by Tania Crosse
Her shoulders sagged as she allowed the weary torrent to wash over her strained senses, and her hair fell forward in a widow’s veil about her taut face. For a moment she looked so vulnerable, her tear-ravaged beauty so touching, that Charles’s heart softened. Just as she knew it would if Charles felt he was in control of the situation.
‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ he said stiffly, and his hands clenched into fists at his sides. ‘I’m prepared to believe that he convinced you. Some of these devils can spin a pretty good yarn, you know. Confidence tricksters. And that in your highly strung state, you were taken in by him. But I cannot forgive you for breaking the law. For your own reputation, I will support you, and even that old duffer of a physician, as I don’t believe a word of your story about the plaster. But I really don’t trust you, Rose. I’m sure that when the child is born, you will come to your senses and have other new priorities to govern your life. But until then, I will ensure you will keep to this room. And you had better behave yourself, for I will not be prepared to protect you from any other act of perjury.’
Keep to the bedroom! Rose’s mind rose up in protest. She felt like a little child being reprimanded at school – or at least she imagined that was how it would feel, for she had never been to school, her dear father having taught her everything he himself had learnt at grammar school. Her heart cried out to retaliate, but she checked herself at once. She would play Charles’s game, but be as devious as hell. Though at present, she had no idea in what way.
‘Yes, Charles,’ she sighed ponderously. ‘I suppose you’re right. I was a fool to believe him. ’Twill be such a relief not to see him again.’
‘Well, you can forget all about him, now. He’ll be rightly punished for what he did. He didn’t actually hurt you in any way, did he?’
Her eyes sparked with indignation, and she looked up sharply. ‘No! Not a bit of it.’
‘Just as well,’ Charles snorted, ‘or I’d have made sure he paid for it! But don’t you think you can get round me. I’ll send Patsy up with a breakfast tray, and in the meantime you can contemplate your crime alone.’
He went out, shutting the door quietly behind him and turning the key. Rose’s chin quivered and she fell forward on to the bed, burying her face in the covers as she wept freely with tears of exasperation and defeat. But her self-pity didn’t last for long. The image of Seth on his knees as he coughed blood on to the cobbles slashed into her mind. And there would be worse to come. Unless she did something about it.
The thoughts began to chase each other round inside her head. The baby was due in a little over six weeks, and Florrie had promised to be back in time for the birth. Dear Florrie Bennett, the loyal servant who had been employed to help when Rose herself had been born, but who had stayed on when Alice Maddiford had died in childbirth, and had been a surrogate mother to Rose. Of a like age, she had been devoted to Henry, but only as Henry lay on his deathbed had Rose realized the depth of feeling between them. After the funeral, Florrie had been so distraught that she had taken herself to stay with her widowed sister just over the Cornish border to recover from her grief. Rose had missed her dreadfully and was counting the days until her return. But she couldn’t wait that long. She needed her now. Six weeks would be too late.
When Patsy came in with the tray, Rose was ready. Charles waited outside to unlock and then lock the door again, and Patsy, already too traumatized by the events of the previous day, and too young and timid to do anything beyond obeying the master in silence, simply gazed at her lovely mistress and blinked in awe as a letter was slipped surreptitiously into the pocket of her apron. The poor girl didn’t have the wit to make some tiny gesture of understanding, but merely bobbed a shaky curtsy before she fled the room, and Rose was left alone once more.
Her tears were all spent now, and in their place, a squall of rage choked her rebellious heart. Rage at Charles, yes, but more so at the circumstances that had placed Seth in the position he was now. But was the sergeant right? Had Seth told her a pack of lies to gain her sympathy? No! She was convinced of his innocence, and nothing would shake her faith in him.
Her mind wandered back over the time they had spent together during the weeks she had managed to conceal him around the corner in the dog leg of Gospel’s loose box. For those few moments when she had first discovered him, she had been terrified, but the instant she had seen how helpless he was, her fear had fled. He had been polite, courteous, more worried for her than for himself, and that was before they had recognized each other.
