by Tania Crosse
‘Yes. Never mind. ’Tis not the same as getting married.’
‘Well, you should know that!’ Molly chuckled jauntily.
The knife sliced into Rose’s heart. ‘Yes,’ she murmured. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to do your shopping.’
‘Goodbye, then, Rose.’ And Molly sauntered off towards Princetown’s shops.
Rose watched her, sadness raking her throat. She should not feel like this! And yet she was shaking, as if she was cut off from reality as she fetched Gospel from the inn and set off back over the moor, this time at a sedate walk, much to the gelding’s annoyance. The previous day’s torrential rain had released the heady aroma of the long grass and peaty earth beneath Gospel’s hooves, and Rose filled her lungs with its calming sweetness. She really should count her blessings. She had Gospel and Amber, and now the scruffy mongrel, Scraggles. She had a lovely house on her beloved Dartmoor, a financially secure future. Above all, she had provided a happy home for her father who remained, she was sure, ignorant of her own wretchedness, when he had been so close to entering the workhouse. She had a husband who was devoted to her . . . but who loved her so much he wanted to possess her body and soul, to crush the spirit from her. She brushed away the tears that misted her eyes, for she would not let him win! Rose Maddiford, the carefree, wilful girl who roamed the wilds of Dartmoor on the massive black horse would never give in, though at this moment she would as soon ride over to Vixen Tor, climb to the top and throw herself over the edge . . .
‘Where have you been?’ Charles’s stiff tone reached her as she stole up the stairs to change out of her riding habit.
She took a breath, then turned to face him, her shoulders squared. ‘Out,’ she said flatly.
‘I can see that. But why creep out in such secrecy?’
‘So that I could go alone, if you must know.’
‘You don’t go out alone without my permission.’
Rose pursed her lips and her eyes snapped dangerously. ‘You may remember I told you on the day we met that no one owns me. If I choose to ride out alone, then I shall.’
‘Oh, no, you don’t, my lady. Your father may have allowed you such inappropriate behaviour, but I would remind you that you are now a married woman, and as such, you will do as you’re told.’
‘And who’s going to make me?’
‘I am, if I have to. But perhaps, madam, you’d take more care of yourself if you had a child to think of! So the quicker you become pregnant, the better!’
Rose stared at him, horrified at the brutal cruelty that darkened his face. He grasped her arm, dragging her up the stairs, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. She did not resist. For her father and Florrie were probably taking breakfast and would hear any altercation on the stairway.
He flung her across the bedroom. She broke her fall on the edge of the bed, unhurt but shaken, the bile rising in her gullet. She wasn’t afraid of him, oh, no! And she certainly wasn’t going to let him think he had won! So when he turned back from locking the door, instead of cowering from him, she was leisurely discarding her riding clothes, but didn’t stop when she was down to her shirt. She threw the fine garment on to the floor, followed by her chemise so that her bare breasts bobbed tantalizingly as she spun round to face him, clad in nothing more than her drawers.
Charles’s face was like thunder. ‘Stop behaving like a whore,’ he grated savagely.
‘Well, ’tis what I am to you, so if the cap fits . . .’ Her eyebrows arched sardonically, but then she turned her vivid smile on him. ‘Besides, I happen to agree with you that a child would be wonderful.’
Under different circumstances, she would have found the change in his expression quite laughable. Total astonishment had dashed away his rage, and his hand, poised and ready to strike her, fell aimlessly to his side.
‘Do you?’ he quizzed her as if in disbelief.
‘Yes, I do.’ Although to be honest, she wasn’t really sure.
Charles’s mouth spread into a slow smile. ‘Well, I’d better see if I can oblige,’ he muttered. ‘A son. Oh, yes, you’ve no idea how I’ve longed for a son.’
His soft, genuine tone took Rose by surprise. She didn’t know, of course, of the child his young mistress had robbed him of all those years ago, taking her own life along with the back-street abortion. But just now, his gentler attitude had given her some hope. She had been ignorant of what marriage meant, and she had married Charles for an affection she knew now fell far short of love, and to provide a safe home for Henry. None of which was Charles’s fault. And to have a child was something that might unite them.
