by Tania Crosse
The tramway now showed her the direction to follow, and she was able to set Honey at a canter, glad that the heavy curtain of mist was providing a shield of invisibility. They passed without meeting a soul the sidings that wound their way to the massive quarries at Foggintor, and still met no one as they continued to follow the track westwards. At last, the tramway swung round on itself to the left to reach the quarry at King Tor, but Rose must head straight on, crossing the River Walkham at Merrivale, and gaining higher ground once more. The banks of iron-grey mist began to roll away as they finally began to descend towards the Tavy valley, as if they were emerging from the godless depths of some infernal hell to the pale, watery light of a new world beyond . . .
‘Now, don’t you worry about Honey.’ Richard smiled down at her. ‘If I ever have to, I’ll say I bought her from a pretty young woman who was selling her in Tavistock. It’ll be a privilege to own her. Thank you for entrusting her to me.’
‘’Tis little enough after all you’ve done. For both of us.’
She turned and glanced up at Seth as the four of them stood in the pool of glimmering light from the open back door of Rosebank Hall. This was it, the moment when she would leave Dartmoor for ever. It was late and Chantal and Hannah were fast asleep upstairs in their beds, unaware that their parents were saying a final farewell to their friends.
‘Well, good luck,’ Richard said a little gruffly, since he was sorry to be saying goodbye. ‘Look after her, Seth.’
‘Oh, I will. And thank you for everything. Especially to you, Beth. For saving my life.’
‘Oh, I think we all had a part in that.’ Elizabeth nodded, sucking in her lips to hold back her tears.
‘Goodbye, then, Rose.’
Richard opened his strong arms and hugged her, a lump like an apple swelling in her throat. But it was as she was locked in the embrace of the petite, serene herbalist that the teardrops began to meander down her cheeks. The pair of them stood apart then, laughing softly in an attempt to cover up as, next to them, the two men shook hands and then clapped each other on the back.
‘When we’re settled,’ Seth said in a strange tone, ‘wherever that might be, we’ll write.’
Rose nodded, strangled by the tears that were welling in her throat again, and she quickly turned away. Seth put his arm around her and her limp body sagged against him as she sobbed helplessly, her heart breaking and grief closing about her in a merciless knot. So blinded by her tears and pain that she scarcely noticed as Seth began to walk her up the track, her feet trailing as he supported her in his arms. He halted after fifty yards and they turned to take one final glance. Richard and Elizabeth had come to the farmyard gate and waved one last time before turning back to the house. And then Rosebank Hall and its outbuildings were merely a solid black outline against the dark night sky.
Seth tenderly smoothed the wild hair back from Rose’s face and dropped a kiss on to her forehead. She blinked up at him gratefully, sniffing hard, but the smile she tried to offer him twisted into an agonized grimace as her chin quivered threateningly again, but she was calmer now, trusting herself into his comfort and understanding.
‘They’re good people, Richard and Beth,’ he said, his voice choked.
Rose nodded, unable to speak, and they set off again, her head resting on Seth’s shoulder, and thankful for his arm tightly about her. The night was dry, though heavy granite clouds hung low above their heads and they prayed it would not come on to rain for their long walk to Morwellham Quay. Rose’s weary heart was empty now of all but the strange mystery of the hushed darkness. They would walk quietly through the silence of the sleeping world, meeting only the nocturnal animals that would scurry from their presence.
But first they must return to Seth’s cottage to collect the old and battered carpet bag that Elizabeth had originally brought with her to Rosebank Hall as a servant so many years before. It contained some spare clothes for them both – poor, working garments, far less remarkable than the smart riding habit Rose had been wearing, but had exchanged for an old skirt and blouse of Elizabeth’s, and a tattered shawl. Every tie with Rose’s former life must be broken. Elizabeth and Richard would remain their only contact, and Rose’s shoulders drooped with shame and guilt at the devastating anxiety her disappearance would cause her dear Florrie. She knew that, when after months she still could not be traced, Florrie would leave Fencott Place to return to living with her sister, and perhaps in a year or so, Rose would feel safe to write to her there. The thought eased her dejected spirit and gave her some purpose as they began to progress more swiftly along the track.
