A Bouquet of Thorns

by Tania Crosse

  ‘Get up, you,’ he ordered. He saw the blackguard catch his breath, freeze. ‘I said get up!’

  This time the convict sprang to his feet and stood erect in a military stance, staring straight ahead at the opposite wall. The warder looked up at his impassive face, cursing himself. He had forgotten the fellow was so tall, touching six foot, while he was barely five feet eight, though as swarthy and strong as a bull. His face twisted in a sadistic leer to compensate.

  ‘You were talking just then,’ he accused him with a sneer.

  The prisoner didn’t move, didn’t fall into the trap of denying his alleged crime so that the warder could reply that he had certainly spoken now and would be punished. The warder fumed with frustration.

  ‘You shouldn’t be in here,’ he spat. ‘Come with me.’

  The assistant warder at the other side of the room dared to object. ‘He’s here temporarily, sir, because of his health.’

  ‘Malingering, more like. Looks fit enough to me. Let’s find some proper work for you.’

  The junior officer shrugged and turned away as his superior marched the felon to the door. The fellow hadn’t been an ounce of trouble, but it wasn’t worth standing up for him. He was just another number – not worth risking the prospect of promotion for!

  The principal warder led his captive through the work yards into the relative pleasantness of what had been the market square during the old prisoner-of-war days, and thence through the gate into the most secure part of the gaol. Up the side of the kitchens, then, and around the back of the chapel to an area the prisoner had never been to before. It was quiet, a hidden corner. Dear Lord, he wasn’t in for an unlawful beating, was he? But now he recognized the smell as they passed the recently completed piggery, could hear the snorts of the sows and the squeals of their young. Well, he wouldn’t mind working with any animal, and he rather liked pigs.

  But no. The fetid odour became worse as they approached a shed about ten-foot wide and twenty in length. This wasn’t just the fresh whiff of animal manure that he was well used to and didn’t dislike. It was mixed with the reek of decaying human sewage that grew more pungent as they advanced towards the building, stinging the eyes and burning at the back of the throat. Jesus, the cesspits. The warder took out his handkerchief and held it over his mouth and nose. The convict at once broke out in a coughing fit that he struggled to suppress.

  He was pushed down a set of steps and the warder knocked on the door to the sunken shed. It was opened by another warder wearing a mask.

  ‘Another one for you. Make sure he works hard.’

  If the stench outside was rank and putrid, inside the shed it was like running full pelt into a wall of stinking, choking gas. Seth Collingwood could taste the foulness of the air, feel it on his tongue, seeping into his ears, his skin. He could scarcely see for the thick, clogging dust that at once seared into his lungs and he instantly started to wheeze. But it was the vile fumes of putrefying bones, of rotting, noxious excrement that clenched at his stomach. He felt the bile, the nausea rising to his throat. He tried to force it down, struggling, retching, but the rancid, suffocating atmosphere was overwhelming, swirling down inside him. He found himself on his knees, vomiting up his breakfast of watery gruel, on and on, uncontrollably, until there was nothing left to bring up and yet his insides still heaved in violent spasms. He felt a hand under his arm, dragging him upwards. Through his streaming eyes, he made out a haggard, grimacing face against the pall of dust that surrounded them.

  ‘Welcome to hell, pal,’ the voice hissed in his ear.

  Ten

  Charles watched through slitted eyes as Rose bent to lay a delicate posy of flowers on the tiny coffin as it was lowered into the ground. So graceful, so dignified, so glorious in her sorrow. The lashing rain that had driven into their faces as they had arrived at the church had eased, but a gust of wind lifted the jet-encrusted mourning cape about her shoulders, revealing the slenderness of her narrow waist and the swathes of edged silk that cascaded from the small bustle into a billowing train at her ankles. She straightened up, her neck as long and elegant as a swan’s, and beneath the veil of her black hat, her lovely face was as white and as set as alabaster.

