A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  She held her pen at the ready. He paused, thinking a moment before he continued.

  “As you know, my own work deals with regeneration, though not at the cellular level. I have taken the liberty of enclosing notes of my recent experiments in the hope of eliciting your comment.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” She hesitated, thinking she had missed some previous direction of his. “Where are the notes you refer to?”

  He gestured dismissively. “Don’t concern yourself for now. I’ll give them to you tomorrow.” He paused before adding in a grim monotone, “You may have to recopy them.”

  He fell silent then, until she felt the need to prompt him. “Have you finished the letter, sir?”

  Oh,” he answered absently. Then, seeming to find his thoughts, he added more decisively, “Yes.”

  “How shall I word the closing?”

  He began to speak, circling the air with his hand as he rattled off the words, running them all together without pause. “Penned by my amanuensis, the date—what is it?—the twenty eighth March 1895, with my highest regard, I am yours truly, et cetera, et cetera . . . ”

  Her head swam. She felt lightheaded with shame.

  “Amanuensis?”

  Isabelle darted a glance at him, knowing her expression must betray her ignorance. She didn’t know the word, had no idea even how to spell it. When he laughed, a blush rose to her cheeks.

  “I thought you might object. Very well, change the word to secretary.”

  She hurriedly wrote it down, before he decided otherwise.

  “Shall I sign for you, sir?” She stared at the letter paper as she spoke, convinced that if he saw her face, her guilty expression would give her away. She came close to confessing as it was. Not to admit her ignorance felt like a deception. A lie by omission.

  “Yes, of course.”

  “How would you prefer I do so?” She kept her eyes fixed on the letter, her pen poised above the spot that awaited his signature.

  “Use my full name. Jonathan Beresford Nashe.”

  When she had finished, she set the pen down with an inward sigh of relief. Then his words came back to her: I thought you might object. He had anticipated her failure, might even have deliberately chosen the word to test her.

  If he considered her unequal to the task, she preferred to know immediately. How better to discover the answer than to ask?

  “Would you like to examine the letter, sir, to be certain it meets your approval?”

  “That won’t be necessary.” He made the same dismissive flick of the hand she was beginning to recognize as one of his habitual gestures.

  Isabelle turned to look directly at him, wishing she could see his eyes to read in them his true opinion of her. “What is my next task, sir?”

  “I must organize my thoughts before we begin with the results of my latest work.” He stirred in his seat as if suddenly uncomfortable, then stood abruptly. “Until tomorrow.”

  Isabelle stood as well, pushing her chair back and taking a step away from the desk. He started toward the door, stopping after a couple of steps to turn toward her once again.

  “Do you fear me?”

  “Fear you?”

  He began to move toward her. Isabelle took a step back, putting the chair between them. His question was so unexpected, she couldn’t imagine what provoked it.

  “Do you fear me?” he repeated.

  “No, I—”

  “I told you to speak freely. Do I frighten you?”

  He came nearer, though he slowed his approach. For a moment, Isabelle considered making a dash for the door. If the window had been open, she most likely would have jumped through it.

  “No, I’m not.” She corrected herself. “You don’t. Frighten me.”

  Only the chair separated them now. Isabelle tried to think what she had done to set him off, but she had no idea what had angered him, and thus no idea how to mollify him.

  “Then why do you shrink from me when I enter the room?” He made as if to come around the chair to stand next to her. Isabelle backed away from him, abandoning the barrier she had put between them.

  “Even now,” he persisted, “I’m making you uncomfortable. Admit it.”

  Cornered, she lashed out. “Yes, then, if you must know. You do.”

  He made a huffing sound in his throat that signified either triumph or disgust, or perhaps both.

  His response angered her. A bully had no reason to be proud. Quite the contrary. He was baiting her, why shouldn’t that make her uncomfortable?

  “My discomfort is in no way unique to you. Nor is it unique to your person—that is what you are implying, isn’t it?”