Seth suddenly stopped dead, pulling her up short, and she glanced sharply at his tense profile as her heart began to batter against her ribs. A horrible sinking feeling gripped her stomach, twisting it viciously.
‘Oh, God, we’re not being followed?’ she whispered as her skin broke out in a hot nervous sweat.
‘No,’ Seth murmured back, his keen eyes searching into the darkness ahead. ‘But did you see that? I’m sure I saw a light. Small. A candle, perhaps, or a match. Moving about in the cottage. Yes, look! There it is again! There’s someone downstairs.’
A tremor of fear shuddered down Rose’s spine, and she felt herself shrink with dread, cowering against Seth as she braced herself to turn her gaze towards the cottage. Sure enough, she saw the flicker of light through the window of the one downstairs room, and then it disappeared again. She went cold. An intruder? That was hardly likely. Such a humble dwelling would hardly house anything worth stealing. No. There was only one explanation. It had to be Charles.
A tiny squeal died in her throat as she snatched in her breath and clung on to Seth with digging fingers. Charles must have tricked her, just as she had believed she had duped him; followed her instead of catching the train, watched the cottage and the farm. And now he was lying in wait, ready to drag her back home and do God alone knew what to Seth. And if Ned was with him to help . . .
‘Run!’ she croaked frantically into Seth’s ear, her whole body quivering. ‘Get away before he sees us!’
She shook his arm with a violent force, torn with agony as he stood rigid, staring ahead at the cottage. And then, somehow, she sensed it, too, that appalling instant of clairvoyance, of fate or predestination, when the earth stands still for one horrific moment and the human mind is endowed with second sight. Her gaze joined Seth’s in time to see the flash, and then that ominous silence, the hiatus of terror when time stops and the heart explodes . . .
‘Get down!’
She heard Seth scream at her, though it had no time to register in her shocked brain, and as the crashing blast reverberated in her skull, she found herself thrown to the ground with Seth lying protectively on top of her. The booming peal rolled away and she lifted her head, but Seth pushed her face back into the grass as she heard the clatter of splintered timber and broken glass and slates landing all about them. She lay still, breathless, waiting, until Seth’s weight lifted from her, and they crouched together, stunned, staring through the shattered windows at the flickering light as the inside of the building was instantly catching fire.
They staggered to their feet, each lost for some seconds in a private, silent world, rooted to the spot like dumb marionettes as the flames spread rapidly through the half-demolished cottage. Most of the roof had been blown away, the remaining shattered trusses standing like broken bones in the lurid glow as the fire took hold. And as they stood, mesmerized in fascinated horror, there came another jarring crack, perhaps a beam giving way, and another shower of sparks shot into the shroud of smoke that was gathering in the dank air.
It was Seth who recovered from the shock first.
‘He could still be alive!’ he yelled at her above the din, and Rose was crippled with terror as she realized what he was about.
‘No!’
She put out her hand, her fingers clawing towards his arm, but he was already out of her reach.
‘I’ll try the back!’
She didn’t turn her head as Richard stampeded up the track and joined her in silent contemplation of the burning ruin, his awestruck face set like stone, before he, too, raced forward. Rose’s heart shrieked in agony, for he not only had a wife, but two children and another on the way. She could never forgive herself if anything . . . Cold shards of ice attacked her breast . . . And then her senses all but slipped away. Was her tormented mind hallucinating, making her see only what she wanted to see . . .?
She knew then. And the tears spilled unheeded from her eyes.
The tall figure of Richard Pencarrow met the stumbling silhouette of another man sagging under the weight of what looked like a sack of coal, and together they carried the lifeless form towards the girl who waited, collapsed on her knees with dread. They laid the body on the grass before her, and she bowed her head in sorrow, too drained, too weak, to look.