  Oh, how he yearned to have her in his bed again. Of course, he had been back sleeping in their marital bed for weeks. And what a torture that had been, not being able to touch her. Penetrate her. At long last, Dr Seaton had examined her and pronounced her fit to resume her duties as a wife, provided Charles was gentle with her. He had planned to take her the very next morning, when he would expose every part of her to the daylight, but the child had died that very night, and even he could not be cruel enough to impose himself upon her.

  Did he care so much about his daughter? His own flesh and blood? It was difficult to say, when he had hardly got to know her. He had never even held her. But what he did care about was the gnawing misery that had enshrouded his wife ever since. Her spirit had withered. Even the two dogs sensed it, laying their heads on her knee and looking up at her with doleful eyes while their offspring romped and rolled beside them. She didn’t even notice.

  Charles bit his lip as he contemplated her wilted form. Perhaps if he hadn’t got rid of that ferocious beast she loved so much, the creature would have brought her comfort, breathed life back into her. But it was too late now. The dealer would have sold the animal on to heaven knew who, and when it became clear that its temper was untameable, it would probably have changed hands again. Charles almost regretted it, especially each time his wife wandered off into the pouring rain, a desolate, inconsolable figure lost in some macabre, gruesome world of her own. He would run out after her with a coat to shield her from the unseasonable weather, as, despite the odd day of brilliant sunshine, it was turning into one of the wettest summers in years, and farmers were worried about their crops. She would let him lead her home, malleable as a child, not uttering a word, nor swallowing a morsel of the tempting food Florrie and Cook between them produced on her plate at meal times, and only drinking when Florrie forced her to.

  Charles came and put his arm about her now, for without it, he feared she might fall. It was time to leave the graveside, to allow the little soul to rest, to lie in eternal peace beside the grandfather she had never known in this earthly life, but who she would come to know in the next. Rose moved with faltering steps, turning just once to glance back with a feeble whimper, not seeing the tear-filled eyes of Florrie Bennett, George Frean, Molly and Joe, and all those who had come to share in her grief.

  They made their silent and hesitant way through the graveyard to the iron gates, the hem of Rose’s gown dragging along the sodden path and soaking up the rainwater from the puddles. But she seemed oblivious to everything around her until they came out to the road, and Charles hailed to the hired carriage that had been waiting at a respectful distance to drive them back to the house, seeing as he had considered their own wagonette inappropriate for such a sombre occasion. Just at that moment a group of six or seven people, dressed more suitably for the fashionable streets of London and shielding themselves with huge umbrellas even though the rain had virtually stopped, hurried gaily along on the opposite side of the street in the direction of the prison.

  ‘Oh, what a frightfully grim place!’ one of the ladies tittered gleefully, with a plum the size of a melon in her mouth.

  ‘What do you expect, my dear?’ a gentleman replied with equal delight. ‘This is the worst prison in the country. You have to be a pretty dastardly criminal to be sent here, you know!’

  ‘Of course!’ another fellow declared with enthusiasm. ‘I wonder who they’ll show us? Thieves and murderers, I expect!’

  ‘Not murderers! They hang them!’

  And with a chorus of laughter, they marched on up the road.

  Rose halted, a spark of hatred igniting in her breast. It was despicable, this custom of showing people over the gaol as if it were some sort of holiday attraction, pointing out to them the worst criminals, the gruell
ing labour they were put to for their punishment and the horrendous conditions in which they existed; whose sufferings were to be found amusing and entertaining, when many of them had only been caught up in a life of crime in the first place through poverty and starvation, and not every inmate was guilty of heinous acts that warranted such callous retribution. And, to add insult to injury, these tours were relatively frequent, but a prisoner was only permitted three twenty-minute visits every six months. Not that many ever experienced such a happy interlude, as most relatives were too impoverished to afford the journey to such a remote place. But that was part of it, wasn’t it, to scorn and humiliate the convicts so that upon their final release they made the effort not to return – or at least not to get caught again.

