• • •
It was some time later, whilst Jenny was settling Maddie to sleep, and John had nodded off in his chair, that Rose found herself more or less alone with Ted again for the first time since the incident in the annex. Neither of them spoke. Rose was really at a loss as to what to say to this young man who’d both become a friend and wrecked her dreams within a matter of days.
“You must hate me,” Ted said suddenly, unable to look at her, his voice tight with emotion. “For trying to make you kiss me like that, like that . . . that animal did. I knew you’d been through something awful, something dreadful to make you so afraid but, Rose, I never guessed it was that. And now I know I’m no better than him. No wonder you hate me.”
“I don’t hate you,” Rose said softly, leaning forward a little towards him. Her neck was still sore, the back of her head and cheek were bruised, but her mind felt clearer now, at least. “I don’t have the energy to hate anyone anymore.”
Ted shook his head, hurriedly wiping away the tears that had sprung to his eyes, keen that Rose shouldn’t see that he was crying.
“Ted,” Rose said, making him look at her, “you are a million times better than him, a gazillion. Yes, you behaved like a moron, but you’ve been so kind to me too. If anything, I’m at fault. I shouldn’t have let things go so far between us. You got tangled up in the problems of a very confused and stupid woman.”
“You really can’t feel about me like I do about you?” Ted asked her earnestly, his dark eyes fixed on her so intently that Rose almost wished that she could, almost thought that perhaps if she tried the feelings might come eventually. But if life had taught her anything, it was to listen to that small quiet voice that told her when something wasn’t right for her, no matter how perfect it might seem.
Rose shook her head, a tear of regret sliding down her cheek. “I’m sorry.”
Ted nodded, turning his face from her for a moment, as he took a breath.
“But we could try being friends again. I need one of those now. And so does Maddie.”
“I never ever thought it would be me getting the let’s be friends speech.” Ted sighed ruefully. “But friends it is, then. Look, do you want me to have a word with that Frasier, tell him how things really were between us?”
Rose shook her head. “I think that door has rather closed,” she said. “It’s probably for the best.”
“Yeah,” Ted said sadly. “You’re saying the words out loud, but your face is telling another story. You’re still hurting for him. Trust me, I can spot the signs.”
Rose didn’t bother denying the truth. “Well, if it wasn’t meant to be, what can I do?” she said. “I’ve got far too much else to think about now than a man. I’ve got Dad and Maddie, and making a life for myself here. And honestly, even if what happened with Frasier does hurt, it is better this way. It’s about time I was my own person.”
“Are you two OK now?” Jenny asked tartly as she returned downstairs, causing John to stir a little in his chair.
“Sneaking around behind people’s backs like a pair of teenagers. I’ve never seen the like,” Jenny growled. “Still, I don’t suppose I should really have gone quite so overboard on being cross about it as I did. I forget that Ted is a grown man most of the time, mainly because he acts like a child. But still, there it is.”
“There what is, Ma?” Ted asked her, winking at Rose.
“What I said,” Jenny said. “There that is.”
“Mum?” Ted prodded her.
“Fine, I’m sorry too,” Jenny snapped before bustling off to the sink where she began to wash up very noisily, muttering, “What sort of civilized human being doesn’t have a dishwasher in this day and age I really don’t know.”
Chapter
Eighteen
It was clear that neither Frasier nor John really knew how to deal with the aftermath of Richard’s visit, each of them feeling powerless and detached in his own way. Frasier was clearly irritated that it had been Jenny, and especially Ted, who were already there taking care of Rose when he arrived. But beyond that Rose had no idea what he was thinking. He was just as polite, charming, and friendly as he had been before, except now there was a kind of barrier around him, a reserve Rose felt indicated that he found it difficult to be near her. Which was hardly surprising, she supposed. It was never easy to be near someone who’d been through something like she had, the constant fear of not knowing what to say or how to be. If things had been different, Rose would have begged him to be like he’d always been with her, but now there was that distance. They could work together, quietly plan the exhibition together, spend time with John and Maddie, all of them in the same room quite comfortably, but they could never really say anything to each other that mattered.