‘He was just outside the back door,’ Seth spluttered as he coughed harshly from the smoke. ‘So I don’t think he got . . . the full force of the blast. But . . . I don’t think . . .’
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Horror pulsed down through the very core of Rose’s being as she dragged her gaze to the man stretched out on the ground. Scarlet tongues of flame were now flicking out of the windows of the burning building, lighting the night sky with a fluorescent orange glow, fire spitting and crackling and consuming everything inside. In the flaring inferno, Rose could see Charles’s clothes were charred, his face blackened, red raw and grotesquely blistered in places, half his hair gone and one ear lost in a distorted, bubbling mass. And when his eyes opened like two glowing pearly orbs in the satanic, burnt mask, the horror seared into Rose’s heart.
‘I thought you . . . were upstairs . . . in bed . . . with him,’ the cracked, ghoulish hiss scraped in his throat, and his scorched mouth twisted. ‘But then . . . I asked myself . . . what was I doing? Killing the woman . . . I love? And . . . I couldn’t do it, Rose. But then . . . I dropped the match. On to the trail . . . of powder. I tried . . . but I couldn’t . . . put it out.’
Rose’s chin quivered and she sucked in her lips, drowning in the all-engulfing sadness as she wept with grief and shamed compassion. She took his hand, burnt beyond pain, in hers, and stroked it against her cheek.
‘No, Charles,’ she breathed in a hushed, dead, tortured murmur. ‘I told you. I’ve never been unfaithful. I was leaving you, though. I just couldn’t live as we were. ’Twasn’t how ’twere meant to be. I wanted us to be happy. Truly I did. And . . . I’m so sorry . . .’
Her throat closed, aching, agonizing, as she cradled his mutilated head in her lap.
Charles died the next morning, the pain of his horrendously burnt and broken body eased by the administrations of Dr William Greenwood. Richard had insisted on fetching the constable from Mary Tavy to take down Charles’s confession. In the dark, he had tried to stamp out the phosphorous match but it wouldn’t be extinguished and Charles had realized too late that the trail of powder had already ignited. He had tried to escape but the keg of powder – such a huge amount within the tiny cottage – had exploded as he had reached the door. The blast had thrown him outside, otherwise he would surely have been blown to pieces, but his injuries were too severe for him to survive. It was a horrific end, and the constable went off to make enquiries at Cherrybrook, where he learnt that the dying man had quite openly bought a large amount of gunpowder for his own purposes, and as a known and respected shareholder, the manager had not questioned it. Poor chap must have been demented, the constable thought wryly. But then if you had such a beautiful, exquisite wife as that, and she was being unfaithful, it would be enough to drive you insane, wouldn’t it? Nevertheless, to try to kill her . . .
The silent widow sat, motionless as a statue, scarcely breathing, and staring sightlessly out of the bedroom of Rosebank Hall and across towards the moor. Another young woman came and knelt before her, and carefully washed her grimy hands and face. She appeared not to notice, her eyes blank, swallowing obediently the odd-tasting concoction in the glass that was put into her hands. But she would not move when begged to take to the bed. A young man, his own clothes still smudged with ash and smoke-smuts, was summoned, but she merely shrugged off the compassionate hand he lay on her shoulder and clearly did not hear the anxious words he spoke.
They left her alone, then, moving quietly, like ghosts, around the house. But while they sat about the kitchen table, eating a meal none of them wanted, they looked up in unison as they heard the clatter in the farmyard. The young man sprang to his feet and skidded to the back door, just in time to see the elegant horse, its coat as pale as wheat, streak out of the yard, the slight, fragile rider glued to its back.
Twenty-Four
Rose buried him in London.