  He took another step nearer. Isabelle backed away from him until her leg bumped against the windowsill, and she knew she could go no farther.

  “I am not implying anything, Miss Tate. I am stating a fact.” He leaned forward as he spoke, looming over her.

  “Please don’t take offense.” Tears stung her eyes. She frowned, fighting them back, not wanting to give him the satisfaction.

  “Look at you. You’re trembling like a frightened rabbit.” He said this with great compassion—almost tenderly—as though not he, but someone else altogether was to blame.

  He bent even closer. She could see his eyes, but his nearness distracted her from the meaning in them.

  His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I won’t harm you.”

  He held her gaze, as if attempting to convince her with a look. “I may be a monster, but I am not a brute.”

  As abruptly as he had turned on her, he pivoted away and stalked out of the room. Isabelle watched him go, unable to move or breathe until he disappeared behind the screen. When she heard the sound of the door shutting after him, Isabelle sagged against the windowsill.

  Why, when their work was going so well, why?

  Free of his intimidating presence, she was able to recall the look in his eyes. She remembered the anger in them, and beneath the anger, the hurt.

  But of course, she realized. Just as he covers his face, he masks his hurt with anger.

  And perhaps he did have a right to be angry. She had acted afraid of him, for the simple fact that she was. But her reasons were not at all what he believed them to be. Even if she could bring herself to explain, he could never understand. No man could ever understand.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Garrick tapped his walking stick against the roof of the carriage, signalling Roger to stop. He had spotted Isabelle in the garden and wanted to have a word with her.

  Garrick corrected himself. Miss Tate.

  Jenny could scarcely utter a sentence without referring to Isabelle. Eventually, through constant repetition, he had come to think of her that way. It wouldn’t do to forget and make use of her Christian name in front of her.

  By the time he let himself out of the carriage, Isabelle had already seen them arrive and was crossing the garden to greet him.

  “Dr. Garrick.” Isabelle held out her hand.

  “Good evening, Miss Tate.” Impulsively, Garrick brought her hand to his lips, placing a polite, barely perceptible kiss there. Perhaps he was pressing his luck, but he wanted to coax a warmer reception from her. She had a way of offering her hand that distanced her from the recipient.

  “Dr. Garrick.” The color bloomed in her cheeks.

  He released her hand, pleased that she hadn’t shied away from him. It was a small victory, but a beginning nonetheless.

  “You look well,” he said, and meant it. Her blush gave her a healthy glow. “Can I infer, then, that you are content here at Nashe House?”

  “Yes, well enough.” She clasped her hands in front of her and lowered her eyes. The color in her cheeks deepened. “I hope you will receive a good report of me.”

  “Have you any reason to believe otherwise?”

  She met his gaze. Her eyes had lost their sharpness, the look that made him feel like a specimen under a microscope. Garrick wondered if that meant she was beginnin
g to trust him.

  “Frankly, Dr. Garrick, I scarcely know from one day to the next. Mr. Nashe withholds comment on the quality of my work.”

  That was a delicate way of putting it, he thought. Jonathan had inherited Simonne’s hauteur. Whereas Cornelius frequently ranted and cursed to get his way, Simonne was typical of European aristocracy in that she simply expected flawless service as her due—not out of meanness, but because that was the order of things. And woe to any man, woman, or child who disturbed the order of things.

  “His lack of comment bodes well.” Garrick offered her a broad and what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “Believe me, if he were dissatisfied, you would know it.”

  “Oh?”

  Garrick cursed himself for a fool. She had the look of a wild animal prepared to flee at the slightest hint of danger. He should have known his remark would incite her misgivings.

  “You have nothing to fear from him, however difficult he may be at times.” She frowned at his words, leading Garrick to decide it would be politic to redirect their conversation. “I have a letter for you.”

  “From Jenny?”

  Garrick took the letter from his breast pocket and handed it to her. She smiled at him as she took it, a broad, unqualified smile that almost diverted him from the brief glint of shrewdness in her eye.

