by Tania Crosse
His voice had drifted about her, like a mist that would slowly dissipate as if it had never been. That would lift, and allow the sun to shine through and the world would be bright and happy again. But it wouldn’t, would it? The cloud was there to stay. For ever.
She lifted her head, unaware of the tears that spangled in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your honesty,’ she managed to tear the words from her throat.
‘I really am very sorry. I will do everything in my power to keep him comfortable, and God willing, he will make some recovery. Now, I do apologize, but I must return to my official duties. But I will be back again later. You know where I am if you need me in the meantime. Don’t worry. I’ll see myself out. And . . . well . . . Miss Maddiford . . .’
He squeezed her shoulder as he passed, for really they both knew there were no words. She listened to his footsteps in the hall, the front door closing softly. Silence then. Just the clock ticking steadily, incessantly, on the mantelpiece.
Just an hour or so ago, she had been deliberating the wisdom of her refusal of Charles Chadwick’s proposal. That all seemed so . . . so unimportant now. So unimportant and of no signifi-cance whatsoever . . .
And she buried her head in her hands and wept till her aching soul could weep no more . . .
Six
Rose stood, staring blindly at the empty fireplace in the parlour, her mind hallucinating with visions of the flames which once upon a time would have crackled merrily in the grate. The moor lay frozen beneath the searingly cold blanket of February snow, and Rose subconsciously drew the shawl more tightly about her narrow shoulders, for exhaustion had clouded her brain to her own physical discomfort. Between them, she and Florrie had nursed her father, day and night, for three months. There was no time for long, carefree gallops on Gospel’s lively back, or cosy chats with Molly by the Cartwrights’ hearthside. What flesh had once adorned Rose’s slender figure had fallen from her bones, and the skin was drawn taut across her cheeks.
She scarcely turned her head at the polite knock on the door.
‘Come in,’ she answered, her voice dull and lifeless.
Dr Power entered the room, his head bowed apologetically. He sighed, his heart heavy. ‘No change, I’m afraid, Miss Maddiford.’ He hesitated, the sight of the forlorn young woman tearing at his soul, but it must be said. ‘I fear we must face up to the situation. Barring any unforeseen recovery, which, I may say, would constitute some sort of miracle, I believe your father will remain paralysed.’
Rose nodded her head without looking at him. Yes. She didn’t need the physician to tell her. She knew already. The purple swelling on Henry’s spine had long since disappeared, but he had still neither moved nor felt any sensation below the mid-point of his back, the only progress he had made being his regaining control of his bodily functions. His lungs remained weakened by smoke inhalation, and the thick scar tissue twisted the side of his forehead, but his upper body remained strong. He could feed and wash himself, and move himself about in the bed, even issuing directives and to some extent taking up his responsibilities once more as manager, but never again would he stride amongst his men and the various buildings of the factory they worked in.
‘Thank you, Dr Power,’ Rose murmured wearily. ‘I know you’ve done all you can. ’Tis much appreciated.’
The doctor drew an awkward breath through pursed lips as he reached into the breast pocket of his coat. ‘I only wish,’ he said gravely, ‘that the outcome had been a better one. And that I didn’t have to present you with my bill. I have kept it as low as possible.’
The memory of a smile strained at Rose’s mouth as she took the envelope from his hand. ‘Mr Frean has kindly said he’ll pay for my father’s treatment.’
‘Ah.’ Dr Power nodded, for there was nothing more to say on the matter. ‘And . . . to be honest, there is little reason for me to visit again. You and Mrs Bennett are making an excellent job of caring for your father. As we’ve said before, the most important thing is for you to exercise his legs several times a day to keep the blood flowing and reduce the strain on his heart. Of course, if you’ve any concerns, do send for me at once.’
‘Yes, I will. And . . . thank you again, Doctor.’
‘Any time, Miss Maddiford. I’ll see myself out.’