What worried Rose most, though, was how John reacted to Richard’s brief but destructive invasion into his life.
Sinking into himself, wrought with guilt and anger, he didn’t seem to want to get out of bed the next day, unable to look Rose in the eye, not willing to eat, just lying in bed staring at the blank whitewashed wall across the room. Not even Frasier’s arrival sparked his usual mischievous intent to wind his friend up as best he could. It was clear that John blamed himself, despite what Rose had said, and now he was angry and frustrated with his illness, his weakness, all too aware that soon he would be leaving her alone and unprotected.
Rose was desperate that this not be the way that John spent the rest of his time with her and Maddie, and yet it hurt to realize that she did not know him well enough to be able to bring him out.
When Frasier saw the bruise on Rose’s cheek, as she stood in the kitchen trying to make lasagne, his face was unreadable. Ted had already left, but Jenny, who was still there bustling about, dusting under and behind things, taking every opportunity to peer into drawers, told him the short version of the story in her usual blunt and to-the-point way in five seconds flat, which Rose had been grateful for. The last thing she wanted was to have to explain to Frasier what had happened.
“And where is he now?” Frasier asked, his expression very still.
“I don’t know,” Rose said, shaking her head. “Gone home, the police think. They rang to tell me. He hasn’t pressed charges against me—he’s probably realized he wouldn’t get away with it—and if I press charges there’ll be a scandal. His reputation, his life, his practice will all go up in smoke.”
“So why don’t you, then?” Jenny asked her.
Rose shrugged. “I just want him gone. Not to have to go through months and months of legal stuff, and even if they do find him guilty, he’s got no record, no previous offenses. He’ll probably get a slap on the wrist, and he will still be out there, angry. I can’t see the point.”
“If you want him gone, you need to show him that this is over,” Frasier said. “The police is one way of doing that.”
Rose said nothing, silently resolute.
“Well, I’ll stay here until we can be sure he’s not still in the area,” Frasier said, his eyes fixed on Rose’s cheek.
“Ted stayed last night,” Maddie told Frasier, midway through the process of sifting flour, a job Rose had given her to keep her busy. “But I’m not scared of Dad,” she told Frasier, as if she was working out her own thoughts aloud. “Mum beat him up. He should be scared of Mum.”
“Well, good for Ted,” Frasier said, his voice taut. “But he’s gone now, and in the meantime, I’ll stay here.” He looked at Jenny. “If you have a moment before you go, I brought some examples, brochures that I sent for. I’d almost forgotten what we’d been talking about until they arrived. I thought you’d like to look at them.”
Before Rose could find out what business Frasier could possibly have with Jenny, there was a muffled call from the study.
“Dad,” Rose said. “I’m so worried about him, he’s so down. Do you think you could maybe make him cross or want to throw something at you, or chuck you out, even? I’d do anything to see him his old grumpy self again.”
“Well, breaking the news of the exhibition to him is bound to distract him,” Frasier said a little warily. “I’ll give it my best shot.”
Rose followed Frasier as far as the study door, hoping to be out of earshot of Jenny, who was muttering to herself about E. coli as she returned to cleaning out the fridge, while Maddie steadfastly spooned flour through the sieve.
“He has taken what happened with Richard very badly, blaming himself,” Rose told Frasier.
“He’s not the only one,” Frasier said, reaching out and gently touching her face just below the bruise. “I should never have left you.”
“What reason did you have to stay?” Rose asked him. “None of us knew that would be the day Richard turned up. I’m worried about Dad. I’m worried that if he feels this deflated now, then he’ll stop trying to . . . stay.”
“Why are you whispering?” Maddie asked them, appearing at the bottom of the stairs, her hands and face covered in flour.
