One afternoon, while Rose was out sketching in the east garden, where the white roses were fragrant and lush, Andrew happened upon her. Admiring her sketches, he confessed that he also loved to draw. It all started from that shared small moment, that simple bond over a love of pencil and paper. Placing his hand over hers, Andrew showed her how to hold the pencil just so, to create shading and add depth to her pictures. His skills surpassed her own and she learned from him. Mesmerized by his charm, golden looks, and the attention he lavished upon her, Rose was immediately enraptured.
When he touched her, an exquisite thrill raced through her entire body. That someone as beautiful as Andrew Cooper would find her interesting or want to spend time with her was a breathtaking novelty to her.
Rose and Andrew began to meet in secret, out in the woods on the edge of the grounds where they wouldn’t be seen together. They would draw together under the trees, talking and laughing, and of course, kissing. Living in a state of suspended bliss since Andrew entered her life, Rose could think of nothing but him.
It was only a few weeks later that he asked if he could sketch her in the nude.
“True artists are skilled at drawing the human body,” he explained in his sweet and charming way. “We both should practice sketching and modeling for each other.”
Rose had finally shed the extra weight when she sprouted up in height that spring, and with her lustrous brown hair falling over her naked body as she posed for Andrew, for the first time in her life she felt beautiful and loved and wanted. She was not self-conscious or embarrassed as she stood barefoot in the grass, her dress thrown carelessly on the ground, her back against the rough bark of the tree, and her arms wantonly stretched above her head.
“My pathetic drawing can’t begin to capture how beautiful you are, Rose,” he’d marveled at her, dazzling her with his golden smile. But his drawings were splendid. They stunned her. In his pencil sketches, through his blue eyes, she looked like a beautiful woman.
Her heart was irretrievably lost to him in that moment.
When it came time to sketch his naked body, she was in awe of the magnificence of the male form, especially his male form. The muscles in his arms and legs, the breadth of his shoulders, the contours of his broad chest, and the smoothness of his skin left her weak with a fledgling desire. As she attempted to do his masculine beauty justice with her unskilled pencil, she knew she had failed miserably.
“I’m so sorry, Andrew,” she apologized with a giggle. “It looks as if you have the arms of a gorilla!”
“Let me see,” he said, joining her on the blanket where she sat sketching in only her plain white chemise and stockings.
Andrew never looked at her drawing.
Instead he brought his mouth down over hers in a kiss that left her breathless and shaking. They made love for the first time that day, there in the quiet of the woods that she loved, with the man that she loved, and for the only time in her life, Rose was completely happy. She gave herself to him without reservation or regret and he was sweet and tender, telling her over and over that he loved her.
It was a magical time that summer. They spent every moment they could together. Andrew had even taken to slipping into her bedroom each night when the house was quiet. They made love and slept with their arms around each other, then Andrew would sneak out of her room before dawn. Deliriously in love, they began to make plans for the future. Knowing her parents would never approve of her marrying a lowly footman, they talked of eloping and running away together, perhaps to Scotland. They knew money would be an issue, as would finding a way to support the both of them. Yet all those unpleasant little details could wait. As summer turned to fall, nothing else mattered but their bodies pressed against one another, their passionate kisses, and their sketches of each other.
Then the great tragedy happened.
Rose’s brother, John, was killed in a carriage accident during a rainstorm. The carriage overturned and his body was flung into a ravine. When he was finally found, his neck had been broken. Devastated, her parents’ sudden return to Brookwood Manor bearing the terrible news and the subsequent depression and anger that followed, put a decided pall over the entire house. Oh, Rose was sad about her brother’s death too. She and John had never been close, since he was ten years older than she was, but he was kind to her on the rare occasions they saw each other, such as holidays. But for most of John’s life, his younger sister was merely an afterthought to him.