Not that the thoughts were quite so clear in her head, just part of a jumble of emotions that churned inside her as Charles ran his finger from the well of her throat down to the gathered waist of her drawers, and then slowly untied the drawstring.
Thirteen
Rose missed Dartmoor dreadfully. She missed Molly and Joe and Florrie, the dogs, and most of all, her father and Gospel. London, however, was not without its attractions, a real adventure, and she wrote everything down in a notebook to help her relate her experiences in detail to everyone at home on her return.
Charles’s house in the smart, fashionable square was a delight. Rose was particularly fascinated with the bathroom where, to her astonishment, running water poured forth from the taps. The house had its own small, well-tended garden to the rear, but across the road was a private park to which only residents were entitled to hold a key.
It was Rose’s refuge. Though the autumn leaves had turned to a glorious display of orange and russet, copper and bronze, and were gradually drifting down from the trees, still enough of them clothed the branches to screen the tall terraces on three sides of the square. The communal garden was hardly Dartmoor, but it provided a haven of peace for her saddened heart when she yearned for the days to pass before she could return home.
Charles had taken her to the principal sites, the immense gothic-style Houses of Parliament, St Paul’s Cathedral and the Tower of London. The ‘new’ London Bridge, though it was more than forty years old now, was built from Dartmoor granite. Likewise, the more recent Trafalgar Square with its astounding Nelson’s Column was constructed from moorland stone from the quarries near Princetown. Rose’s spirit was filled with pride that the Cherrybrook powder mills had supplied the gunpowder for the quarries.
It went without saying that her going to London with Charles on his next visit had been his idea, though she had not been averse to it. She had been curious to see his house and experience the hustle and bustle of the capital and what it had to offer. But they had been there for nearly the whole of October, and she was longing to return home.
There was an endless round of social engagements, dinner parties and trips to the theatre. Charles seemed pleased with the way Rose conducted herself among his acquaintances, but the disapproval on his face if anyone paid her too much attention was alarming. They were returning one drizzly evening from a particularly enjoyable concert, the beautiful music still whirling in Rose’s head and filling her with elation so that she had put to the back of her mind the carnal ritual Charles would demand of her despite the late hour.
As they climbed the steps to the front door, it was already being opened from the inside.
‘Oh, ma’am,’ Dolly, the young parlourmaid announced, dipping her knee. ‘A telegram came for you, not five minutes since.’
Alarm ran through Rose’s veins. A telegram. It could only be bad news. She picked up the envelope from the silver tray with shaking fingers and struggled to tear open the thin paper. The faint letters danced a jig before her wavering vision. Their meaning sank almost unheeded into her brain as her heart refused to believe it, and she handed the note to Charles for confirmation, praying desperately that her eyes had deceived her.
‘ROSE COME HOME STOP,’ he read gravely. ‘HENRY VERY ILL STOP LOVE FLORRIE STOP.’
Charles looked up, and as Rose’s legs seemed to give way beneath her, he caught her in
his arms and she slumped against his shoulder. She was swamped by a nauseating dizziness and found herself pressed down into the chair that stood beside the hall table. When the hazy mist cleared from her eyes, Charles was crouched down before her, holding her hands and gazing anxiously into her face.
‘Oh, Rose, my dearest, I—’
‘I must go to him at once.’
She sprang to her feet, but swayed perilously and had to sit down again abruptly. Charles rubbed his hand over his jaw, his forehead creased in a deep frown.
‘There’s no point setting out now, my love,’ he told her gently. ‘I can’t imagine there’ll be any trains going all the way to Plymouth until the morning.’
‘Perhaps to Exeter—’
‘And find some lunatic mad enough to drive for miles across the moor in the middle of the night? No, Rose. It isn’t practical. Especially as . . . oh, dammit, I can’t come with you.’
‘What!’ Rose’s eyes opened wide with pained disbelief, but Charles’s face lengthened in an anguished grimace.