“Because it’s private,” Rose told her daughter, a little more firmly than she meant to. “Which reminds me, you and I are going to look at the local school in a couple of days. The nice head teacher is letting us in specially, even though they aren’t back from the summer holidays yet.”
“Oh,” Maddie said, utterly uncheered by the news. “Well, I suppose that will be OK. I’m not going if I don’t completely like it, though.”
“Are you coming?” Frasier asked Rose as Maddie returned to her sifting.
“No, you go in first. Whenever he looks at me he looks so sad,” Rose said, biting her lip. Frasier touched her briefly on the shoulder, in a moment of consolation, and then closed the door behind him.
• • •
It was almost an hour later when Frasier called Rose in to see her father. John was sitting up in bed, with a writing board resting on his lap and a selection of official-looking papers spread out across the bed. Obviously Frasier’s visit had had some effect on him, Rose thought gratefully. Whatever he was doing, it was better than just lying there staring into thin air.
“Good,” John said purposefully when she arrived. “Frasier and I have been dealing with your situation. That man will only ever get near you and Maddie again over my dead body, and as that situation is imminent, I have taken measures to ensure you are protected when I’m not here.”
“Measures?” Rose said uncertainly, sitting on the bed.
“I have telephoned the police station in Keswick. They are sending out an officer to take your statement about what happened. They’ll want to speak to Jenny too. They took photos last night of your injuries, and they’ll take some more today.”
“Dad!” Rose protested. “This isn’t what I want. What about Maddie? Did you stop to think about how it would affect her, knowing the police are chasing her father?”
“This is for Maddie too,” John said firmly, with more life than she had seen in him since yesterday. “It was Maddie who asked for the police. I don’t know what motivates a human to behave as your husband did yesterday, and I know that he is Maddie’s father, but still, he has to be stopped. Like Frasier stopped me from drinking by locking me up for months. Richard has to be stopped before he ruins lives beyond repair, including Maddie’s. And this is the first step to that. I know it is extreme, but perhaps official involvement is one way of making him see what it is he’s been doing, the sort of person he’s become.”
Rose bowed her head in thought. “OK, perhaps you’re right. But I don’t want to speak to them here. I don’t want Maddie to know. If they’re talking to Jenny too, I’ll go to the B and B, meet them there.”
“Good,” John said. “Now, I wasn’t going to tell you this just yet, but I think you need to know now. A few years ago I set up a trust fund for you. It’s not supposed to be realized until I die, but under the circumstances, I’ve asked Frasier, who is the executor, to arrange for a portion to be paid to you immediately, pay legal fees, help you set up your new life, and make sure you don’t want for anything. And he’s arranging for a solicitor to see you, to help you get divorce proceedings started. Her name is . . . ?” John looked at Frasier, who’d been standing obediently at his side all this time.
“Janette,” Frasier said, “Janette Webb. She’s excellent.”
“Really?” Rose said, looking at Frasier, a little breathless, not to mention just a little irritated by how speedily her life was being organized for her. She knew that both men wanted, and even needed, to help her, but this felt a little too much like control over her—that her own destiny was being taken away from her just as she was beginning to regain it.
“This is all a bit too fast,” she said. “I’m not sure that I’m ready for this yet.”
“Rose,” John spoke her name urgently, “I have no choice but to act fast, don’t you see that? I’m not trying to railroad you, but I can’t leave you knowing that I haven’t done all I can to make things safe for you and Maddie. I’m sure I don’t deserve that peace of mind, I know you blame me . . . but please let me be a father to you.”
Rose bit her lip, torn between her desire to make her dad happy and her determination to control her own life for once. This wasn’t about manipulation or control, she told herself. This was just a father trying to help his daughter.
“All right,” she conceded. “I’ll talk to the police and the Janette person. But after that I make my own decisions, OK?”
