by Tania Crosse
Tears of panic, frustration and utter despair pricked at her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief. In her fingers quivered an irate letter from the bank together with a copy of Henry’s vastly overdrawn account. She hardly dared open the last document, for she was feeling physically sick and really didn’t think she could take another shock. But it wasn’t another demand, just a letter from Charles Chadwick.
The relief was so overwhelming that she began to read it without considering that she should never go through anyone’s private mail. The neat, precise letters marched across the page like regimented soldiers, their regular form fascinating her eyes before their meaning began to filter into her brain. It had been written shortly before Christmas, commiserating Henry on his terrible accident which he had learnt of from Mr Frean, and saying that he fully understood how Rose’s decision would have been put on hold for the time being. Though his heart yearned to be with her again, he would stay away until such time as Henry summoned him. That he felt he loved her more with each day they were apart, and he longed for her to do him the honour of accepting his proposal and allowing him to provide generously for her for the rest of her days.
Ha! The bitter laugh crowed in her aching gullet until her heaving lungs dissolved into racking sobs of misery. So upright, so correct! He’d hardly want her now if he knew the truth; that she was the daughter of a debtor; of a man whose crime not so many years ago could have seen him in prison. Oh, no! Not that she returned Mr Chadwick’s affection in any way, and she had only entertained the idea of any relationship between them for her father’s sake. But now . . .!
No. It was time to face facts. To face the stark reality of the cold and hostile world that lay outside the four walls of the solid house. And indeed within it, for three months ago, Henry had been a strong, vigorous man who had made her believe that life was bountiful, and the only problem she had to confront was whether or not to marry a man who was both considerate and rich, but whom she did not love.
Now everything was changed, her comfortable existence swept away from beneath her feet. And she had no idea which way to turn.
‘Why didn’t you tell me, Father?’
Her voice was soft, compassionate, afraid, hardly more than a whisper fluttering in her throat. She was sitting by Henry’s bedside, holding his hand and stroking the skin which had always been brown from exposure to the elements, but was now pale after three months’ confinement indoors. Henry lifted his misted eyes to his beloved daughter, his heart stung by the agony on her face.
‘I were going to,’ he said quietly, a frown of shame dragging on the ugly scarring on his forehead. ‘But then . . .this happened,’ and he waved his other hand towards his legs, ‘and I really couldn’t bear to. I knew ’twould put so much strain on you. That so much would fall on your shoulders. That you’d have so much to do, things . . . that no daughter should have to do for her father. How could I possibly make it so much worse by telling you the truth? To break it to you that we’d have to sell Gospel, and that were just to start? You love that horse, and because of me, you’d have to sell him.’
Rose had drawn back with a jerk. Sell Gospel! The thought had never crossed her mind! Of all the solutions that had tumbled in her brain, keeping her awake the entire night, selling Gospel was never amongst them. He was part of the family, like Florrie and Joe. And who would buy him anyway? He was a fine animal and worth a great deal if he’d had a temperament to match, but his distrust of the human race and consequent bad temper was immediately apparent to any stranger. It would either be back to the martingale for him, the harsh bit and the whip, or the knacker’s yard. The shock pulsed down her body and then settled in the pit of her stomach with all the other horrors that were seething there, waiting to be accepted into her rebellious mind. She inwardly sighed. It was just another nail in the coffin.
‘But . . .why, Father?’ she moaned with a forlorn shake of her head. ‘Why were you always giving me so many things if we couldn’t afford them? I didn’t need them. I’d have loved you just as much without.’