She was alone again, her gaze resting unseeing on the envelope in her hand as her eyes filled with unshed tears. So, that was it. Her dearest, hardworking, active father cut down and crippled for life. More than that. Condemned to his bed for the rest of his days. Her face pulled into a determined grimace as she squared her shoulders. There was nothing more the good doctor could do. But she wouldn’t give in! She would not sit back and let Henry waste away! The fight began to creep back into her veins. If her father’s condition was never to improve, then there must be ways and means by which his existence could be returned to as near to normality as was humanly possible. The tiny seed of hope had been planted at the back of her mind. She would leave it there to germinate, to be pondered upon so that the right decisions could be made. Right now, there were other matters she needed to attend to. They were running low on coal, and the pantry was nearly empty. Time for a trip into Princetown. She wouldn’t take Gospel, for she could carry little on his back, but she would borrow Henry’s dog cart and Polly, the gentle cob that pulled it. And even that put another burgeoning idea into her head . . .
Ellen Williams puffed up her flat chest, and her mouth worked into a partly livid, partly gloating sneer, for the young hussy was getting her comeuppance, though at Ellen’s cost. Of course, she knew about the tragedy of the girl’s father and she was sorry for that, but it was about time the flibbertigibbet was taken down a peg or two.
‘I’m afraid I can’t serve you, Miss Maddiford,’ she announced through tight lips.
Rose’s neck stiffened and she blinked at the sharp-featured woman in astonishment. Had she heard right? She was aware of the chatter of the two other customers behind her coming to an abrupt halt, and her brow puckered into a frown. ‘I’m sorry?’ she questioned in bemusement.
‘I’m afraid I can’t serve you,’ Ellen repeated with satisfaction, ‘not until your account be settled. The cheque you gave me from your father has been returned by the bank.’
‘What!’ Rose’s eyes narrowed with indignation, for she had always sensed that the shopkeeper resented her, but somewhere deep inside, a cold fear began to slither into her blood.
‘Here. Take it, if you doesn’t believe me.’ Ellen flicked efficiently through the wooden till, and waved the cheque, with its ugly red bank stamp, in front of Rose’s nose.
A wave of disbelief, of horror, washed from Rose’s throat down to her stomach and her shaking hand took the cheque that Ellen was dangling distastefully between her finger and thumb as if it was something evil she had picked up on the street. The writing, her father’s signature, danced before Rose’s eyes. She really couldn’t believe . . .
‘Thank you,’ she mumbled incoherently, shame burning in her cheeks as she made for the door, the eyes of the other customers boring into her back. Outside, the biting cold stung into her body like a million piercing arrows. She was trembling as if her very core had been frozen, tears of humiliation turning to frost on her eyelashes. Surely there must be some sort of mistake? And yet the proof of it lay crumpled at the bottom of her pocket. She shook her head. An error. It must be! Some new clerk at the bank. Yes, that must be it.
So . . . what should she do? Well, if Miss Williams refused to serve her, there were two other grocers in the village. Her father didn’t have accounts with them, but she had some coins in her purse, not many, but enough to buy some tea, flour and yeast, and a couple of pounds of potatoes. They could manage on that for a few days. Until the matter was resolved. With some chops and a joint from the butcher’s, for she had settled that account with a cheque from her father on the same day as . . . Oh, good God! Would it be the same there?
She left Polly between the shafts of the dog cart
tethered to the rail with the horse-blanket thrown over her back, for she could not leave the animal standing still without protection in these temperatures. Her feet crunched in the snow as she made her way to the other shops, the butcher’s first, her hand quivering as she opened the door and a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.
Mr Roebuck looked up with his usual kindly smile. ‘Ah, Miss Rose, how be your father?’
His sympathetic tone restored her confidence. Oh, yes, definitely a mistake at the grocer’s. ‘No better, I’m afraid. But thank you for asking. Now, I’d like a hand and spring of pork, if you please,’ she asked cautiously, for though it was an awkwardly shaped joint and therefore cheaper, there was usually plenty of meat to be found on it.
