by Tania Crosse
She was pregnant. She must be! Everything pointed to it, the nausea, the thickening of her waist, the tiredness. She sat motionless in the silent room, trying to absorb what had just dawned on her. A child. Charles would be thrilled. And her? Well . . . yes. She supposed so. A tiny kernel of hope was slowly unfurling inside her, hope that the child would heal the deepening rift between herself and Charles. Because she wanted their marriage to be a happy one, wanted so much the loving relationship that was eluding her. But what if it made things worse? What if Charles wanted to dominate her in all matters concerning the child? It would only make her misery all the deeper.
There was only one way to find out and she got to her feet and went downstairs. As she entered the drawing room, Charles glanced up from the book he was reading.
‘Ah, my dear, did you have a nap? You certainly look refreshed.’
At least he appeared in a good mood, and it gave her courage. ‘Charles . . .’ She came forward and warily squatted down before him. ‘Charles, I have something to tell you. I believe . . . I think I may be with child.’
Charles’s eyes almost popped out of their sockets and his mouth fell open before spreading into a huge grin. He cast the book aside and dropped on to his knees, wrapping her in his jubilant arms. Her eyes closed as her head lay against his shoulder, and her heart took a little leap in her chest, for perhaps, yes, this would bring them closer together.
‘Oh, my darling, clever girl!’ he murmured ecstatically into her hair before pulling back and grinning almost idiotically at her. And then, bewilderedly, he asked, ‘How?’
To witness the collected, dominant Charles Chadwick, businessman of the highest standing, lost for words and quivering, was almost comical and Rose smiled coyly. ‘Surely I don’t need to tell you that?’
Charles shook his head with a grunt of merriment. ‘No, I meant . . . are you sure? I mean . . . when?’
Rose lowered her eyes. ‘No. I’m not positive. But I think I must be. I haven’t had . . . well, you know, for nearly three months. And I’ve been feeling queasy for weeks. I hadn’t really thought about it, what with Father . . .’ Her voice trailed off sadly for just a moment before she came back with a serene smile. ‘But just now, I was thinking that I seem to be putting on weight, and it dawned on me that . . . it could be—’
‘Oh, I’m sure you’re right! Oh, my lovely one! Come now, you must take care of yourself.’ He helped her to her feet and sat her down in one of the armchairs like a piece of precious porcelain, fussing over her like a mother hen. Rose felt swamped with relief, for surely he would treat her with kid gloves now that he had what he wanted from her? He had certainly been the perfect, loving husband for the last ten days, ever since the horrible incident on the evening of Joe and Molly’s wedding, trying to make up for what he had done to her, she grimaced bitterly, since she considered it was entirely his fault. ‘And you must take care of our son.’
He jerked his head towards her belly with a caressing smile, and Rose snatched in her breath. She was giving him a child, but was she giving him a son? She caught her lip, and forced a small nervous laugh. ‘There’s no need to cosset me. I’m not ill, just pregnant. ’Twas not so long ago that women up north worked down the mines till they gave birth, and then carried on working the next day.’
‘Women built like oxen, and they or the child were probably dead within the week,’ Charles protested, taking her hand and stroking it adoringly. ‘You’re more like a fairy, and I won’t have anything happen to you or our son. If it wasn’t Christmas Day, I’d fetch the physician at once.’
‘Oh, I don’t think as there’s any hurry. Dr Power won’t—’
‘Dr Power!’ Charles’s eyes snapped wide. ‘You don’t think I’m going to let the prison doctor see to my wife during her pregnancy, do you?’
Rose’s spine stiffened like a mine rod, the glorious hope of the last half-hour crumbling into dust. ‘But he’s an excellent physician—’
‘And looks after the trash of society, the worst criminals in the country, for God’s sake! He touches them and their filth, and then you expect me to let him put his contaminated hands on my wife!’
‘Oh, I see!’ she grated sourly. ‘He’s not good enough to oversee the birth of your child, but he was good enough for my father! Is that how you saw my father, then, as some being inferior to your high and mighty self? And am I merely the mare you wanted to service in order to get the son you wanted?’
Charles glared at her, his mouth a thin, tight line and his eyes bulging in his livid face. ‘You know that’s not what I meant. But you will not have the prison doctor attend you. I shall go into Tavistock and make enquiries as to the best and most senior physician in the town.’
‘Well, I’d leave it a few weeks if I were you, till the bruising on my shoulder’s gone! He might just ask how I came by it.’
She sprang across the room, tears pricking her eyes, unable to remain in his company a second longer. But leaping up with such violence caused the blood to drain from her head, and she made a grab to support herself on the table. As she did so, her arm caught the fine crystal vase on display there and sent it flying into the air. And, just like her splintered heart, it crashed on to the floor and shattered into a million pieces.