Henry’s faded blue eyes glistened as a sad smile crinkled them at the corners. ‘Yes, I know that, child. But I wanted you to have everything. Everything that I hadn’t been able to give your mother. We were young, just starting out in life with little money to spare. Just enough to keep a roof over our heads and to employ Florrie. She were only meant to be temporary, to help your mother for a while when you were born. When Alice died,’ his voice quavered, ‘I thought I’d lost everything. That my life was over. And then I began to realize that I still had her. In you. You’re so like her, you know. To look at, and in character. So I vowed that I would dedicate my life to making you happy. To making up for the fact that you never had a mother. And in doing so, I believed I were doing it for Alice, too.’ He paused, and the devoted smile slid from his wan face. ‘But it all went wrong. I never meant it to end like this. You’ve been a wonderful daughter to me, Rosie. No man could ever wish for more. And now I’ve got to break your heart. And I’m so, so sorry.’
Rose had listened, her head bowed, and now she raised her eyes to him, deep crystal pools of anguish. Her wretched soul was torn by her love for this dear man who had been her life, and who had been cruelly reduced to a helpless cripple. She threw her arms around him, her tears dripping on to his greying hair as she rocked him back and forth.
‘’Twill be all right, Father, I promise you!’ she spluttered between her sobs. ‘I don’t know how yet. But . . . I’ll work something out. Just see if I don’t!’ And even as she spoke, her voice began to tremble, not with dejection, but with outright determination.
Seven
‘Did you find Father a little better today, Mr Frean?’ Rose smiled optimistically as the elderly gentleman entered the kitchen a few weeks later. She was certainly feeling more cheerful herself, as in that time she had set her plan of campaign in motion, and so far at least it seemed to be working. She had returned the saddle which, lavishly polished over the months she had used it, showed no sign of wear, and though the saddler could not cancel the debt entirely, he had reduced it by more than half. Likewise the jeweller, though she had been angered to see the necklace displayed in the window shortly afterwards at the full price, and no end of hard argument had persuaded him to come down on what he considered she still owed him for the ‘loan’ of the jewellery. The wine merchant was the only person to take back what remained of Henry’s store of bottles at its full value, though she would still owe him a reasonable sum. There was nothing else that could be returned, but she had visited the bank manager, explaining all about Henry’s accident and breaking down in wrenching sobs that had melted the poor fellow’s heart. The sight of the beautiful, helpless young woman weeping wretchedly was really too much for him, since he was not a dispassionate man. For Rose’s part, it hadn’t been difficult, for though she had planned on play-acting, when it came to it, the appalling discovery of the dire straits of her father’s financial affairs had once more grasped her by the throat, and the tears had come naturally. She had explained all the measures she had put in place, the manager suggesting she might also pay a visit to the pawnbroker’s, and in the end he had agreed to allow her six months, interest free, to pay off her father’s debts.
It wasn’t going to be easy. She had deposited at the pawnbroker’s everything she possibly could, down to their silver cutlery and even all but one of her fine dresses and their petticoats and accessories, knowing she would never see them again. They ate frugally, and no meat would grace their table until all their debts were paid off. Most painfully, she had told Florrie that if she wanted to stay on with them, she would no longer receive any salary. Her cheeks wobbling dejectedly, the loyal housekeeper had declared she would never leave them. She only wished that instead of sending her wages over the years to her widowed sister who had five children to bring up, she had kept the money so that she could have helped Rose now. Joe had been told he would have to pay for his keep, but he was happy with that, knowin
g he had been on the receiving end of Henry’s generosity since he was a child. Gospel, for the time being at least, could stay, his speed being useful in conveying Rose quickly on the numerous errands she had run in order to gain grace with their creditors. Besides, she told herself, it would take time to find a buyer for him, and time was a commodity of which she had very little at the moment. The oil lamps were replaced with cheap candles, and those were only lit when they could hardly see where they were going. In the evenings, she and Florrie would sit, straining their eyes, by the glow from the open firebox, and Henry, warmed instead by hot-water bottles filled with water heated on the range – which by necessity was alight all day – no longer had a cheering fire in his room. Rose had lit one for him this morning only because she knew Mr Frean was coming, and she didn’t want him to suspect their drastically impecunious state.
‘Won’t you take a cup of tea?’ she invited him, deliberately widening her smile when he seemed to hesitate. ‘’Tis so good of you to come all this way just to see Father.’