What was it, eighteen months or more ago, when she had first seen him? Back in the time when her life had been perfect, and she and her father, along with Florrie and Amber, the dog, had lived so peacefully at the manager’s house at the powder mills, with Joe living over the stables. Rose’s existence had consisted of running the house – with Florrie’s indispensable assistance, of course – and galloping wildly all over the moor on her beloved horse, Gospel, a temperamental animal of part thoroughbred stock. Several years before, Rose had rescued him from an owner who couldn’t cope with his untamed spirit, and so had employed a martingale, a harsh bit and a whip. With loving kindness, Rose had won the creature’s devotion, and now they were as one with a passion Rose had never experienced in any other way. And so they spent hours together out on the moor where their hearts would run free, so that everyone for miles around knew them. And if they rightly distrusted the tall, powerful horse, they loved and respected the beautiful girl who would help anyone in distress and brighten everyone’s day.
She had been out walking with her friend Molly when they had come across the work party returning from the day’s gruelling labour at the prison quarry. One of the convicts had been about to attack Molly’s father, who was one of the wardens on duty, and the fellow inmate who Rose knew now as Seth Warrington had intervened and saved him from severe injury. Perhaps had even saved his life. And then two Civil Guards who hadn’t witnessed the event had mistakenly thought Seth to be the guilty party and had beaten him to the ground until Rose had charged in to stop them. And when the hapless felon had looked up at her, unspoken gratitude on his anguished face, his soft hazel eyes had filled her with a strange confusion.
It wasn’t the only thing that had made Rose believe in him. There was something so kind and understanding in Seth’s manner, so sensitive to Rose’s own distress when she had tried to keep it concealed. He was educated, said he had been a captain in the hussars – and from his obvious knowledge both of injury care and of army weaponry, that was no lie. And then there were the animals.
Gospel had retained an innate distrust of all human beings except those who emitted a deep compassion, and instead of kicking down the stable when the stranger had slipped inside, he had accepted his presence without any protest whatsoever. Even the dogs had made not a sound – not even Scraggles, who usually barked his welcome to anyone and everyone with joyful abandon. Seth had somehow calmed them all instantly, gaining their trust as he stroked them and crooned to them in a way Rose had witnessed since. And when Amber had whelped, Seth had risked discovery to save the poorly runt of the litter. He had a way with animals, and he shared other things with Rose besides. Nearly a month she had succeeded in keeping him hidden, and in that time she had developed a deep affinity with him, an intimacy that surpassed anything she had ever felt for Charles, even in the good days before their marriage. And now . . .
Rose thumped her fist hard into the pillow, grinding her teeth and literally tearing at her wild, raven hair as she exploded in an agony of red anger. Tearing into her heart was the thought that while Seth was locked in a punishment cell, or in the prison hospital if he was lucky, she was locked in her room in supreme comfort. Guilt and frustration crucified her, for what in God’s name could she do to help him while Charles had her imprisoned? And as for Ned Cornish, well, she would kill the bastard for what he had done!
Two
It took a week before Florrie burst in upon their lives again, a week during which R
ose paced the bedroom like a caged lion, raking the air with fingers stretched out like claws. She had flown at Charles with nails ready to scratch at his skin, but his superior strength was always too much for her and once he had gone, she dissolved in tears until she could weep no more. At every minute, her brain was filled with Seth and how he must be suffering. Was he any better? For all she knew, he could be dead. She hoped desperately that he was in the prison hospital with good Dr Power taking care of him. And if he improved, what then? The punishment cell where, she believed, he would have to sit on what was a section of tree trunk cemented into the floor, ankles in fixed leg-irons – although that wouldn’t be possible with the plaster cast – and put to some gruelling task such as oakum picking all day long. Tough enough for a totally fit prisoner, but for Seth . . . And then he would be taken off for however many lashes the Commissioners decided was appropriate. The thought of it speared somewhere around her heart.