However, her parents took his death very hard, retreating to Brookwood Manor and giving up the life they used to live in London. They were broken and beyond devastated at the tragic loss, and being forced to see Rose every day did not bring them any consolation. They had lost their bright, golden son, the pride and joy of their hearts, and were left with only their rather plain and unexceptional daughter. The bitterness ate them alive. With John’s death, Henry Davenport grew angry and belligerent, while Elizabeth became even more distant and self-centered.
The unexpected return of her parents to her daily life was upsetting to the intimate world Rose had created with Andrew. Reduced to even greater precautions to safeguard their affair, it became more and more difficult for the two of them to be alone together. Yet they kept their secret plan to run away together in the spring, when the weather would be better for traveling and they would have saved enough money for the journey to Scotland.
But, oh, it was hard to wait! Every day Rose longed to be free, free of Brookwood Manor and free of her parents. Every night she yearned to be with Andrew. She counted the days until they could live together out in the open as husband and wife.
But fate had other plans for Rose Davenport.
The night her father caught Andrew as he was leaving Rose’s bedroom changed everything. She could still feel the sting of humiliation at being called a whore by her father as he dragged her naked from her bed and threw her to the floor, screaming at her and kicking her. Andrew tried to restrain him, but Henry’s rage proved too powerful, for he punched Andrew in the face, breaking his perfect nose. The altercation drew the attention of all the servants, and her shame was complete.
Still, Rose didn’t care about herself. She only worried for Andrew.
Andrew had declared his love for her before her father had him removed from the house and locked Rose in her bedroom. She watched from her window, tears streaming down her face, as the love of her life was placed in a carriage and driven away to she knew not where. She only hoped that somehow Andrew would get word to her and come back for her.
After a week of being confined to her room in disgrace, Henry and Elizabeth sat their daughter down and told her that they had arranged a marriage for her. She was to marry Foster Sheridan, the only son and heir to the Earl of Sterling. Apparently Lord Sterling was eager to regain the Brookwood land that had once belonged to his family and Henry had generously offered the earl a great deal of cash to persuade his young son to marry Rose.
Rose was being sold off to a man she did not know.
“I won’t do it!” she cried out. “I’m going to marry Andrew. I love him and he loves me!”
“You have no say in the matter,” her father said angrily. “This is a once in a lifetime chance to redeem yourself, Rose. Lord Sterling is unaware of what you look like or what you’ve done. He wants his family’s land back and the money to bail himself out of debt, so you’ll marry his son, Foster, and become a countess one day.”
“I don’t want to be a countess!” she protested.
“Really, Rose, you have humiliated yourself enough,” her mother began sternly. “If word about your bedding a footman gets out, there isn’t a man out there who would have you! For once in your life don’t be a great fool. We must act quickly. Foster Sheridan is a good-looking man your own age. He’s just finishing Cambridge and his father wants him settled down. When his father dies, he’ll become the earl and you’ll be the countess. Which is more than we ever hoped for the likes of you. Be grateful! Many girls would be
thrilled to marry him. Consider yourself fortunate, because you are!”
“I don’t care who he is or what he looks like or if he were the Prince of Wales himself. I’m not going to marry him!” Rose sobbed hysterically, unable to stop the enraged tears that sprang from her eyes.
In a swift motion, her mother slapped her across the face. “Not another word. After all your father and I have been through with losing our darling John, you will not disgrace us with a public scandal now. You should count your blessings we haven’t thrown you out in the street, as you so rightly deserve after your vulgar display with that worthless footman. Your father was kind enough to arrange this marriage for you, and you turn up your nose? You ungrateful, wretched girl! You will marry Foster Sheridan as soon as Lord Sterling sets the date.”
“I only hope it’s not too late,” he father grumbled, as he held a glass of scotch in his hand. He’d been drinking a lot more often since John had died.
Her hand still on her stinging cheek, Rose stood up for herself for the first time in her life. “It is too late. I cannot marry the Earl of Sterling’s son and I won’t do it.” She paused only a moment before announcing, “I’m having Andrew’s baby.”