‘I don’t come just to see him, you know, Rose,’ he said solemnly, drawing in his chin. ‘I need to keep more of an eye on the place now that your father is . . . incapacitated. And,’ his mouth twitched awkwardly, ‘that’s what I need to talk to you about. So, yes, please. I should like some tea, and perhaps we can have a little discussion.’
Rose winced as she spooned some fresh tea into the pot, for they had got into the habit now of reusing the leaves until they barely coloured the hot water before they were discarded. She watched Mr Frean from the corner of her eye, her heart sinking as she observed the sombre expression on his face. She passed him the cup of tea, hoping he didn’t notice the tremor in her hand.
‘So, how can I help you?’ she asked, trying to sound casual as she sat down opposite him and took a sip of the steaming liquid.
George Frean raised a ponderous eyebrow. ‘We need to discuss the future, Rose,’ he said gravely.
‘Oh, ’tis all taken care of. We’re going to turn the parlour into a bedroom,’ she told him, hoping he thought she sounded bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Some of the men are going to do it on Sunday, and carry Father down. ’Twill be so good for him to be out of the bedroom after all this time. And the dining room will become his office. We’re going to bring everything up from his old office so that he can run the business from here,’ she concluded with a satisfied smile.
Mr Frean sat back in his chair and drew the air through his flared nostrils. ‘The manager of the powder mills needs to be on site, you know that, Rose.’
She felt her stomach contract as she nodded with fading confidence. ‘Yes, I know, so I’m going to order an invalid carriage,’ she announced, though she didn’t add that she had no idea how she was going to pay for it. ‘And if Polly – that’s the mare that pulls the dog cart – is too big, we’ll sell her and buy a smaller horse that can pull either. So Father will be able to get over the entire site, wherever he’s needed.’
She stopped as Mr Frean lifted his hand in a gesture of reluctance and he slowly shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, Rose. I have no doubt that you would make any measures you took work admirably. But I’m afraid it just wouldn’t be enough.’
Rose blinked at him as a slick of cold, clammy sweat oozed down her back. ‘B-but . . .’ she stammered, her chin quivering.
‘I really am sorry,’ the older man sighed, the lines on his face deepening. ‘I know you well enough, Rose. And I’m sure you’d make everything work superbly. As far as it went. But . . . you’d be relying too much on the other men, Mr Ashman for instance. While they were running back and forth here, they wouldn’t be doing their own jobs. It is your father’s responsibility to inspect the site personally all the time, and with the best will in the world, he could not do so from an invalid carriage. He would need a couple of men to lift him in and out of the thing all the time, and that would cost the company time and money it really can’t afford. And I know we have an agent as well, but you know as well as I do that your father often has to visit the mines and quarries himself, and that would be impossible.’
Rose had listened, her heart beating tremulously. ‘I’m sure Father could manage,’ she protested in desperation. In dis-belief. ‘I could help him. All the time. I could—’
‘Rose.’ He reached out and squeezed her arm paternally. ‘The practicalities of the situation are bad enough in themselves, and no answers you can come up with will ever provide a proper solution. But even if they could, I’m afraid I find . . .’ His face twisted with embarrassment and his eyes searched deeply into hers. ‘I don’t quite know how to put this, but . . . Since his accident, Henry, well . . . he seems a different man. He’s made some wrong decisions with regard to the business. Left other matters unresolved. Over all – and I really haven’t come to this conclusion lightly – I’m going to have to ask your father to leave my employment.’
Rose lowered her eyes. She couldn’t think of any words to say, and even if she could, they would have stuck in her throat. Leave Cherrybrook. She really couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t comprehend the notion of leaving what had been her home for as long as she could remember. She had seen the anguished expression on Mr Frean’s face as he spoke, anticipated what he was going to say, and yet his words were too awful to contemplate. Held some dreadful, appalling meaning, and yet meant nothing at all. Her senses reeled away from her, and she managed to hold on to them by some tenuous thread. It wasn’t real, and yet here she was, sitting in the kitchen, as familiar to her as her own hand. She remained motionless, silent in one of the grimmest moments of her life, and when she looked up, the violet brilliance had gone from her eyes.