She couldn’t eat. Although she felt hungry, the sight of food nauseated her. She could tell that Cook was sending her up the lightest, most tasty dishes, trying to tempt her appetite, but the tray was always returned virtually untouched. Besides, Rose reasoned maliciously, if Charles began to worry about the baby, the precious son he craved, he might reconsider.
Slowly, her reeling, mutinous senses started to settle and give way to rational, scheming plans. Rebellion was achieving nothing. She must attain her freedom in order to be able to do anything at all for Seth, and if the only way to do so was through submission, then so be it, though her spirit reared away from it. She didn’t know if Patsy had posted the letter to Florrie, or even if the poor girl realized that Rose wanted her to, so in the meantime, she must work in other ways.
When Dr Seaton came to check on her, Charles had left the room unlocked, promising to sell Fencott Place and take her to live in his London home if she told the doctor what was going on, or even reveal to the authorities the elderly fellow’s part in the felon’s concealment as he still didn’t believe Rose’s story.
‘I’m sorry your convict was recaptured,’ Dr Seaton said, his voice low, as he put away his stethoscope. ‘He seemed a good sort.’
Rose’s throat closed. ‘Yes,’ she croaked. ‘And I believe him. Has anyone been to see you, about the plaster, I mean? I’m still denying you had anything to do with it.’
‘No.’ A strange, shuttered look came over his face. ‘I understand your husband had a long interview with the governor and cleared everything up. I should think Mr Chadwick could be very persuasive when he has a mind to.’
His voice had taken on a questioning tone, as if he had sensed the tension in the household, and Rose felt herself flush. Had he guessed something was wrong? He knew, after all, that Rose had kept Seth’s presence secret from her husband. She trusted Dr Seaton and was tempted to blurt everything out to him. He wasn’t the sort to be cowed by the authorities when it came to injustice, but the dear man had done enough and she didn’t want him to be further involved.
‘Yes, he can be,’ she answered, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘So I’m very lucky.’
Dr Seaton raised an enigmatic eyebrow. ‘Well, you seem well enough, although you do look a little pale. Make sure you eat well, and I’ll see you in another two weeks unless you have any problems.’
‘Yes. Thank you, Doctor. And thank you for everything.’
‘Hmm,’ he grunted, nodding his head, not convinced, Rose suspected, as he shut the door behind him.
Rose sighed. She didn’t like towing the line, but if it was the only way . . . And before the physician had turned his pony and trap out of the gates, Charles had crept upstairs and silently turned the key once more and Rose’s mouth corkscrewed into a vitriolic knot.
It was the following day that Rose heard a commotion coming from the stable yard. She had opened the window to let in the fresh May sunshine when angry shouts and Gospel’s bellicose neighing reached her ears. She couldn’t see into the yard, as it was at the opposite end of the house through a high wall, but she would recognize Gospel’s outraged protests anywhere, and it brought a satisfied smirk to her face. Good old Gospel. She hoped he was giving Ned hell!
She had known Ned Cornish for years. Ignorant and uncouth, he had been the stable boy at the Albert Inn in Princetown. Before Molly had married Joe and gone to live at the powder mills, Rose had always given Ned sixpence to look after Gospel whenever she went to visit her friend at her parents’ home in the prison barracks and then later in the warders’ new accommodation block. Ned and Gospel had never mixed, the animal’s teeth often finding a good grip on Ned’s flesh, but Ned had always put up with it in the hope that he would be rewarded with more than a sixpenny piece.
He never was, for Rose was always one step ahead of him, until Charles had employed him to take care of their own horses – Gospel, Charles’s liver chestnut, Tansy, and Merlin, the roan who went in harness. Ned had bided his time, waiting for the opportunity to waylay Rose in one of the stables. He hadn’t got very far. At the time, Rose had been irritated rather than cross, seeing Ned as no more than a nuisance, but he was shrewder than he looked. She had threatened to tell Charles, but he had observed Charles’s jealous attitude and had pointed out that she might come off worse! Ever since, the rancour had simmered in Ned’s evil little mind, until he had found a way to get back at her refusal to grant him what he had sought for so long. He it was who had discovered the whereabouts of the escaped convict, and had surreptitiously gone off to the prison to claim his five pounds reward. Now Rose hated him, and if Gospel was kicking and biting him, well, nothing could please her more.
