A Bouquet of Thorns

by Tania Crosse

  The memory of that soul-destroying day flashed through her brain once more. When she had arrived back at Cherrybrook, frozen to the marrow, covered in snow, terrified and exhausted from battling against the blizzard, she had been too broken to relate all the details to Florrie. Too ashamed to admit that her fine plan had failed. Just as she couldn’t bring herself to tell the dear woman now that on that fateful day, she had actually considered applying to the workhouse for her father. And then she had received a kind and generous letter from Charles, begging her once again to marry him. She had felt so low, so desperate, that her former hesitation was dispelled and she had joyfully accepted his proposal.

  But look where it had got her!

  She had been so happy until her wedding night, when she had learnt what marriage was really all about, and though Charles behaved like an utter gentleman during the day, even in her ignorance Rose realized he treated her unfeelingly in their bed. And within six months, her father was dead. The only thing that had kept her sane were her mad flights of freedom on Gospel’s back, and now he, too, was gone. She had lost everything she had sacrificed herself for by marrying Charles Chadwick, and her world lay in broken pieces at her feet.

  ‘I did it for all of us,’ she told Florrie now, her voice quiet and trembling. ‘For you, for Father. So that I could keep Gospel. But I also did it for me.’ She lifted her head and her glistening eyes fixed on Florrie’s compassionate face. ‘I honestly thought Charles and I would be happy together. I’d never had a sweetheart before, you know that. I’d never known what it was to love a man. And now . . .’ She smiled wistfully, and even as she spoke the words, she wondered if they weren’t quite true, for hadn’t she felt about Seth . . .? ‘And now I never will. And I can never forgive Charles for what he’s done. Not ever. And if ’tweren’t for this child, I’d be gone from here for ever.’

  And because there was something else she had to do as well . . .

  Four

  Dr Power crumpled the letter into a ball in his fist and launched it into the fire, since that was the best place for it. He watched pensively as its edges scorched, then it uncurled a little before it finally fell victim to the hungry, licking flames.

  Rose Maddiford. Her maiden name – for like so many of those who knew her of old, he could never think of her as Mrs Chadwick – suited her well. She truly must be mad. The letter was a full written confession of how she had willingly helped Seth Collingwood, saying that she believed unequivocally in his innocence, and that the story that he had terrified her and threatened to kill Amber’s puppies was a complete and utter lie of Collingwood’s fabrication told in order to protect her. She knew that he would almost certainly be flogged for his escape, but he was already so ill and could the doctor please do anything to prevent it, especially as the poor man had been wrongly convicted in the first place and didn’t deserve his incarceration, let alone the terrible punishment. Dr Power had been so good to her in the past, especially with her father, and she trusted him to do what was morally right.

  The good doctor slumped back in his chair and tapped his joined fingertips against his pursed lips. Ah, Rose . . . The vision of the very first time he had clapped his stunned eyes upon her crept unbidden into his brain. What was it, six years ago, when he had taken up the position of prison surgeon? It had seemed a good way to provide a roof over the heads of his growing family, and also offered him the opportunity to help the working classes of the area who could not afford the normally expensive charges of a private doctor. He was given a house of almost equal standard to that of the governor, and was paid a reasonable wage to care for both the inmates and the prison staff, so that when the local community requested his attendance, he could do so at a fee they could afford. Among them were the workers at the Cherrybrook gunpowder mills. The first time he had been summoned there, it had been at the behest of a captivating, mettlesome young girl so slender she appeared quite ephemeral, like some fanciful painting from one of his children’s fairy-tale books, perched atop a massive, prancing, long-legged steed whose coat matched the shining ebony of her hair. She could have been no more than sixteen then, and at more than twenty years her senior, he was old enough to be her father, but he could not deny that, had he been younger and not already long and happily married, his heart would have been strongly drawn to her. It made him feel a little ashamed, though there was nothing more than admiration for her in his breast, not only for her undeniable beauty, but for her vivacity, her strength of character, her soul. She had such an immense capacity for compassion, whether it be for the high moorland where she lived, animals of every description, or the men and their families who had worked for her father. The father whose death, as he had witnessed for himself, had broken the poor girl’s heart.

  And now she had sent this plea for help.

  He filled his lungs deeply, and slowly let them collapse again. Did she realize what she was asking? And yet he understood entirely. His own position at the prison was humbling and irresolute, his allegiances torn asunder. He was supposed to be a man of mercy, healer of the sick, and yet he had to uphold the cruel regime of the harshest punishment imaginable. The prison infirmary was full of convicts from other gaols across the country, sent there not because they were particularly heinous, but because they were suffering from consumption, and Dartmoor’s clean air helped them to recover sufficiently to be returned to serve their sentences whence they had come. There were other inmates who feigned illness to escape the back-breaking hard labour, some who even put their own lives at risk by swallowing anything to hand – such as soap, ground glass or even pins – that would incapacitate them. Dr Power had to be equal to all their tricks. And then, ironically, perfectly fit and healthy men had their constitutions decimated by the meagre starvation diet, the vicious punishments and inhumane, gruelling tasks they were put to day in, day out, enduring conditions to which no farmer would subject his animals.