Her mother froze, a look of utter horror on her face. “Oh, dear God in heaven.”
Rose had suspected she was carrying Andrew’s child for some time. Just before they had been discovered in her bedroom by her father, Rose had whispered her suspicions to Andrew as they lay naked together in her bed. Smiling with happiness, Andrew had placed his hand over her stomach in awe, promising to marry her and vowing to love and protect her and their baby forever.
Now that another week had passed, Rose was quite certain she was with child.
“Get out of my sight, you disgusting, little whore!” Her father flung his glass of scotch across the room, the crystal shattering against the wall.
Rose fled to the safety of her bedroom, sobbing hysterically. She hated her mother and father. She truly hated them and wanted nothing more than to leave their house forever. Longing for Andrew, she wished she knew where he was and if he was coming for her. She’d gotten no message from him and had even sent her lady’s maid, Alice Bellwether, into the village to make inquiries about him. No one knew his whereabouts and that made Rose worry.
What had her father done to him?
For weeks she agonized over her plight, and as her pregnancy progressed, her parents kept her hidden from the world. She wasn’t even allowed out of the house to walk in the gardens anymore. Only Alice was permitted to wait on her. Her father postponed the wedding until spring, explaining to Lord Sterling that Rose had taken ill with a consumptive-like cough.
Henry then declared to Rose that as soon as her bastard child was born, he would have it sent away to a foundling home.
But Rose knew she would die before she let that happen. One way or another, she was keeping her child. Andrew’s child.
All through the cold and lonely winter, Rose focused her attention on the baby growing inside of her. She vowed to herself that she would be a loving, kind, and understanding mother, unlike her own parents. Just before the baby was due to be born and the snow was finally melting, Rose finally received a message from Andrew. His letter had been addressed to Alice.
Andrew was in New York! Her father had had him beaten, tied up, and tossed on a ship sailing to America. After recovering, Andrew worked some odd jobs in the city before finally finding a position as a clerk at a large bank. He said he was doing well but her father threatened to kill him if he ever came near Rose again, and Andrew believed him. He wasn’t coming back for her and he didn’t ask her to join him in New York. There were no words of love or mention of their baby. He wished her well and said goodbye.
Rose was so heartbroken by the letter from Andrew that she barely noticed her first labor pains. By the next morning, she was writhing in agony. It became a hellish nightmare of pain. Something was terribly wrong, but her father refused to send for a doctor or a midwife. With only poor, terrified Alice to tend to her, Rose labored for three days and was losing so much blood that even her mother, haunted by her own dreadful experience giving birth to Rose, begged Henry to relent and send for a doctor at last.
That was when the horror truly began.
When it was finally all over, Rose was so scarred from the inexperienced doctor’s ham-fisted procedures that she would never be able to bear another child. But worst of all, her sweet baby boy was dead. The cord had been wrapped around his little neck and he was blue. Not that Rose recalled any of that. She had long passed out from the excruciating pain. When she awoke and discovered what had happened, she was so distraught that she wished she had died with her baby.
She named him Andrew after his father, and after touching his perfect little face with a kiss, she and Alice buried her sweet infant son out in the woods.
All hope died within Rose the night she lost her baby and she was never the same again. Any spark of life or glimmer of hope within her was permanently dampened. Barely a month later, she reluctantly married the Earl of Sterling’s son, a young man she met for the first time on the morning of their joyless wedding. A man who had no desire to wed her either and was completely unaware that not only was his new bride not a virgin, but she was also barren and pining with heartbreak for another man and her dead baby boy.
Foster Sheridan had not known that he had married a hollow shell of woman who would resent him for something he had nothing to do with. Poor Foster. He had been spectacularly duped by her family. He and the earl were sold a bill of goods on that wedding day ten years ago.
At the time Rose hadn’t cared. She had been too brokenhearted and full of spite and hatred for the world to bother with Foster’s feelings. In spite of his kindness and initial attempts at making the marriage work, she had cruelly rebuffed him. In her eyes, no man could compare to the golden handsomeness of Andrew Cooper.
