He threw the letter back on to the cluttered desk. ‘Fortune, is it, eh? And how would a slip of a thing like you seek a fortune by honest means? You’re a country gel, and I’ve seen too many go bad to encourage you to leave.’
When Rose refused to respond, he gave a great sigh of exasperation. ‘What has Lady Fairbrother to do with all this? How is it you were able to confide in her of your wish to leave Milton Manor?’
Rose ran her tongue over dry lips. She would have to be careful what she said. ‘Lady Fairbrother must have overheard me talking with Queenie. It was the day I got that letter from Mam and I was upset and talking about leaving. This other lady probably mentioned she wanted a lady’s maid and Lady Clara thought of me,’ she finished lamely.
Charles Ade looked at her for a long moment, his eyes steady, his mind obviously troubled. ‘That’s a very complicated story, Rose. Are you sure there isn’t another reason for your leaving?’
‘Why, sir? Should there be?’ Her expression was deliberately artless.
‘Is there something you wish to tell me, Rose?’ His tone was kind, his voice gentle. But his eyes held a piercing directness that made her feel uncomfortable, and she wondered if he had somehow guessed the truth.
‘N-no, sir. It’s as I said – I’ve a mind to try another place, that’s all.’
He sighed. ‘If you say so, Rose. But your mother entrusted me with your care and I wouldn’t like to think you were hiding something from me.’ He paused for a moment. ‘Don’t be afraid to confide in me. No matter how terrible a predicament you may find yourself in.’
She remained silent. The wedding was two weeks away. Lady Clara had kept her part of the bargain – and so must she.
His soft voice sharpened. ‘You aren’t in the family way, are you?’
Rose blushed. At least she hadn’t suffered that humiliation. ‘No, sir,’ she whispered.
‘Then what is it, Rose?’ His tone was persistent, as if he suspected her reason.
The urge to tell him the truth was very strong, but she knew how it would hurt Miss Isobel, and once revealed the scandal that followed would destroy this family who had been so kind to her. Yet, by her silence, was she condemning Miss Isobel to a life of unhappiness? The quandary had been going round in her head for weeks. Now the moment had come to speak out, she knew she just couldn’t do it. The revenge she sought was not against these people.
‘You have been kind to me, sir, and I’ve been happy working for Miss Isobel. But I’m fourteen and I would like to see a bit more of the world.’
Charles Ade grunted and once more reached for the letter. ‘You will certainly do that if you take up this post, Rose. Do you have any idea what it entails?’
She sat forward eagerly. ‘Does the lady want a personal maid, sir?’
He nodded. ‘More than that, Rose. She wants a companion, a lady’s maid to accompany her on a particular journey.’
‘Where to, sir? London? Scotland?’ Her heart pounded. ‘Ireland?’
‘Further afield than that, Rose. Lady Fitzallan is sailing for the colonies in two months’ time.’
‘The colonies, sir?’ Rose had heard stories of the adventures to be had on the other side of the world. Of gold and silver just lying in the ground waiting to be picked up. Of strange animals and savage people, of forests and deserts and great mountains that stretched right up to the sky. ‘America?’ she asked breathlessly.
‘No Rose. Australia. The Dowager Lady Fitzallan is joining her son in Sydney.’
Rose couldn’t imagine what this mysterious Sydney would look like or what she might find there. Yet her excitement was tempered by the knowledge that Lady Clara had planned her own revenge well. How convenient to send Rose to the other side of the world where no breath of scandal would reach London. Then there was the fear of the unknown. What would the future hold for her in the new world? Did she really want to go so far from all she knew and understood? And what of John? They would never see one another again – and yet he was already lost to her. ‘What is Australia like, sir? Is it so very far?’ she asked finally.
‘Come, I’ll show you on this globe.’ He crossed the room and spun the wooden globe until he found Australia. ‘It’s at least three months away by sea – longer if you encounter storms. By all accounts it is hot and dry and populated by convicts and rough settlers. There are some who see it as an adventure, others who see it as an escape from scandal or the ignominy of being the youngest son or black sheep of the family. I understand the city of Sydney is now quite civilised, but of course it won’t be anything like London.’