“Very well,” John said, seemingly content that he’d got her to take that first step to making her break from Richard permanently, and in her heart Rose knew he was right. A prolonged stalemate between her and her husband would only make things messy and uncertain. Richard did need showing, by official means, if necessary, that her life as his wife was finished for good. Miles weren’t enough to keep him away, and if she left things as they were, sooner or later he would be back. Rose knew she couldn’t let that happen.
“Very well,” she said. “Dad, I’ll do what you want, for you and for Maddie.”
“And for me,” Frasier added, so softly that Rose wasn’t sure she’d heard him right.
“But I want you to do something for me too,” she continued, glancing up at Frasier, who knew exactly what she was about to say. “Something that would mean more to me than you can imagine.”
John looked at her suspiciously over the top of his glasses.
“Frasier and I want to exhibit your private work, and we want to open in two weeks’ time,” Rose rushed the words out all at once, hoping that the quicker she said them the less likely John was to have time to react negatively. She hoped in vain.
“Absolutely not,” John said with such vehemence that his face flooded red and Rose feared for his heart, on top of everything else. “I don’t know how you can ask that of me! That work is not for sale. It is not for anyone else but me. It’s my . . . diary, my legacy, my gift to you when I am gone, and I will not, I repeat, I will not let this man turn it into a three-ring circus, just so he can cream his percentage off the top.” He pointed an accusing finger at Frasier. “I won’t, Rose. I’m sorry, I won’t. I never wanted you to see them while I was alive; if there was a way I could stop you seeing them afterwards, then I would. They document the side of me I hate the most.”
Rose watched dismayed as John bowed his head, sweeping his glasses off his face and pinching the bridge of his nose, as tears squeezed out between his tightly shut eyes.
“Dad,” she said, sliding off the edge of the bed to kneel next to him. “Please, don’t cry. This isn’t at all what we wanted. All we wanted was to show the world what an incredible artist you are. And I haven’t seen the paintings yet. I promised you I wouldn’t and I haven’t. Frasier looked at them, and he thinks they are amazing, brilliant, wonderful.”
“It’s true,” Frasier said, taking Rose’s place on the bed. “John, don’t deprive the world of what you have here. This work is important. It needs to be seen.”
“And I don’t suppose your concern,” John said, gaining his composure, “
has anything to do with how much a painting goes up in value once its creator is dead?”
Frasier looked hurt, turning his face away from his friend.
“I know,” he said quietly, “that is not what you really think of me. I know you know that I am your friend, that I always have and always will do the very best I can for you.” When Frasier turned back to face John, his face was set with determination. “I will take a good deal of your vitriol, John, but not that. Besides, this exhibition wouldn’t be about you, it would be for Rose. A way for you to show her your soul. Rose listened to you, now you listen to me. Do this one thing for your daughter. And if it helps, we don’t have to put the works up for sale. It could be for viewing only. A retrospective and an unveiling of a great undiscovered British talent in one fell swoop.”
“I will be a laughingstock,” John said, a little less vehemently. “Some foolish old man who’s made all his money painting chocolate-box-pretty pictures and now is praying for some validation from the critics on his deathbed. How they will mock me. I’m sorry, Rose, I don’t want to disappoint you. But no, I don’t want to.”
“Can I show you something?” Rose went to a bookshelf in the corner of the room and from behind it retrieved an object that Frasier recognized as soon as he saw the familiar blanket wrapping. “I was going to put it on the wall for you before you got back, but I couldn’t find a hammer,” Rose said as she unwrapped the painting. Carefully, she set it at the foot of the bed, standing behind it, holding its edges very carefully.
John gazed at the painting, saying nothing as his eyes roamed over it, looking as if he’d just been reunited with a very dear friend that he had no idea how to react to.
“This painting,” Rose told him over the brim of the canvas, “or at least the sketch for this painting, is the reason why Frasier looked all over the country for you.” She glanced briefly at Frasier, before returning her attention to John. “The reason why I met him, the reason that I came here, the reason that I ever found you. This painting that I know you never forgot, because you painted it again.”
The Runaway Wife Page 35