‘If it was any other day, but tomorrow is the first board meeting of the South African mining company, and I have to be there. God knows if it was anything else . . . But you get packed. Dolly will help you. In fact, Dolly can travel with you. But just pack a small valise for yourself. I’ll bring everything else the next day. So you do that, and I’ll take a cab to the station and book all our tickets and find out the times of the trains so that I can telegraph Florrie and have Ned meet you from Tavistock. It’s the best I can do.’
Rose looked up at him, her eyes liquid with moisture as she nodded. Whatever else Charles was, he could be relied upon to think rationally in a crisis, and it gave her strength.
‘All right. But I don’t need Dolly to come with me,’ she added as she smiled at the maid, who had turned a strange colour at the idea of travelling to what seemed to her the opposite end of the earth. ‘I can manage perfectly well, and to be honest – and no offence to you, Dolly – but I think I’d rather be on my own.’
For an instant, Charles looked horrified, but he recognized the stubborn determination on his wife’s face, and with the telegram containing such bad news, he wasn’t going to argue with her.
‘As you wish,’ he agreed. ‘I’ll book first class, of course, so you should be safe enough. And Rose, I really am sorry I can’t come with you straight away.’
And that night, for the first time in their married life – apart from when they were apart or her monthlies prevented it – he did not force himself upon her.
The nine-hour train journey from Paddington to Tavistock seemed to last an eternity. As the railway skirted the southern edge of Dartmoor, Rose’s eyes were drawn in the direction of the distant uplands, knowing that somewhere out there her beloved father lay seriously ill. But what was wrong with him? Had Florrie panicked and it was really only something quite trivial? Rose’s tortured mind clung to that comforting thought, though her heart beat tremulously in time to the rhythmical clatter of the train. Each main station had been a busy cacophony of hissing steam, slowly chugging engines, scurry-ing feet, raised voices and piercing whistle-blowing, after which the line up to Tavistock seemed almost peaceful. The grey autumn day disappeared into the gathering dusk, and the breathtaking views over the moor were lost in the gloom. Rose was nearing home, but the expected elation was buried deep in her constricted chest. She felt cut off from the rest of the world, every nerve on edge. She hadn’t eaten all day, the delicacies Charles’s cook had packed in a little tin box for her quite untouched.
It was almost dark when she alighted at Tavistock station, and she was grateful even for Ned’s company as she sat beside him on the driving seat of the wagonette. Her father was very sick, Ned told Rose, though he knew no more than that, and from his solemn expression and unusual silence, Rose knew it was true. Ned had lit the carriage lamps but they did little to illuminate their way, and as they ascended the steep hill up on to the moor, Rose was reminded of another time, less than a year before, when she had struggled along the very same road in a snowstorm. So much had happened since then. She had thought she had found the solution to their problems, and to some extent she had. But the happiness she had expected was proving as elusive as a moonbeam.
She didn’t stop to remove her coat and hat, but flew straight into her father’s room, her heart hammering with dread. Florrie had been dozing in the chair, and she did not have time to blink the startled confusion from her eyes before Rose threw herself on her knees beside the bed and took Henry’s hand in hers. He appeared to be asleep, but when he heard her soft, quavering voice, his glazed eyes half opened in his grey face.
‘Ah, Rose, my darling girl,’ he mumbled, his words so frail she could hardly hear him. ‘What a picture you are. Quite the lady. And happy. You are happy, aren’t you, Rose?’
A mist dimmed the crystal violet of her eyes. ‘Yes, Father,’ she managed to say as she swallowed down the strangling constriction in her throat.
‘Then I can die in peace,’ he whispered, and his eyelids drooped closed again.
Something jerked, and then settled irrevocably in Rose’s chest. ‘Don’t say that, Father.’
But all she received in response was a serene smile.
Dr Power spread his hands. ‘I believe your father has suffered a pulmonary embolism,’ he said grimly.
Rose lifted her eyes to him from the opposite side of the drawing-room fireplace where she shivered with cold, despite the roaring blaze. ‘Pulmonary . . . his lungs, you mean?’ she asked quietly.