  Men like Seth Collingwood.

  The fellow had been in his care for a few days once before. Shortly after arriving at Her Majesty’s hotel, he had apparently saved the life of Warder Cartwright as the work party returned from its racking and dangerous day’s toil at the quarry. For his trouble, he had been assaulted by a group of maddened inmates – nothing too serious, but battered and bruised enough to require the medical officer’s attentions. Dr Power had to admit to taking an instant liking to his patient, which was something he could rarely say of his charges. Even then, Collingwood had been protesting his innocence and Dr Power had been inclined to believe his claims, but he was hardly in a position to argue with the authorities who had committed the accused to gaol.

  And then, ten days ago, the physician had been appalled to discover the poor devil chained in a punishment cell, awaiting sentence from the Director of Prisons for his attempted – and almost successful – escape. He had taken some lead shot in his shoulder from one of the guards’ Snider carbines, but the wounds were healing well. How well his broken ankle inside its plaster cast was mending would only be known when it was removed. It was the doctor’s considered opinion that the cast had been professionally applied and was not Rose’s own remarkably successful attempt, as she claimed in the letter. However, he had determined that, were he to be questioned, he would keep that view to himself, for he would inform on neither Rose nor his respected colleague, the elderly Dr Seaton. What had horrified him, though, was that the prisoner had been set to the usual punishment task of oakum picking – teasing into shreds a statutory length of old tar-saturated ships’ rope which had since dried into razor-sharp fibres that sliced into the fingertips, rendering them excruciatingly painful. This when the prisoner was most obviously running a fever and coughing up blood, sitting in a cramped position in a cold, damp cell, with nothing but bare boards for a bed and existing on the so-called jockey diet of bread and water. Dr Power didn’t even wait for the result of his immediate report to the governor, but had the convict removed to the infirmary at once. Fortunately, it had been le
ss than forty-eight hours since his recapture, but had it been much longer, it may well have been a death certificate rather than a medical report he needed to complete. The governor had, of course, been furious, and the vindictive sergeant who had lied about the escapee’s state of health had been severely reprimanded, but that was it. After all, who really cared about the fate of just another convict at the isolated prison?

  And now the authorization for Collingwood’s sentence had arrived. The maximum of thirty-six lashes with the cat-o’-nine tails, not just for his escape, but also for his terrorizing of the heavily pregnant young woman. Dr Power ran his hand over his jaw. A few days previously, a flustered and red-faced Florrie Bennett had come to his door with the letter from her little mistress, which, once he had read it, he had secreted where no one could ever find it, and now he had committed it to ashes. What could he do? Collingwood – though of course he was referred to by his prison number only – had improved somewhat. At first, the doctor had feared consumption, but upon examination and with the history of pneumonia at Exeter gaol eighteen months previously, he had concluded that it was a recurrence of the same ailment, the patient’s general health having been weakened, like so many, by the harsh prison conditions. This new episode had most likely been triggered by the inactivity of lying for days and nights on end on the stable floor, which, though dry enough for animals, was damp by human standards. The painful, scourging cough and bloodstained sputum was the first stage of pleurisy before the pleural cavity filled with cushioning fluid. After ten days propped upright in bed, with an hourly hobble up and down the infirmary to help drain the lungs, together with the superior invalid diet, the felon’s constitution, which must have been generally strong, had allowed him to improve considerably. But he was nowhere near sufficiently recovered to endure the barbaric torture to which he had been sentenced.

  And yet . . .

  Dr Power dropped his head into his hands. It was a huge risk to take, but it was the only way to save Collingwood from the entire punishment. A total of three hundred and twenty-four strokes of each vicious tail clawing at the young, innocent flesh and horribly disfiguring him for life – well, it was unthinkable. Though a heavy leather hide was placed as protection over the vital organs, within a few lashes, the bruised and swelling welts would open and run with blood until the cat could cut through to the bone. The agony of it must be indescribable, the torment reaching to every fibre of the body. The physician shuddered. He had seen it many times, and now, Dear Sweet Jesus, he was to witness it again. He shook his head. What in the name of God was he doing in this job?

  He stood up, his eyes screwed tightly shut at what he knew he must do.

  The prisoner’s face was inscrutable as his wrists and ankles were put in chains, spreadeagling him on the flogging frame. Some offered resistance as the moment of punishment came, but this fellow waited patiently while the problem of how to secure the plaster cast was solved, as the prison surgeon would not have it removed. When he offered the felon a gag for his mouth, he refused with a shake of his head, but the doctor leant forward to hiss in his ear.

  ‘Take it, you fool. I don’t want to have to stitch your tongue or your lip as well. For God’s sake, do as I say. Mrs Chadwick won’t want to have risked herself for nothing.’

  He drew back hastily, not wanting to arouse the suspicions of the governor and the burly, unfeeling warder who had been chosen to deliver the gruesome punishment. But he caught the flash of amazed comprehension in the convict’s eyes as he took up his spectator’s position. And then he shuddered as he saw the governor give the nod to begin.