A smile found its way to her lips, and she sat on the edge of the bed, stroking her swollen stomach. The moment of contentment made her consider her unborn child for the first time since Seth’s recapture. Would the poor thing come into a happy home? Hardly. And she wasn’t sure herself that she really wanted it. Someone else’s child, yes, someone she loved. But not Charles. Someone . . . May the dear Lord forgive her, but someone more like Seth Warrington.
Once again, the anguish crippled her. Though it tore at her spirit, she would be good. Do whatever Charles wished until he released her from the room. And then she would see what was to be done.
Florrie arrived in Princetown on the carrier’s cart and then had to allow her thick, arthritic legs to bring her all the way to the back door of Fencott Place. She was like an unstoppable whirlwind, marching through into the hallway and demanding to speak to the master. From upstairs, Rose had heard her familiar voice raised in unprecedented anger, and her heart had soared. Florrie was back!
Had Rose seen Charles’s face, she would have broken into a bitter, sardonic laugh. He was so astonished both at Florrie’s unexpected reappearance and at her belligerent attitude, when she had always shown him such cool deference before, that he stepped out of his study with his jaw dangling open quite stupidly. It had never crossed his mind that she looked upon Rose as her daughter, and that if the situation demanded it – which it evidently did just now – she would be willing to fight tooth and nail for her.
‘They’ve just teld me in the kitchen that you’m keeping my Rose locked up in her room!’ she exploded, remembering the exact words Rose had instructed her to say, since Charles must not know of the letter and how little Patsy had secretly posted it for her. ‘I comes back here to help her prepare for the babby, and find you’m treating her like a criminal! You should be ashamed o’ yoursel’!’
She stood, hands on hips and glowering at Charles from her ruddy face while Charles took the opportunity to regain his composure. ‘May I remind you, Mrs Bennett,’ he said coldly, ‘that you are no longer a servant in this household, and that you are only here under my sufferance.’
‘Don’t you play Mr High and Mighty with me, young man! Your wife had already engaged me as nanny to her child, as I were to her virtually all her life!’
‘And you can just as easily be dismissed by me.’
‘And I could easily
reveal to Mr Frean what a despicable monster you are! ’Twouldn’t do your precious reputation much good, would it, especially with Mr Frean being of such influence hereabouts,’ she gloated triumphantly, crossing her arms firmly over her ample bosom. ‘Now I’m going up to my Rose, and from now on, that door is to remain unlocked or I shall want to know the reason why! With the way you’ve been treating her, and her in the last stage of her pregnancy . . . Good God, have you no soul, man? She probably don’t want to go no further anyways. But she’s to have the run of the house and the garden whenever she wants. Now give me the key, or I swears that by tonight the whole of Devonshire will know what sort of man you really are!’
She uncrossed her arms and thrust out her stubby palm with such force that it just missed Charles’s nose. He was so dumbfounded beneath her withering stare that he reached into his pocket and carelessly dropped the key into her hand, although not without a derisive sneer.
‘I was about to release her anyway as she seems to have come to her senses at last,’ he drawled, ‘so don’t think it’s anything to do with you, Mrs Bennett.’
‘And I’m the Queen’s hand maiden,’ Florrie scoffed as she flounced past him and up the stairs.
‘And do convey to my wife that if she shows the slightest sign of misbehaving, she’ll be back in that room at once!’ Charles called out to her back.
In the bedroom, Rose was dancing on the spot as she listened to the rumpus downstairs. Her heart was drumming hard as she heard Florrie’s heavy footfall stomping across the landing, and then she stood back as the key was turned in the lock and the door opened. There was Florrie, short and plump, her face more lined than Rose remembered, warm, comforting, secure. Rose melted into her fat arms, almost knocking off her black hat. All the strain and horror of the last weeks erupted in a torrent, and she allowed it to flow over Florrie, who she knew would be an island of strength.