sloshed in the mud of the early spring landscape and, coupled with her soaked dress, made it more and more difficult for her to lift up her feet.

  The same exhaustion the horse was feeling, Rose also felt. She wished she could just hop upon its back and ride until she came upon her house. Although, even if the horse weren’t exhausted and injured, it would be dangerously foolish. The horse could trip on any number of unseen obstacles, and horse and rider could both fall to their deaths.

  For a moment, she wished that she had accepted Robert’s offer of a ride, but knew ultimately that it would have been foolish. She couldn’t risk Robert discovering the truth of who she was. A secret was only a secret for as long as one person knew it. Already she was bordering on the edge of discovery, having had to have trusted her maid. At least she knew Helen had tight lips. She couldn’t trust a stranger. If Robert knew, then so would the man he worked for.

  Lord Brighton. The duke.

  The loyalty of servants was bought in this world, and Robert was not her servant. Even once she was married he would remain Lord Brighton’s. Her secret would not remain safe with the man from the stables.

  She had known when he made the offer that it was not an option, and she knew it now, even as she was so tired that all she wanted to do was lie down and sleep in the grass and mud. But she couldn’t.

  By now it would be a miracle if her parents had not discovered her missing. They no doubt had the entire village of Lincoln sent out in search for her. Her maid’s insistence that Lady Rosalyn desired to be left alone would only have worked for so long before Lady Blythe grew impatient. She could practically feel her mother’s fangs sinking into Helen.

  Ladies who were to on their way to becoming duchesses did not take to bed all day because of a headache brought on by nerves.

  Rose only hoped that Helen spun her own tale around her disappearance and was not suffering at her expense.

  Rose pushed herself over the last hill, the limping mare in tow, and nearly fainted as her house came into view.

  And, oh, what a view!

  The moon was dancing up ahead, reflecting with the stars in the massive pool that stretched out behind her home, put there entirely for this awe-inspiring effect. All the glittering lights from the house, combined with the stars, mirrored in the pool, making the night seem bright and the house larger than life.

  She didn’t know how to explain the horse, or the dress, or her disappearance. Or any of it. So she decided not to dwell upon explanations.

  She was too exhausted to think.

  She led the horse to the dark stables, pleased to find them empty, and deposited the horse—who was once chestnut, now turned grey, caked almost entirely in mud—into an empty stall.

  Outside, she could hear the distant voices and calls of men. A search party, she guessed. She hadn’t noticed or heard any of it until now. Her ears were so full of mud it was surprising she could hear anything at all.

  She brushed her hand along the horse’s jaw and then rested her forehead against his velvet nose. He really was a fine animal. Expensive, she could tell. How horribly he had been treated today. She dragged a bale of hay into his stall, then collected a pail of water from that of another, so that the horse could have some drink.

  At last, she had to pry herself away from him and turn herself toward the house, feeling already the dread of confront
ation pool inside her. She walked right past the group of men gathered at the bottom of the steps, her papa unsurprisingly not in attendance. Though he had returned home several days earlier, Rose had scarcely seen him. She certainly didn’t want to see him now when he would surely be livid.

  She increased her pace and, ignoring the groups’ silent inquisition, ran up the steps. Not pausing to wait for a footman, she turned the handle on the massive front door of Whitefield Abbey and marched through the entry which was full to exploding with bustling footmen and maids, and her mama barking orders at all of them. Everyone halted at her entry as the mahogany door slammed into the wall. Mixed expressions of horror, anger, and perhaps a slight tinge of relief spread across their weary faces.

  Rose, however, did not halt. She was too exhausted to forge some story as to her whereabouts and had no idea what story Helen had already spun on her behalf. She was too exhausted, period. So, she continued her path to the stairs, leaving a trail of muddy footprints along the marble floor and up the ornate carpet that covered the steps.

  “Oh Lord!” she heard her mama exclaim. “Rosalyn! Whatever happened to you?” Her voice was a shriek, and it sounded as though she might faint. It was really the most emotion she had ever had the pleasure of witnessing her mother experience. That alone was nearly enough to make Rose oblige, stop, answer.

  Nearly. But still not enough.

  Rose heard Lady Blythe’s soft footsteps on the stairs behind her, but paid her mama no attention. Lady Blythe would not run after her—it was undignified for a lady to run. While Rose didn’t care one whit about what was ladylike in that moment.

  Rose could, and did run, making straight for her room on the third floor and closing her door firmly in her mother’s face, turning the key in the lock, and refusing to answer her questions or follow her mama’s demands to open the door at once.

  She yanked on the bell pull summoning Helen, who appeared through the connecting door to her dressing chamber in no more than thirty seconds. “My lady!” the girl said in a whispered shriek. “I’ve been so worried! Wherever have you been? Oh my Lord! Just look at you! Filthy to the bone. You must be freezing, wet like that!