  He had known great, swarthy bullies to holler like babies from the very first stroke, but this unfortunate lad scarcely flinched, his firm jaw set like granite and his narrowed eyes locked on to some point of focus on the far wall and merely twitching as the whipped ends of the cat raked like barbs into his exposed back. Dr Power’s own sickened heart pounded inside his chest, sweat prickling beneath his shirt just as it poured from the prisoner’s face and ran down his bare chest in rivulets. By the count of five, nothing had escaped his lips but a whimper, and the physician clenched his fists into tight balls. Dear God Almighty, give me something, lad! And then the pitiless warder, irritated beyond measure by his victim’s silence, seemed to add extra force to the sweep of his arm as he slammed the cat through the air. The shock of the redoubled agony was so powerful, the convict could not cry out. Instead, his chest rasped with a sharp and massive intake of breath that caused his inflamed lungs to react with a spluttering cough.

  Dr Power almost rejoiced. It was what he had prayed for. At a repeat of the warder’s sadistic action, the bound man almost choked on the prolonged coughing it drew from his strained insides. Again and again, until it exploded into one continuous, violent spasm. The surgeon observed carefully the tortured criminal. With his arms spread above his head, his already concave stomach was so taut with suffering, there seemed little between it and his spine. The gag in his mouth had turned scarlet, and in his already weakened state, his head had drooped forward and his shoulders were hanging from his stretched arms.

  Dr Power held up his hand. ‘That’s it, sir. He’s had enough,’ he pronounced, turning to the governor.

  ‘What?’ The warder’s eyes bulged in his face, the veins standing out like ropes in his thick neck. His good friend, who had been on duty when the prisoner had made his escape, had immediately been dismissed, he and his family being thrown out of their home in Princetown and out on to the street without a by-your-leave. The fact that he had been taking a swig from his hip flask at the time and so was guilty of gross negligence of duty didn’t make any difference to his colleague, who was gunning to take his revenge on the escapee. ‘He’s only had ten, the bastard!’ he spat viciously.

  ‘Eleven, actually. And if he coughs like that any more, he’ll rupture his diaphragm. Sir?’ he questioned, again addressing the governor.

  ‘I thought you had pronounced him fit?’ was the reply.

  Dr Power frowned darkly. He must be careful what he said. ‘Yes, I had. He seemed much recovered, but the weakness in his lungs must be deep-rooted and so can flare up very easily. His constitution must be considerably worse than it appears.’

  The governor seemed to consider for a moment, but then to the doctor’s utter relief, he nodded his agreement.

  ‘Take him down carefully,’ Dr Power instructed at once, ‘or we’ll have a corpse on our hands.’

  The warder shot a disgruntled glare at the surgeon and then gave a reluctant shrug. What would one more dead convict matter? As far as he was concerned, he’d be pleased if the devil died. And as the felon was released from his restraints, he collapsed almost senseless into the doctor’s arms. Raymond Power ground his teeth. He had instructed his surprised medical assistant to have a morphine injection at the ready. He would treat this poor wretch’s mutilated back with the greatest care, binding down the swollen flesh and mending it where possible with the neatest stitches and the finest thread. He would be scarred, yes, but the doctor would make sure it was kept to the minimum, and nowhere near as badly as if he had taken the full thirty-six lashes. And if Dr Power’s recommendations were heeded, as they most likely would be, he never would. For the doctor felt he was fully justified in writing in Collingwood’s medical notes that, due to his predisposition to pneumonia, he should never be flogged again.

  The physician knew he had done what he had not only for the sake of the wronged man, but for the lovely young woman who had begged for his help. And the guilt of it would go with him to the grave.

  ‘I need to send a telegram to London,’ Charles announced coolly. ‘It’s raining hard so I’m going to get Ned to take me in the wagonette. I trust you can behave yourself while I’m out?’

  Rose was sitting in the drawing room with her feet up, supposedly reading a book. But though her eyes were travelling along each line of the page, the meaning of the words was failing to register in her brain. She was alive only t
o the pain in her heart, and could think only of what she could do to rectify the situation. How could she get Gospel back? The commotion she had heard out in the stable yard had been the animal kicking up a fuss, literally. But not because of his dislike of Ned, as she had thought, but because he was being taken away by a stranger. Oh, God, if only she had known what was going on! Although what she could have done, locked up in the bedroom, she didn’t know.

  And then there was Seth. Florrie had duly delivered the letter to Dr Power and had also been to visit Mrs Cartwright, who had promised to have a word with her husband, although she doubted there was anything Jacob could do. Rose had, of course, received no news of what had happened to Seth. In one way, it was a relief, for until she did, she could cling to the hope that he had been spared his punishment. What she could do for him in the long run, she wasn’t sure either. But one thing was certain: while Charles still distrusted her, he would continue to curtail her freedom. So, although she seethed with frustration and resentment, she must play the dutiful, obedient wife until that trust was restored.