  Rose’s mouth thinned into a fine line. On the opposite side of the road stood the tall, quite attractive building of the warders’ new flats where Mr and Mrs Cartwright now lived in relative comfort with their remaining children. Beside it, much of the former soldiers’ barracks where Molly and her family had previously lived in cramped accommodation beset by damp and crumbling decay, were being demolished, and beyond them, Rose could just glimpse the forbidding walls of the prison blocks and the building site that would eventually stand five storeys high to match the first rebuilt edifice that had been completed a few years earlier. Away in the distance stretched the extensive lands of the prison farm that had been, and continued to be, cleared and drained in the most impossible conditions by the human sweat and toil of convict labour.

  Rose frowned. Teasing her brain was an emotion triggered by the sight of the gaol, a tenderness, a faint memory of something that had once soothed her aching soul. And then her heart tripped and began to beat faster as a vision of that lean, strong face with its expressive hazel eyes formed itself in her mind.

  A long, sighing breath fluttered from her lungs, and her husband caught her as she slithered to the ground.

  Charles padded across the thick bedroom carpet and came up behind her as she sat at the dressing table, mechanically brushing at her hair that swung in a living waterfall of thick raven waves against the foaming white of her nightgown. In the mirror, he met her dulled eyes that stared sightlessly at him from dark sockets in her sculptured face, her skin taut and pale as ivory. Dear God, she was so beautiful, and he already felt the uncomfortable rising in his loins.

  He smiled benevolently, and felt his heart expand as her eyes widened a little and her lips curved upwards in a strained response. His hands came to rest on her shoulders. She tilted her head, but the hope expired inside him, since she did not turn to brush her cheek on the back of his hand, nor lean against him to take the comfort he was attempting to offer her.

  He cleared his throat. ‘I’m so sorry, Rose. I know the child meant more to you than to me. I suppose a man doesn’t become close to his children until they’re older. But a mother . . . Well, I am sorry.’

  She remained motionless, as if his words could not penetrate her grief, and he was about to turn away when she mumbled something under her breath.

  ‘Pardon, my dear?’ he prompted her at once, seeing as it was the first word she had spoken that day.

  ‘I said, her name was Alice. Our daughter’s name was Alice.’ Her voice was empty, devoid of expression, as if coming from some other, ethereal being, and Charles felt not the least reprimanded.

  ‘Of course it was,’ he replied tentatively, anxious to seize any shred of communication. ‘And we will always remember her. But there will be others. This time next year, there will be another little Chadwick, I promise you. And over the years, we will fill the nursery with our children. So the sooner we start, the better.’

  He just caught the thin sound that gurgled at the back of her throat, but chose to ignore it. Instead, he bent to kiss the bare milky skin at her neck, and his hand found its way beneath the yoke of her nightdress to the warm, soft mound of her breast.

  She flinched. Her shoulders instantly stiffened and she jerked up her head so that she narrowly missed butting him in the mouth. ‘Charles, I really don’t think . . .’ she croaked hoarsely.

  ‘And why not, my dear?’ he purred, his voice oily. ‘Dr Seaton pronounced you fit and well a week ago. And the sooner we conceive another child, the better.’

  ‘But not when we’ve only just laid Alice in her grave.’ Her tone was stronger now, a blend of sadness and resentment that was beginning to try Charles’s patience. But anger was not the way to get what he wanted, and he was determined that he would.

  He withdrew his hand and instead began to stroke her hair. ‘I understand how you feel, my darling,’ he said persuasively. ‘But surely you must see it would be for the best? Another child would give you something else to think about. Help you to get over Alice more quickly.’

  He saw in the mirror that she lowered her eyes, and a glow of satisfaction warmed his blood. He was winning her over and, turning her about on the stool, he knelt down before her and with one hand on the back of her head, placed his lips forcefully on hers and used his tongue to probe into her mouth.