Mr Roebuck cleared his throat and glancing round the shop as if someone might be listening – though there were no other customers – leaned confidentially towards her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Rose,’ he whispered, ‘but the bank wouldn’t accept your father’s cheque. It puts me in a difficult position, you sees. I can maybies let you have a couple of strips of belly, and a pound of tripe for that dog o’ yourn, but only if you pays me now. In cash. I cas’n let you have ort more than that till your account be settled.’
Rose gazed at him, slack-jawed, and she was sure her heart missed a beat. This could not be happening! But it most defin-itely was!
She forced her most winning smile to her lips. ‘Oh, Mr Roebuck, I do apologize. I believe there’s been some error at the bank. I’ll have to go into Tavistock to sort it out. And I’m afraid I have little money with me, so I won’t buy anything today. But I’ll be back in a day or two.’
‘As you wish, Miss Rose. And . . . I really am proper sorry.’
‘Don’t worry about it!’ she beamed cheerfully in an effort to disguise the tremor in her voice. ‘I do understand.’
‘My regards to your father, then!’ the poor man called as she left the shop.
She stood outside on the frozen ground, unaware of the gnawing cold that pinched at her toes and turned her flushed cheeks to ice. For some seconds, the shock numbed her brain, rendering her incapable of thought. She breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, and the pain of the glacial air in her lungs seemed to bring her to her senses. Flour and potatoes were all she could think of. She had enough in her purse for those. At least they wouldn’t starve. But even they were useless without coal for the range to cook them on! She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think back. Henry hadn’t given her a cheque for the coal merchants, had he? So perhaps they hadn’t sent a bill yet. But it had been a long time, three months since the explosion. She took all the post up to her father unopened. He dealt with it, gave her back any papers to put away in his bureau in the dining room, which she did without question, and without looking at them, for they were her father’s. But what if . . .?
She strode determinedly into Mr Richards’s establishment. They must have coal! There was only enough to last a week in these arctic temperatures, two if they were blessed with a sudden thaw and were careful in their consumption. But they already were, the kitchen range and the grate in Henry’s bedroom being the only fires that were lit, both she and Florrie shivering in their beds at night. It was warmer in Joe’s room over the stables, she often thought ruefully.
The groceries first, for the shop served a dual purpose. With the weighty items safely stowed in her basket, she stepped up to the wooden kiosk that served as the coal-merchants’ office, and tapped nervously on the window. Mr Richards glanced up at her over the horn-rimmed spectacles that were balanced on the end of his bulbous nose.
‘Yes?’ he asked gruffly, for he was not known for his friendliness.
‘Please could you deliver us some coal, Mr Richards?’ Rose said politely.
She watched through the small square of glass as he thumbed through a ledger and finally opened it at a particular page that seemed to warrant his scrutiny. He sniffed, wriggling his nose, before turning his small eyes on her. ‘Your last bill’s not been paid yet,’ he growled with annoyance.
Rose’s heart sank to her boots. ‘Are you sure you’ve sent one?’ she replied with feigned innocence. ‘I’ve not seen one.’
He scowled and flicked through another smaller book. ‘Definitely. But you can have this carbon copy.’ And tearing out the page, he slid it through the narrow gap beneath the little window.
Rose took it between shaking fingers and pushed it, folded, into her purse, trying hard not to look at the faint blue figures at the bottom of the thin paper. ‘I’m so sorry, Mr Richards. It must have been overlooked. You may imagine everything’s been upside down since my father’s accident. I’ll see to it forthwith,’ she smiled in what she hoped was an assured manner. ‘Now, when can you deliver?’
‘Hmm,’ the man grunted as he pinched his moustache between his forefinger and thumb. ‘You can have a couple of sacks the day after tomorrow. But ’tis all until that bill’s paid.’
‘Of course. I understand. Thank you.’
Her lips moved of their own accord, as did her feet which somehow took her outside and along the slippery ground back to where Polly was waiting patiently. Slowly, she pulled the blanket from the mare’s back, and climbing up into the driving seat turned the cart for home. And once they were out on the Two Bridges road, she braced herself to take the folded sheet of flimsy paper from her purse . . .