Besides, after what she’d been through in delivering her son so soon before her marriage, her body had barely recovered. The thought of anyone touching her made her recoil in horror. Her tears on her wedding night were not forced or playacting. She truly never wanted any man to touch her again.
Rose’s life was ruined and the only way she could lash out, as powerless as she was, was to ruin someone else’s. Foster Sheridan became the object of all her anger and rage. And she had taken it out on him for ten long years.
Yet he hadn’t deserved any of it.
“Please eat something, my lady,” Alice begged her, jostling Rose from her reverie as she stood staring out the window of Sterling Hall.
What did it matter if she ate or starved to death? Nothing in her life mattered. It never had. For the first time in many years, Rose Sheridan began to cry for all the pain and wasted time.
12
Relations
“Well, I’m of two minds. On the one hand a large, airy, open space would be perfect for children. But on the other hand, the charm of this smaller, cozy space is truly difficult to resist,” said Colette Hamilton Sinclair, the Marchioness of Stancliff, as she turned around slowly, surveying the small, empty shop.
“I think this is definitely the one, Aunt Colette,” Mara whispered, feeling in her heart that this would be an ideal location for a children’s bookshop. “This is it.”
It was a small redbrick building covered with ivy, not far from the original Hamilton’s Book Shoppe in Mayfair. The interior was mostly dark wood, probably oak, along the floor. Twin wooden staircases on either side of the room ascended to a lovely balcony that ran around the entire shop. An intricately carved wooden balustrade edged the interior balcony. A quaint spiral staircase graced the back brick wall, offering another route to the balcony above. The entire space inspired warmth and security.
“Uncle Quinton was right,” Mara said. “It’s quite perfect.” She and Colette had stopped by the small shop that morning on the recommendation of Aunt Lisette’s husband, Quinton Roxbury. He had thought this might be what they
were looking for.
“Do you really think so?” Colette asked, eyeing her closely.
“Oh, yes!” Mara exclaimed. A sense of excitement grew within her as she pointed above. “I can see beautiful bookshelves lining the walls along the balcony up there. And with brightly colored carpets, perhaps some whimsical artwork here and there, and children’s furniture, it will be an enchanting space.”
Colette smiled in agreement. “I do believe this could be a very special shop. It’s not too large in that we would have a difficult time filling it with books, but it’s not too small either. And the location is practically perfect.”
“It is perfect. I can see it and feel it. It will be a shop that children will want to come to.” She beamed at Colette. “It will be a shop that children will beg their parents to take them to. It will be the first and only children’s bookshop in all of London.”
“I can’t even explain why I love this idea so much,” Colette continued. “Yvette is completely skeptical of it and I think even your mother has her doubts, although she gave her consent to go forward with our plans. But I think you and I shall prove them all wrong.”
“We shall.” Mara nodded emphatically. “And I’ve been thinking . . . It might be best to remove all the children’s books from both our shops and bring them here.”
“Yes!” Colette instantly understood her meaning. “That way when someone asks for a children’s book, we can send them here. Mara, you’re quite brilliant!”
“What shall we call this shop?” Mara asked.
“I suppose something like the Hamilton’s Children’s Book Shoppe. But we have time to consider that yet. However did you come up with this idea in the first place?”
“I’m not entirely sure . . .” Mara thought for a moment. “I suppose I’ve always had the idea in my head. I just remember thinking how wonderful Hamilton’s was when I was a little girl. I loved coming to the shop then. It was such a special place, filled with wonderful stories that made me forget about how terrible things were. I felt safe and happy there. And when you and I were talking that afternoon a few weeks ago when I came to stay with you, it just popped out of my mouth. Even though I’ve had the idea for years, I never mentioned it before. Perhaps I thought no one would think it was a good idea.”
The Irish Heiress Page 12