Sixteen
Rose stared despondently out of the drawing-room window, not that she could see very much. It was mid-April, and though they had been enjoying some kind spring weather, today it felt as if they had been plunged back to the depths of winter. The day had started mild, but a fine steady drizzle had turned into a thick, grey, bone-chilling fog that sat, heavy and motionless, on the moor like a life-extinguishing blanket. Whether it was a true fog, or whether at fourteen hundred feet above sea level Princetown was merely enveloped in low cloud it was difficult to say, but the moisture hung in the saturated air with not a breath of wind to blow it away, and since midday, visibility had been reduced to no more than twenty yards. It was the sort of day when the unwary traveller could easily lose his way on the moor and become treacherously lost. The best way to survive was to take shelter and wait for the fog to lift, although it might possibly last for days.
Rose turned from the window with a restless sigh. She had heard an explosion earlier, rekindling her appalled memories of the day her father’s life had been decimated. It was unlikely to be another such event, and was anyway far quieter. Besides, such sounds were not uncommon up on the moor, a guard firing a warning shot, or blasting either at the prison quarry, the new enterprise at Merrivale, or the massive quarries on Walkhampton Common, so Rose had taken little notice.
That had been some hours ago, and now she sat down in the armchair by the welcoming, cheerful fire, and laid her hand on her swollen abdomen. The baby kicked back, and Rose wondered for the umpteenth time if the child’s presence would improve her life, or whether Charles would be as possessive over it as he was over her. Or what if the child proved to be as headstrong and domineering as Charles himself? Oh, she would want to love it, but hadn’t she wanted to love Charles, and look what had happened there!
At least this stage of her pregnancy was calm and uneventful, the nausea long gone, and the final month which Mrs Cartwright had told her could be most uncomfortable – and she should know, having brought six children into the world – some time off as yet. Rose wondered amazedly how large she would become, for she already felt enormous. Dr Seaton, whose services Charles had engaged as being the most senior physician in Tavistock, was very pleased with her progress. To her utter relief, he had told Charles that from now on until at least six weeks after the birth – which was expected at the end of June – their marital relationship, as he delicately put it, should cease. There was the possibility that the lady’s pleasure could stimulate the womb to go into labour, and the baby’s life could be at risk from a premature birth. What pleasure she was supposed to take from Charles’s assaults on her she couldn’t imagine, but Charles had evidently taken the doctor’s warning to heart, and for t
he child’s sake had left her alone.
He had, indeed, treated her like a princess ever since she had announced her condition to him. He had insisted she should not ride Gospel again, but drive everywhere she needed in the wagonette, and she had agreed that this was a sensible precaution. He always wanted to know exactly where she was going – so that he would know both she and the baby were safe was his excuse – and so she had only seen Molly during the two trips Charles had made to London. The second time, a month ago now, Mrs Cartwright had been visiting her daughter, and Joe had managed to spend half an hour with them, so it had been a jolly company. But it seemed an eternity ago, and Rose was champing at the bit to see them again.
She clicked her tongue encouragingly and stretched out her hand, rubbing her thumb across her forefinger in a gesture of beckoning. Amber and Scraggles were lying side by side on the rug in front of the fire, toasting themselves indolently, but the scruffy mongrel at once trotted over to Rose’s chair, wagging his unkempt tail nineteen to the dozen as she rubbed his ears. Amber was slower to heave herself to her feet, heavy with the unborn pups Scraggles had given her. Charles had despaired when they had realized what had happened, for God alone knew what the puppies would look like with such a father, and who would want them? Was he to be landed with a houseful of mangy curs under his feet at every minute? But Rose laughed and was delighted. The two dogs behaved like an old married couple, inseparable, Rose considered ruefully as she stroked Amber’s golden nose that was resting now on her knee. The sort of relationship Rose herself craved, though Charles had been kindness itself since her announcement on Christmas Day. But that innate understanding, that unspoken intimacy of two fused souls, she knew now could never be theirs. Charles still could not comprehend that sometimes she needed to be alone, out on the freedom of the moors where her heart and her spirit belonged. And his attempts to keep her all to himself were slowly asphyxiating her.
She glanced up carelessly as he came into the room now from his study where he had been dealing with some business correspondence.
‘I’ve ordered some tea, my dearest,’ he announced, smiling at her fondly. ‘It will be served directly, and I am sure you will . . . What the devil are those two creatures doing indoors?’ he thundered, his expression hardening as he rounded the winged back of the chair that had hidden the two dogs from his view. ‘Ned reckons she could whelp any day, and I won’t have her making a mess all over the carpets! And as for that flea-ridden monstrosity—’
‘Oh, Scraggles, what is he saying about you?’ Rose crooned, ruffling the endearing animal’s ears and raising a teasing eyebrow at her husband.
The annoyance around Charles’s mouth slackened. ‘I’m sorry, Rose, my love, but you know it makes sense. As soon as Amber’s clean again afterwards, she can come back inside. But as for the pups, well, I don’t know what I shall do with them!’
Rose screwed her lips into a knot. What he would do with them? Amber was her dog, and she considered Scraggles was too, and so it followed that the puppies would also be hers. ‘I’ve already promised one to Molly, and another to her brothers and sisters if they’re allowed,’ she said stiffly, ‘so that’s two less for you to worry about, and they’re not even born yet. Right, come along, you two. Back to the stables.’