He pursed his lips, his fingers pressed to his mouth. ‘Reconsider, my dear. ’Tis a long way from home, and I doubt you will ever be able to return to England. Your life would never be the same.’
‘Your life would never be the same.’ The magic words floated around her, bringing a dizzy, heady pleasure she could no longer deny. Fate had given her a chance to change her life. Dare she take up the challenge? She looked at the globe and the blob of land set in a bright blue sea and thought about it. Then couldn’t quite hide the excitement in her eager smile as she looked up at him. ‘If Lady Fitzallan is agreeable, then I would like to go, sir.’
*
Big Billy Clarke had been as good as his word, and John was now the proud owner of three fine suits of clothes and a healthy stash of coins which he hid beneath the floor-boards in his lodgings. The room he lived in was above a tavern in the centre of Bow. The floors dipped and swayed like the back of an old horse, the windows were tiny, the air foetid, and when John closed the door after another day in this alien city, he longed for the fresh air and freedom of the vardo and the open road.
The streets below his window were narrow, filled with the filth of the tenements, haunted by cut-purses, prostitutes, beggars and hawkers. The noise went on all day and night. The fights were violent and conducted with as much noise as possible. Drunks urinated freely against the walls of the King’s Arms whenever the urge took them, and skinny, snarling dogs roamed the streets and alleys, foraging amongst the debris for food and fighting over the scraps.
Living amongst the gadjikanes made him feel moxado, unclean, and although he now had enough money tucked away to return to Wilmington and ask for Rose’s hand, he knew he would have to wait. He couldn’t bring her here amongst the rabble of London. Rose deserved better. He was determined to save enough to buy their own vardo.
Night after night, regardless of how battered and bruised he was from the latest fight, he would sit on that mean, lice-ridden mattress and count his coins. Each one brought him closer to his dream. Each one represented another step towards the British title, and the kind of life he wanted for them both.
Yet patience had never been his strong point, and as the days turned into weeks, the weeks into months, the longing to return to the clean fresh air of the South Downs, and the familiar orderliness of the Romany camp was underlined by a deep, pervasive anger. That anger manifested itself in the ring as he faced his opponents and laid them out on the canvas amidst shouts of derision and slander, and he knew that if he didn’t find release from it soon, he would lose control. Dreams were all very well, but the manner in which he had to earn those dreams was beginning to destroy his soul.
He stared up at the stained ceiling, then closed his eyes and tried to block out the noise from below. How good it would be to see Rose again – to walk with her over Windover Hill and hear the gulls shriek overhead. How pleasant to sit around the camp fire with the sound of the Romany language around him, the wind at his back, the smell of rabbit stew in the pot.
He sat up, his eyes snapping open as he realised there was nothing to stop him. His next fight was almost three weeks away in Sheffield, and Big Billy was out of town with another fighter preparing for a local bout. ‘Why not?’ he muttered. ‘I can be down to Sussex and back before Billy even knows I’ve gone. I’m coming, Rose,’ he murmured. ‘I’m coming.’
*
Rose had sai
d her goodbyes to Queenie and the others the night before. Miss Isobel had been kindness itself, even though she was puzzled by Rose’s hasty departure, and had pressed a guinea in her hand. ‘Take care, Rose,’ she’d said. ‘And if you want to change your mind, there’s always a position for you in my London home.’
It was still dark as Rose climbed Windover Hill for the last time, but she didn’t need light to show her the way. The wind sweeping off the South Downs was chilly and she drew the thin shawl more closely around her shoulders. Her long black hair was free from cap and pins and streamed behind her, enhancing the sense of excitement that had been building inside her for the past two weeks.
As she breached the hill she stood for a moment to catch her breath and gaze at the bright, cold stars. The sough of the wind in the gnarled trees and the crackle of early frost underfoot were reminders of the approaching winter she would never see. The cold air burned in her throat and her bare fingers tingled. She wished she’d remembered to put more paper over the holes in her boots. Her feet were icy and the hem of the brown dress sodden. Yet, as she stood in the stillness of the hour before dawn, she knew the discomfort no longer mattered. For this was home, and she needed to burn the image of it in her heart before she began the long journey to the other side of the world.