‘Your father’s asleep now, Rose dear,’ Florrie announced staunchly as she puffed into the kitchen late that evening and flopped into her chair by the side of the range. ‘I’ll just make myself a cup of tea, and then I’ll be off to bed myself. Will you have one, my dear?’
Rose glanced up from folding the last of Henry’s nightshirts that she had been ironing on the thick pad on the kitchen table. She knew she must have appeared inattentive ever since returning from Princetown, though she had endeavoured to hide her preoccupation. Florrie had been surprised at the lack of meat and other provisions in the shopping basket, but Rose had blamed the bitter weather for the delay in the delivery of supplies to the shops, and the older woman had accepted the lie unquestioningly. Rose had felt guilty at the deceit, but not for long. She had a far more serious matter to ponder at the moment.
‘Oh, yes, please, Florrie,’ she answered gratefully. ‘I’m that weary.’
‘And you’m not yersel today, neither,’ the housekeeper commented shrewdly. ‘Be summat amiss?’
Rose was aware of the flood of colour into her cheeks, but she disguised it with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Oh, ’tis just Dr Power. He confirmed today what you and I have thought for some time. That Father’s never going to get any better.’
Florrie pushed a mug of tea towards her, and then sat down heavily herself. ‘Ah, well,’ she muttered thoughtfully. ‘I suppose us should be thankful for small mercies. We still has your father, which be more than can be said for poor Elisa Russell of her husband.’
Rose nodded solemnly. Yes, Florrie was right. But that wasn’t all that was on her mind just now. They drank their tea in silence, easy in each other’s company even though not another word was exchanged. Florrie finally bade her goodnight and a distracted smile flickered over Rose’s face. She listened for the weighty footfall on the stairs and then in the room above, and eventually all fell quiet.
She leaned forward to open the firebox door, then sat back, contemplating the dying embers that glowed an ever fainter orange among the grey ashes. The day had been a hard one, first the conversation with the doctor, and then her visit to Princetown. And it wasn’t over yet. Surely there had been some sort of mistake? The cheques could both be the result of an error at the bank, but the unpaid bill at the coal merchants seemed too much of a coincidence. It was dated over a week before Henry’s accident, so he must have received it before that horrific, fateful day, though it was possible that in his present condition it had totally slipped his mind. But it included not only the enormous delivery at the beginning of the winter, but also lesser amounts they had purchased in the spring a
nd summer; all in all, a considerable sum. Did it really remain unpaid? If so, Mr Richards’s attitude was hardly surprising, and he was being quite charitable in letting them have any more at all.
She rose to her feet, silent and floating as if in a dream, and taking up the oil lamp, quietly let herself into the dining room and opened her father’s bureau, her fingers trembling as she reached for the growing stack of correspondence she had placed there at Henry’s request. She glanced surreptitiously at the door as if she expected someone to enter and catch her red-handed like a thief in the night. But this was her responsibility now, and she had to know the truth.
Slowly, one by one, she unfolded the papers. Any private correspondence she put to one side. The rest . . . Each one made her heart thud harder until her whole body shook and she had to sit down abruptly as the strength emptied out of her in a flood of horror. Bills unpaid, final demands. Not just the two returned cheques for Miss Williams and the butcher’s, both of which covered several months of purchases, but the wine merchant’s in Tavistock, the shoemakers where she and Henry had each had two pairs of boots made the previous summer, a coat from Henry’s tailor, animal feed – for Gospel, of course – and the fine new saddle and the necklace Henry had bought for her twenty-first birthday last June.
She really couldn’t believe it. She knew they lived well, but she had always assumed they could afford to! Henry would always smile benevolently at her delight, but the appreciative kisses she bestowed on him were because she loved him, not because of what he gave her! How could he! How could he possibly get his own finances in such a state when he was such an excellent businessman, as Mr Frean had said on so many occasions? Her dear, dear father . . .