She put her hands on the arms of the chair, ready to lever herself upwards, although she had not yet reached the stage of her pregnancy when it was necessary. It was just that Charles’s attitude wearied her, drained her of her natural effervescence. But before she had lifted herself from the seat, Charles had put out his hand, palm outwards in a forbidding gesture.
‘No, no, you rest yourself, my darling. I’ll take them.’
‘Amber’s basket is in Gospel’s loose box,’ Rose called at his back. ‘They all like being in together, but make sure you bolt the door properly, or Gospel will nudge it open!’
‘Yes, yes, I do know that animal’s desire to escape. A bit like his mistress,’ Charles added wryly as he ushered the two dogs out of the door.
Rose sat back with a sigh. Poor Gospel. He must be so restless, so frustrated, far more than she was for at least she had the child to slow her down. Normally, Gospel would have been out in the paddock, but being of part-thoroughbred stock, it might not be wise for him to be out in the penetrating damp of such a dense fog as this.
Charles returned five minutes later, holding the door open for the young housemaid who was struggling with the laden tea tray, for though servants were no more to Charles than that, he was not unkind towards them. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the light was fading and it was so depressingly murky that Charles instructed the girl to light the remaining lamps and then stoke up the already cheerful fire to an even more vigorous conflagration. Charles watched approvingly as the maid completed her duties before dipping her knee and backing out of the room.
‘Shall I pour, my dear?’ This was said with the gleaming silver teapot already in Charles’s hand, so Rose nodded absently, accepting both the fragile bone-china teacup and a matching plate upon which he had placed a selection of Cook’s delicacies prepared immediately after their fine lunch. They took their tea in silence, since there was little they had to say to each other. Rose ate little, seeing as the kindly Dr Seaton had reminded her that she should eat not for two, but for one small adult, meaning herself, and one baby. Excessive weight would not be good for either mother or child, and in his opinion, if she felt hungry, she should eat extra fruit, vegetables, meat and fish rather than Cook’s cakes and biscuits, however mouth-wateringly delicious.
Rose mulled over the elderly physician’s visit the previous day. He was not one to beat about the bush, was Dr Seaton, no airs and graces and no being cowed by his wealthy patients. Rose had every confidence in him. Although Dr Power would have been equally competent, she was happy enough to have the more senior physician oversee the birth of the child she prayed would seal her marriage, if not into true love, then at least into a semblance of peace.
She glanced across at Charles now. They had so little in common, except perhaps that he was reading a book as he sipped his tea, and Rose, too, loved to read. The thought made her draw from the pocket in her skirt the letter she had received from Florrie that morning, the postman having delivered it before the fog had closed in, or else she might not have seen it until the weather had cleared again. Which may have made it seem more pleasurable, as the depressing weather had made Florrie’s communication seem even more depressing itself, and Rose’s eyes saddened as they scanned Florrie’s bold and childlike writing for the second time.
My dear Rose
I hope you are well and that the baby is going on nicely. I never had no child of my own, as you knows. I had you instead, and that were enough for me. No one could be dearer to me than you, except perhaps your father who I always loved. Though he loved me in return, we was never more than fondest friends. I doesn’t know if things might have been different if we had been more than that. All I knows is that I misses him so much and I casn find it in me to come back to the house with him not there. I hopes that time will heal, and that it will for you, too. You was a wonderful daughter to him, but you has your husband and the baby to think of. Tis a great comfort to me staying with my sister and her children, and God willing, I will feel able to come home to you soon. I am well, and so is the family here
Take care of yoursel, my little maid
All my love
Florrie
Rose moistened her lips pensively. Her heart had sunk like a rock when she had first read the letter that morning, as she was hoping desperately that it would contain news of Florrie’s return. But Rose understood. Of course she did. Florrie had loved Henry in the same way that Rose had hoped, had believed, she could have loved Charles, and the cruel separation of Henry’s death after so many shared years must have been as devastating for Florrie as it had been for herself. She stared into the fire, its dancing flames reflecting in the dark irises of her glistening eyes, seeing and yet not s
eeing, her mind wandering over her past life at Cherrybrook and her contentment which she had considered would be eternal, but which had been brought to such an abrupt end. It should not have been so terrible. Charles should have brought her comfort, but he never did. Rather she longed for when he was away in London. She looked across at him again now, engrossed in his book. Shut away in a different world. Somewhat as they seemed to live their lives.
She sighed, and went to pour herself another cup of tea, but when she felt the pot it was stone cold and she couldn’t be bothered to order some fresh. She didn’t really want it anyway. Instead, she went to use the fancy lavatory Charles had recently had installed, a system by which the frequent rainfall kept a massive rooftop tank constantly full of water, which in turn filled the cistern that washed the contents of the decorated pan down into a cesspit beyond the lawn. When this was becoming full, Charles had made an arrangement that it would be collected by a local farmer as fertilizer, suiting them both well. Rose, though, was more interested in the intriguing luxury of a flushing lavatory – just like the one in Charles’s London home, but which was apparently quite common in wealthier homes in the capital with its water supply and sophisticated sewer system – and so she welcomed the visits her progressing pregnancy necessitated. Now she washed her hands and went back to the drawing room, reached her feet out to the fire as she lounged in the comfortable chair, and closed her eyes.