The tranquillity of the Downs embraced her as she walked, the scent of drifting wood smoke lingering as if the ghosts of the past had come to say their goodbyes. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply of those memories as the tears at last began to fall and isolation closed in. She had never felt so alone – so abandoned and small within the grandeur of the Sussex Downs – for the people she loved were gone and she would never see them again.
She wiped away the tears. Regrets must not be allowed to surface, for the decision to leave had been her own. Grasping her skirts, she plodded along the crest of Windover Hill until she came to the traditional winter camping ground. The Romany camp was deserted, its only remainder the ruts of their vardo wheels.
‘Where are you, John?’ she whispered into the stillness. ‘Why didn’t you come for me as you promised?’ The ache for him was deep, the plans they’d made as cold as the ashes in the camp fire. Yet she yearned to see him again. Longed to feel his arms about her. For although their paths would never cross again, and their childish dreams never be fulfilled, they would forever remain a part of each other.
She turned away and as the sky began to lighten, looked out over the land. It was important to carry the image of this place with her to the other side of the world. To burn the sight, the sound and scent of it into her heart, so she could turn to them in moments of need.
The long, slender valley between the folds of the Downs widened out into the cattle pasture that dipped and rolled like the back of an old horse. Mist hung over Deep Dene as always, lending credence to the local belief that the steep, tree-lined gully was haunted. Sturdy Downland sheep grazed in a far-off field and the delicate white flowers of the blackthorn vied with the yellow insolence of the gorse. Rose felt the wind tug her hair and sting her face. After the stifling formality of the Manor she felt the headiness of freedom in her veins. She would never have to return there. Now she had the time to breathe, space to move, to be herself. The adventure had already begun.
*
The journey took John two days of hard riding. The mare needed rest as much as he did, and as he was not inclined to exchange her at the coaching inns, he had camped in fields and slept beneath the trees wrapped in a blanket. As the soft, gentle curves of the South Downs welcomed him home, he spurred his horse into a gallop. He could already make out the colourful tents and the flags fluttering in the wind.
The dukkerin was waiting for him, standing on the edge of the field, her hand shading her eyes as she watched him approach. ‘I dreamed you would come, John. Welcome home.’
He kissed her brown cheek, and felt the frailty of her as he held her close. ‘I’ve come for Rose,’ he said finally.
She pulled away from him, her dark eyes looking deeply into his. ‘The fates will not allow it, John,’ she said solemnly.
‘To hell with the fates, puri daj. Rose is the one I want and no one can stop me from having her.’ He grabbed the reins, his foot already back in the stirrup. ‘I’m going to fetch her.’
Her gnarled hand stayed his arm. ‘Be still, John. She’s gone. There was some unpleasantness up at the Manor. She’s away to London.’ Sarah must have seen the spark of excitement in his eyes for she shook her head and silenced his retort. ‘But she won’t be stayin’ there, boy. There’s a much longer journey ahead of her now. One that will take her beyond your reach even.’
Exasperation made him rough with her. Grasping her arm, he shouted into her face. ‘Don’t speak in riddles, old woman. ‘Where’s she going?’
Sarah glared back at him until, shame-faced, he let her go. Then she shrugged. ‘Across the water is all I know.’
‘When? When did she leave, puri daj?’ His voice was softer now, a strange emptiness filling him so completely, it was hard for him to speak.
‘A week ago.’ His grandmother she took his hand and looked into the palm, tracing the lines with a dirty fingernail. ‘You too have a long journey ahead of you, John, but there will be many months before you take the first step.’ She looked up at him then, her eyes fathomless. ‘That step will not be made with joy,’ she warned. ‘It will be made in haste and in fear.’
He snatched his hand away. ‘I don’t want to listen to this,’ he muttered.