  “I thought it well to look in on her. To . . . ” He turned his head aside, pretending to be momentarily distracted by a robin alighting on a nearby shrub. The knowledge had suddenly struck him that his motives may not have been entirely altruistic, an awareness he preferred to hide from Isabelle’s shrewd eyes. “To confirm that our choice of Mrs. Cooper was well founded.”

  “And what did you conclude from your visit?”

  Garrick schooled his features into a neutral expression and turned to face Isabelle once more. “Jenny tells me she’s more than happy with Mrs. Cooper.”

  Garrick realized what he’d done and fell silent, chagrined by his thoughtless gaffe. What was that saying? Give a man enough rope, and he’ll hang himself. Thankfully, Isabelle pretended not to notice his familiarity.

  “What is your opinion, Dr. Garrick?”

  “From all appearances, Mrs. Cooper is proving to have been a wise choice.”

  “How can I ever thank you for all you’ve done for us? For Jenny.”

  “I am glad to be of assistance, Miss Tate.” He inclined his head politely. “Whatever you need, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  Isabelle nodded, smiling.

  For a moment, it seemed to Garrick he saw the real Isabelle, or perhaps the woman she might have become had her life not been so difficult. The veil of care that obscured her youth had lifted from her features. Standing there in the soft light of the lowering sun, she looked quite pretty.

  Garrick took his leave and started toward the house, knowing how Jonathan fretted if he was late. At times the responsibility weighed on his mind, as it did tonight. He loved the boy, would do anything for him—but whatever he did, it would never be enough. His company provided a brief palliative for Jonathan’s emotional pain, but nothing he could do would ever effect a cure.

  And he was not going to live forever. There was a twenty eight year age difference between them. What would become of Jonathan when he died? The question had nagged at him lately, yet he couldn’t bring himself to imagine the answer.

  * * *

  Cook’s culinary skills went a long way toward mending Garrick’s mood. After dinner, he took his usual chair beside Jonathan’s in the smoking room. He lit his cigar, then sat in contemplative silence, taking his time before initiating a conversation. He wanted to broach his subject with great care.

  “How are things working out with Miss Tate?” Garrick asked the question with what he hoped was an air of disinterest as to the answer.

  Jonathan lifted a shoulder in a brief shrug. The gesture was a habit of his, a physical substitute for the nonverbal French bouffe, that soft exhalation of air always accompanied by a look of profound indifference. “Not bad,” he said.

  Garrick decided it would be a mistake to quiz Jonathan any further, at least for the moment. Since this first foray into dangerous territory proved a failure, he would have to try a different tactic.

  “I’m thinking of hiring a carriage and bringing Miss Tate’s sister out for a visit on Sunday afternoon.”

  “There’s no need to hire a carriage. Take one of mine.”

  Garrick drew on his cigar and exhaled slowly. It was exactly the response he’d expected. “Thank you, I shall. Then we may ride in style.”

  “Cook can prepare a luncheon for the three of you. I’ll be sure to stay well out of sight.”

  Garrick chose to ignore Jonathan’s last comment. “Give poor Cook the day off.”

  “She’ll welcome the opportunity.”

  “Perhaps another time. I’ve already promised to take Jenny to lunch in the city.”

  Merde. As soon as he let her name slip, Garrick cursed to himself in French. His careless tongue had betrayed him for a second time that night.

  He wanted to curse again when he saw Jonathan’s reaction. Deprived of motility, the right side of Jonathan’s face was incapable of expression. But his left brow shot up in surprise.

  “Jenny?” he asked coyly.

  Garrick felt the heat mount his neck and rise to his cheeks. He couldn’t explain his recent proclivity for maidenly blushes. It was a damned inconvenient occurrence, always cropping up at the most embarrassing moments.

  “Miss Tate’s sister.” He began puffing vigorously on his cigar, wreathing himself in a concealing cloud of smoke.