Mr Frean coughed gently, for it broke his heart to be the cause of such misery in this vibrant child he looked upon as his own. ‘I can offer you a month’s notice,’ he managed to say through the enormous lump that had suddenly swelled in his gullet. ‘But I’ve had to stop your father’s wages with immediate effect. However, I will be giving you a hundred pounds. Not company money. The repairs after the explosion stretched its finances too much and some of the shareholders aren’t too happy. But out of my own pocket. As a token of my esteem for your father and his hard work and loyalty over the years.’
His face had somehow sagged, and Rose was sure she could detect moisture in his concerned eyes. Mr Frean was a good man, and always had been. A surrogate uncle, since she had no other relation but her father. She appreciated his integrity, his generosity in the circumstances. A hundred pounds. It might sound a handsome sum, but, her brain swiftly calculated as her natural determination to survive took over once more, it was roughly twenty weeks of Henry’s pay. She had worked out that six months of living sparingly would clear their debts, and that was without any rent to pay, let alone . . . Gospel . . . and Amber . . .
She picked up the teaspoon and slowly stirred the contents of her cup for a second time. She must find it within herself to remain dignified. Not to allow George Frean to guess at their dire financial straits, even though she didn’t know which way to turn and her head was exploding with bottomless despair.
‘Thank you, Mr Frean,’ she answered politely, though her voice was small. ‘’Tis most kind of you. I’ll start looking for somewhere else to live straight away.’
‘Have you no relations who might take you in?’ he suggested, trying to be helpful, Rose realized.
‘Unfortunately, no,’ she replied, straightening her shoulders a little haughtily. ‘But don’t concern yourself. I’m sure we’ll manage. ’Tis most kind you’ve been. But . . . have you told Father?’ she asked in dismay, the apprehension taking hold of her again.
Mr Frean looked at her askew. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t have the courage. And I thought perhaps it would be better coming from you.’
Rose paused. Averted her eyes. Gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. ‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right.’
‘Well, I must be off.’ He rose to his feet, clearly relieved the difficult interview was
over. ‘Other matters to attend to. But I really am so sorry, Rose. I’ll miss you both. But perhaps we can keep in touch.’
‘Yes, I’m sure. And I do understand ’tis not your fault.’
‘Thank you.’ He sniffed slightly as he wriggled into his overcoat. ‘I’ll see myself out.’
And he was gone, leaving Rose alone in the kitchen. She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. She realized with mild surprise that she was quite calm, not even shaking now. The shock was numbing her mind and her body to the harsh reality about her. She must make plans, decide on the most advantageous way to use the money which her pride would have refused under other circumstances. But first – and God alone knew how – she must break the bitter news to her father.
Rose’s head was spinning with calculations as Gospel romped up the soaring hill from Tavistock on to the moor. She had secured the lease of one of the Westbridge Cottages in the town, not a palace but sound and adequate. One shilling and sixpence a week and, unbelievably in her opinion, two and threepence a week for a field and a stable for Gospel, though it was only a few minutes’ walk out of the town, so she supposed she would be paying for the convenience of it. Food and fuel on top of that, candles and the occasional extra expense such as shoe repairs or medicines. Having paid off every single creditor with Mr Frean’s generous gift, including the overdraft at the bank, scarcely thirty pounds remained, which wouldn’t last long, and there was still an invalid chair to purchase, not the pony-drawn carriage she had originally planned, but, thankfully, a cheaper bath chair that she or Florrie could push on the more even surface of Tavistock’s streets. The solution to the problem was, of course, quite simple. She would acquire a position, and the three of them – for Florrie was both indispensable and an integral member of the family – could live quite comfortably in the little cottage.