‘You’d do well to heed me, boy,’ she snapped. ‘The fates are giving you a choice. If you don’t mind what I say, then you’re a fool.’
‘Fool or not, puri daj, I mean to find Rose and make her my wife. No matter how long the journey.’
The old woman sadly watched him lead his horse to the vardo. He had taken the first step on the road to hell, and there was nothing she could do about it.
8
Mary had spent the last two days in bed. She was experienced enough to know she’d gone too far in trying to beat the hunger this time and so forced herself to eat the meals she’d ordered from room service. The skinless chicken and green salads had been followed by a piece of fruit, and she drank pints of freshly squeezed orange juice throughout the day and night to rehydrate herself and make up for lost vitamins and her craving for sugar.
At first each mouthful had made her gag, but she had soon overcome that and was now feeling more in control. She’d had a great deal of time to think over the past forty-eight hours, and this morning was impatient to get things under way. Revenge would be sweet, and with food inside her, and a clear head, she felt strong enough to exact it.
She had made the telephone call earlier that morning. Now, as the noon appointment approached, she’d returned from the hairdresser’s and was making her final preparations. She had dressed carefully in a pale lilac two-piece suit. The shoulders were padded, the lapels embroidered with deep purple irises. The narrow waistline and slim skirt emphasised her figure and she smiled as she realised she hadn’t put on any extra pounds in the past few days despite the enforced eating. Slipping on a pair of high-heeled sandals, she examined her reflection. Her make-up was immaculate and she was pleased with the way the girl had coloured her hair, for she was always wary of new hair-dressers and had been slightly alarmed when the colourist suggested using several tones of brown and gold instead of black. Yet, as she eyed herself in the gilded mirror, she had to admit the girl had done a good job. The softer streaks of colour had added depth and fire and toned in better with her skin.
You’re getting old, she thought. It takes longer and longer to get ready to face the world, and there’s hardly anything left of the real Mary under all that powder and paint and hair dye. Just how much longer can you go on nipping and tucking and running away from the years?
The depressing thoughts clamoured, threatening to take her down with them. Then the clock struck midday and the light tap on the door announced her visitor.
Turning her back on the mirror, she pushed aside the doubts. There was still enough fight in her for her to keep going, and she was damned if she was going to give in to old age. Just as she was damned if she was going to let the family walk all over her. This was her chance to get her own back, and she would see she did – in spades.
‘Let’s see how they like that,’ she muttered as she went to open the door.
‘Hi. How y’ goin’?’
‘Good. Come in, Sharon. Nice to see you again.’ Mary led the other woman into the apartment and poured her a glass of Martini from the frosted jug she’d prepared earlier. She and Sharon Sterling had known one another for years, and although their knowledge of each other was intimate, it wasn’t really a friendship – more a reciprocal business arrangement.
Sharon sat on the couch, her long, perfect legs crossed at the ankle. She was beautifully dressed as usual in a business-like suit, with just a hint of expensive gold jewellery at her throat and in her earlobes. The blonde hair was glossy and fell in a pageboy to her chin, framing her discreetly made-up face. Her rings sparked fire as she raised her glass in a toast. ‘Here’s to stirring the pot.’
Mary took a sip of the mineral water she’d poured for herself. She needed to keep a clear head for what she was about to do. ‘As long as I’m not the one caught with the wooden spoon,’ she said firmly.
‘Haven’t I always been discreet, darling?’ Sharon’s voice was almost a purr, the slanting green eyes feral as they flashed with malicious anticipation.
Mary nodded. There had been many interviews like this in the past, and she hadn’t been betrayed so far. Yet she had no illusions when it came to Sharon. She was a consummate journalist, a doyenne of dishing the dirt when it came to the rich and famous, and if she smelled a rat she’d be the first to pounce. The first to off-load any sense of fair play if it meant a bigger and better story.
‘What I’m going to tell you today is dynamite, so you’d better make sure you don’t reveal your source.’ Mary’s tone was grim, her gaze direct. ‘And I don’t want you recording this either.’
Jacaranda Vines Page 13