  Jonathan leaned toward Garrick, fanning away the smoke so he could read his expression. Garrick grimaced. The boy was nobody’s fool and knew he’d hit a nerve.

  “Tell me, is Jenny as beautiful as her sister?”

  Garrick laughed. Jonathan was hoist by his own petard. “So you’ve been considering Miss Tate’s merits over and above her professional qualifications?”

  Jonathan leaned back in his chair, obviously nonplussed. “I don’t dwell on them, if that’s what you mean.” He paused, then added more truthfully, “But I’m not blind.”

  Garrick was willing to match Jonathan’s honesty with his own. “To answer your question, the two young women are like opposite sides of the same coin. Jenny is as light and gay as the bubbles in a glass of champagne.”

  “And you are suggesting that Miss Tate is dark and dour?”

  “Not dour.” Garrick thought a moment. “But you must admit, there’s an intensity beneath the surface of her serious demeanor.”

  Jonathan inclined his head to one side, unintentionally revealing to Garrick that he was fascinated by the topic. “And if her sister is champagne, what sort of drink would Miss Tate be?”

  Garrick drew on his cigar, considering the question before he hit upon the exact metaphor. “Like the finest single malt, brewed from pure spring waters.” He nodded to himself, finding it an apt comparison. “Mature, with subtle flavors of peat and heather.”

  “That’s quite poetic.”

  “I wrote poetry in my youth, you know, until my parents insisted I take a more practical approach to my studies.”

  “I must say, I’m glad they did. I owe my life to your skill as a physician.”

  Garrick couldn’t believe his ears. This was the first time in thirteen years that Jonathan had given any indication he was grateful to be alive.

  “Your own determination and Simonne’s tireless care had as much to do with it.”

  Jonathan slumped in his chair, his mood completely changed from the moment before. “If I hadn’t required such tireless care, perhaps she would be alive today.”

  “Don’t, Jonathan.” Garrick reached across the short distance between them and put his hand on Jonathan’s arm. “Don’t blame yourself for something that isn’t your fault.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t help it.”

  “Your mother would be the first to exoner
ate you.”

  “I often wonder why my worthless life was spared, when it has cost three others theirs.” Jonathan’s eyes glistened with the intensity of his emotion.

  “That’s not true and you know it.”

  Jonathan shook his head stubbornly. “William died saving me from the fire, my mother ruined her own health to restore mine, and then . . . ” He hesitated, finally forcing out the words. “There was the girl.”

  “For God’s sake, Jonathan, stop this. Her death was a tragic accident. Why do you persist in blaming yourself?”

  “Why me? Why should I live? A monster?”

  “No—”

  Jonathan brought his fist down on the arm of the chair. “If there is a god, I’m living proof that he delights in the suffering of his creation.”

  “You cannot let yourself think this way.” Garrick wanted to grab Jonathan by the arms and shake him back to his senses. “You must be strong minded.”

  “Strong? I am hopelessly weak.” Jonathan hesitated, then said something that chilled Garrick to the core. “I have fallen into the devil’s arms once again.”

  Not wanting to ask, already knowing the answer, Garrick whispered, “What do you mean?”

  Jonathan looked straight ahead, avoiding Garrick’s eyes. “Laudanum. I fear it has me in its grip.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Isabelle lay staring into the darkness. Across the room, the clock chimed softly: two o’clock. Sleep was no nearer now than it had been three hours ago.

  If someone had asked her at the beginning of the week what might be keeping her awake at its end, she would have said Mr. Nashe, without hesitation. But by week’s end they had settled into a routine which allowed them a measure of comfort in one another’s presence.

  By virtue of a scrupulously polite though somewhat strained formality, they had arrived at a delicate truce. Gradually, her fear of Mr. Nashe subsided, so that now her heart no longer pounded when he entered the room. Even the sight of his mask no longer jarred her. Like a painting that has hung in the same spot for years, until those who regularly pass by fail to notice its presence, the novelty of his appearance had receded into the background of her awareness.