She was gone three weeks, accompanied by the ever-faithful Florrie. Passengers on the train to the capital, ignorant of the scandal Charles Chadwick’s death had caused, turned their heads and sighed at the tragic beauty of the young widow’s grief-ravaged face, the dark shadows beneath her striking lavender-blue eyes echoing the rich, black velvet of her mourning weeds. They judged the older woman with her to be her mother as she consolingly touched the slim, black-gloved hand, but it seemed the girl was encased in some impenetrable trance as she watched the miles race past the window, her expression impassive as the engine rumbled its way through the countryside, pulling the rattling coaches behind it. But despite the state of hypnosis in which she appeared suspended, there was an air of purpose, even determination, about her when the train finally drew into Paddington with a great roaring of steam. Undertakers were waiting on the platform to receive the heavy oak coffin with its solid brass handles, male passengers and railway staff respectfully removing their hats, and ladies bowing their heads. The handsome widow spoke but a few words to the funeral director as the pall-bearers shouldered the solid wooden box containing her dead husband, and then she and her mother swiftly made for the row of waiting cabs.
She had instructed Charles’s solicitor, his agent and the butler to put their heads together to compose a list of his acquaintances to inform of the funeral arrangements. To everyone’s amazement, she did not hold a wake, since she scarcely knew any of them, and her face was a mask of stone as Charles’s earthly remains were laid to rest. Did they consider her a gold-digger, an adulterous, wanton hussy, for the story of Charles’s demise must surely have filtered through to them? Only the inhabitants of Rosebank Hall, together with Captain and Mrs Bradley, knew of what she had suffered at Charles’s hands. And now Florrie, who, although she knew something of Charles’s treatment of his wife, had hidden her face in her apron as Rose had finally revealed to her the detailed truth about her marriage.
She closed up the house, entrusting its sale and that of its contents to the solicitor, and dismissing the servants, though not without providing each one of them with an excellent character reference, a month’s wages and some item of value from the house to keep or sell as they chose. She held a meeting with the bank manager, the lawyer and the agent, setting up a system for the control of her financial affairs, and when everything was in order, she returned to Fencott Place – her home.
Florrie watched her keenly from the opposite seat of the first-class compartment. Would the sight of the moors bring some animation to her set face, some ease to her heart? Apparently not. She had not telegraphed ahead to tell Ned to meet them. Dusk was gathering fast, and she decided to spend the October night at the Bedford Hot
el, whose opulence overwhelmed Florrie, who had never slept at a common inn, let alone such a renowned establishment. And first thing next morning, Rose hired a carriage to take them home, the driver wilting under her sharp, brusque words.
‘Oh, ma’am.’ Patsy dipped a curtsy at the unexpected return of her mistress. ‘We didn’t know you was coming. I must tell Cook.’
‘Tell her not to worry about preparing any fancy dishes,’ Rose told her, the first hint of a smile twitching her mouth. ‘We’ll eat whatever’s available.’
‘Oh, right, ma’am. And, ma’am, there’s been a gentleman calling for you. Several times. Leastways, I think ’er’s a gentleman. ’Er spoke and acted like one, though ’er was dressed like a worker.’
‘Mr Collingwood?’
‘No, ma’am. I think ’is name were Warrington.’
‘Ah.’ Rose dropped her chin for a few seconds, then lifted it haughtily. ‘If he comes again, tell him I’m still in London.’
‘As you wish, ma’am. Shall I serve some tea, ma’am?’
But Rose had no time to reply as, with a scurry of claws scratching on the highly polished floorboards, Amber came bounding in through the kitchen door with a bark of delight, the long hair flowing from her flank and legs, while Scraggles and young Lucky skittered about in an array of confusion, tails wagging nineteen to the dozen. Rose dropped to her knees, her arms about Amber’s thick yellow ruff. The stubborn shield of indifference she had drawn about herself against the horror of Charles’s death was momentarily fractured, and the damning guilt speared into her soul. But then Scraggles was pushing his snout into her face, his tongue rough and rasping against her cheek and driving away the welling tears from her eyes.