  She pulled away. ‘Charles . . . please . . .’ she moaned. ‘Not now . . .’

  ‘Oh, but you know I’m right,’ he murmured into her ear now as his hands began to fumble between her thighs. ‘Another child . . .’

  The sensation of disgust shot up to her stomach, and her muscles cramped. She instinctively pushed him away, and the words were out of her mouth before she had time to think what she was saying.

  ‘But I’m not certain I want another . . .’

  They both froze, two statues glaring at each other from eyes stretched wide with horror. Rose wanted to swallow, but it seemed a stone had lodged in her gullet. The buried truth had wormed its own way to the surface without her having consciously considered it. Charles’s slack-jawed mouth gradually closed into a hateful knot, and his eyes narrowed as he raised his hand which shook with the effort it was taking not to slam it across her face.

  ‘Don’t want any more children!’ he spat venomously. ‘You little bitch! It’s your duty as my wife to give me as many children as you can! Sons, to carry on my work! I know you dislike the act of love-making—’

  ‘Love-making!’ Rose reared up her head. ‘There’s nothing loving in it, the way you do it. You’re like an animal!’

  Charles jerked as if he’d been shot by a bullet, and then his eyes bulged with unleashed rage. ‘And how would you know any different, madam? It was that bloody convict, wasn’t it? You made love to him, but you refuse to make love to your own husband! Well, I’ll show you, you bloody little—’

  ‘No! How dare you! There was nothing like that—’

  But the rest of her incensed words were lost as he grasped a hank of her flowing locks and dragged her across the room by it. She couldn’t even scream for the pain as her hair was almost torn from her scalp, and as he hurled her on to the bed, the breath was entirely knocked out of her so that she struggled for some moments to remain conscious. She almost wished she hadn’t, for a few seconds later, he plunged himself into her. She cried out, transfixed with the sudden pain of it, and at that precise instant, she truly wished herself dead. She turned her head away, gasping for breath, and praying that Charles would hurry up with the business. He was right, of course. She was his wife, and it was her duty. And, in time, she probably would want more children. Thousands of mothers lost their infants each year, and went on to find solace in further offspring. But it didn’t help her just now, and her spirit heaved with a powerless contempt.

  When Charles had finished, he was full of remorse, kissing her, telling how much he loved her. She remained silent, tight-lipped, finally turning her back on him in the bed until his heavy, even breathing told her he was asleep. She let her tears come then, quiet tears of despair that soaked into the pillow and washed away the grief-numbed sterility of her mind. There was nothing she could do for herself. The laws of both God and man said so. She was Charles’s wife, as her bruised and stinging flesh reminde
d her. And she would be so until one or the other of them died – which could be twenty, thirty years – and she would have to live in that knowledge for the rest of her days. She could bring back neither her father nor her daughter. Perhaps other children, the son that Charles craved, would bring her contentment in the future. But that time seemed a long way off, in some distant haze that her present pain could not begin to envisage.

  Her own soul was eternally lost. But there was something she could perhaps do to save someone else’s. At least she could try . . .

  It was still dark when she rose, sleep having eluded her all night. She slipped quietly into the dressing room, managed to light the lamp and dug out her riding habit from the back of her wardrobe. It fitted her regained figure perfectly. She crept silently down the stairs, carrying her cleaned and polished boots, and let herself out of the back door with the stealth of a cat.

  A dank drizzle somewhat akin to a heavy mist fell steadily from the sky. Dawn would rise late that foggy August morning. The house still slept, but not so the horses in the field. Though moist, the atmosphere was warm, and Tansy was delighted to see the gentle mistress who was always so kind to her. Rose fetched just a handful of oats and while the mare munched happily, she stole into the tack room. She must be careful as Ned – Ned whom she now hated – slept above it with only the floorboards between them. She could hear him snoring soundly, and though Tansy’s bridle jangled on her shoulder as she heaved the saddle from its bracket, the rhythmical droning above her was not interrupted.