‘Yes. A clot on his left lung. You know his lungs were weakened by the smoke inhalation last year. And the clot may be the result of his inactivity, or he may have had a predisposition to it anyway.’
‘And . . . and his chances?’ Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, disconnected. She had not slept for more than forty-eight hours, neither her last night in London nor the night she had spent in Florrie’s chair by Henry’s bedside. She was exhausted, her mind ready to shut down and accept the inevitable.
‘Not good, I’m afraid.’ Dr Power’s mouth twisted sadly. ‘The clot may disperse, but if it does, the fragments could lodge elsewhere, in the heart or the brain perhaps. In the meantime, your father’s in a lot of pain from the clot. That’s why I’m giving him morphine injections night and morning, and Mrs Bennett has laudanum to supplement it if necessary. But, if we can’t reduce them, the drugs in themselves will be very dangerous.’
‘So, what you’re saying is, one way or another, my father is dying.’
The doctor released his breath through pursed lips. ‘Almost certainly.’
Rose nodded, staring down at her tightly intertwined fingers. ‘Your frankness is appreciated, Dr Power. And . . . and how long does he have?’
He faltered, shaking his head slightly. ‘If we have to keep up with this high dose of morphine, a week, possibly less. But better to let him go without pain, don’t you think? And when the time comes, he will drift asleep in peace and calm.’
‘And if he does improve?’ Rose asked with a spark of hope.
‘I am a mere mortal, Mrs Chadwick, and cannot predict what miracles God may produce. I am so sorry, but in my opinion, you should prepare yourself for the worst.’
Rose felt her heart drag with sadness. ‘It hasn’t been much of a life for him,’ she croaked wearily, ‘not since the accident.’
‘You’ve done the best for him that anyone could. Take comfort from that. And I suggest you try and get some sleep. Mrs Bennett will sit with him, and there are servants to relieve her.’
‘But ’tis my place to—’
‘Not to the detriment of your own health. Now I believe your husband will be arriving this evening?’
Rose realized she had hardly given Charles a thought. ‘Yes,’ she answered absently. ‘He had a business meeting of the utmost importance yesterday, and so could not accompany me, and I was not prepared to wait.’
‘Of course. And he will be of gre
at strength to you.’
‘Yes,’ she replied, though something inside her died.
‘Rose, my darling, you must eat.’
Charles was gazing at her with pleading eyes, but she turned her head from the tray with her hand over her mouth. ‘Please, Charles, take it away. Just the thought of food makes me feel sick.’
‘All right.’ He released a heartfelt sigh. ‘But you will drink the tea. Or would you prefer something cold and refreshing? Cook’s lemonade, or some ginger beer? I’ll ride into Princetown to buy some if there’s none in the pantry.’
But Rose looked up at him with a wan smile. ‘The tea will be fine, thank you. But maybe some lemonade later on. Perhaps I can rouse Father enough to drink some, too.’
‘Yes, my dear. Perhaps.’
He patted her shoulder, and her hand closed over his. The last few days, he had been the man she had believed she had married, kind, considerate, affectionate but without demanding his conjugal rights. Not that she had been to bed since she had returned home, a fact that worried both the doctor and Charles. And now he padded silently out of the room with the tray, sensing that she would prefer to be alone in her vigil.
The tea was hot and sweet, soothing her agitated mind. The autumn sunlight penetrating the room in hesitant shafts gradually faded into noiseless twilight, and she was aware of Florrie coming in to draw the curtains. Amber trotted in behind her and came to rest her golden muzzle on Rose’s knee, staring up at her with doleful brown eyes. Rose blinked awake and fondled the soft fur at the dog’s ears, and not to be outdone, Scraggles scampered across with his head on one side in that amusing way he had, so that one pointed ear flopped over comically, and Rose stroked his scruffy head with a faint smile. She hardly dared to look at Henry, and when she did, his chest was rising and falling regularly but in shallow, slightly wheezy breaths.
Florrie straightened up from poking the moribund fire into life and adding more coal. ‘He seems peaceful enough, poor lamb,’ she whispered.
