A Bouquet of Thorns

by Tania Crosse

  It felt so good when she finally mounted Tansy’s back. She hadn’t ridden for months and it was wonderful to be astride an animal again. If only it had been Gospel! She would have felt him quivering with excitement, his muscles bunched beneath her, but she must put such morose thoughts aside. She had another mission, and though the loss of her beloved horse would tear at her for ever, surely the life of a human being must be more important.

  Within minutes they were off at a trot, keeping to the grass beside the gravelled driveway to deaden the sound of Tansy’s hooves, and evaporating into the swirling mist like some mythical spectre. They were gone. Free. As if Charles and her life at Fencott Place no longer existed.

  Even so, Rose was cautious. She wasn’t nervous, but rather fired with humiliation and deranged bitterness, and the desire to lash out in revenge. But she knew that the shadowy gloom of the gauzy mist as morning broke could confuse and disorientate, and so she kept Tansy at a steady trot so that they didn’t lose the track in the half light. When they came into Princetown, the village was still deserted. What time was it? Half past five? Six o’clock? Back home, Cook and Patsy and Daisy would be up, building up the heat in the kitchen range, kneading the day’s bread. Florrie would not be far behind, wondering what she would do now her darling little Alice was dead and buried. Ned would doubtless still be snoring his head off, and though it would not be long before he awoke, Charles would remain in blissful ignorance of his wife’s disappearance.

  Nobody saw them slide through the vapour-enshrouded prison village. She could scarcely distinguish the massive buildings of the gaol, but could just about make out the flickering lights at what she knew were row upon row of small, high-up, barred windows. After a long night locked away in their lonely cells, and sleeping on hard wooden beds, with a thin straw mattress if they had behaved themselves, the inmates would already be up, slopping out, eating their dry bread and watery porridge, going to morning prayers to ask God’s blessing on the gruelling day of punishment ahead. And tomorrow. And the next day.

  Rose paused for an instant near the gates. Somewhere inside those soulless walls, in an unforgiving, damp cell, Seth would be preparing for another long day of back-breaking labour when not even a word of companionship was permitted to ease one’s misery. The Silent Rule. Just another cross to bear.

  Rose gritted her teeth as she urged Tansy onwards. The injustice of it erupted inside her yet again. She wanted to rebel, to hit out. At Charles, for his possessiveness, his lack of understanding, his jealousy. His betrayal. Most of all, at Fate, or whatever force it was had taken her darling, innocent Alice. And somehow doing whatever she could to help Seth was a way of cleansing her soul of its black anger. Of allowing herself to find some peace.

  They trotted on to the small settlement at Rundlestone, then turned left along the old toll road across the moor. Rose knew it like the back of her hand. Though there had been no visible sunrise at her back, daylight was penetrating the mantle of fog. They passed on their left the track that led off to the massive quarries of Foggintor, King’s Tor and Swell Tor, reminding Rose of happier times when she had accompanied her father on many a visit to the busy, hard-working community there. She wondered vaguely if they still used gunpowder rather than the new dynamite that was available now. She was sure they would. The men at the quarries were experts with explosives and didn’t welcome change, and with the powder mills being so close . . . Ah, but those halcyon days at Cherrybrook seemed an eternity away.

  The bank of mist suddenly rolled away as they descended the hill to Merrivale and the new Tor Quarry just beyond the inn. The world seemed to explode into life as men were arriving for work, astounded to see the beautiful young woman of obvious class out so early on the lonely moor – and alone. But perhaps the heavenly vision was no more real than the devilish pixies and other sprites that some believed roamed the moor.

  Now that they could see clearly, Rose urged Tansy into a sedate canter. Had she been riding Gospel, he would have catapulted forward, neck arched, fine legs stretched as they ate up the ground. Oh, she must stop grieving for him and concentrate instead on breathing in the freedom of the moor that she had not experienced for so long. The joy of the rugged landscape began to lift her heart, allowing her to leave her sorrow behind, if only for a short while. As they reached the top of Pork Hill, the familiar, magnificent view down over the Tamar River to Plymouth was stunning, and Rose slowed Tansy’s pace to negotiate the steep downhill incline. And then, at long last, they turned right down the lane that would eventually lead to Peter Tavy.

  Eleven

  The village was just as Rose remembered it from her visit with her father several years before. People were up and about their business, mainly farmers, one or two of whose farms were actually within the village centre, which once again struck her as unusual. She noticed a straggling group of men heading down towards a lane beside the inn. They looked like miners, and she recalled driving down the lane with Henry in the dog cart. It led down to the River Tavy and they had crossed by the ford rather than the sturdy wooden bridge, since the water in the river had been low. On the far side lay Wheal Friendship, once the most extensive copper mine on the moor, but now, like many that hadn’t been forced to close altogether, turned over to arsenic production. Whether or not the mine still used gunpowder, she didn’t know. And with Henry and her life at Cherrybrook gone for good, it was no longer her concern.

  What was her concern was to try to find the man Seth had told her he had befriended during his brief spell in the police cells in Tavistock nearly three years previously. Since Charles had broken his promise to listen to Seth’s story and see if he could do anything to help, Rose would have to seek out this Richard Pencarrow instead. His farm was not in but near Peter Tavy, so she would have to ask. But while she had stopped to remember her trip to the mine with Henry, the people she had seen earlier had disappeared, so for a few minutes, she ambled around the village wondering what to do next. She discovered there was a grassy square in front of the church, wide enough for a funeral carriage to turn, she considered grimly. And coming across it was a likely looking couple, middle-aged and, by their attire, quite respectable.

  ‘Excuse me, sir, ma’am,’ she said politely, bringing Tansy to a standstill. ‘I’m looking for a Mr Richard Pencarrow. I believe he has a farm somewhere near.’

  The man raised his eyebrows at being addressed so respectfully. ‘Up at the Hall, miss. He be the maister. Though what a pretty cheel like thee wants with ’en, I cas’n imagine.’

  A shadow of doubt clouded Rose’s heart at the man’s words. In her headlong haste, she hadn’t considered that she knew nothing about the stranger she was seeking. Seth himself had known precious little. The friendship that had developed between them was limited, even though Seth seemed to trust the other fellow entirely. From what the man before her had just said, this Richard Pencarrow must indeed have been released, but what if he really was a violent criminal – a murderer as it had involved the Coroner’s Court – and she would be putting herself in danger? But to be quite honest, at that particular moment, she didn’t really care.

  ‘But p’raps ’tis ’is wife you wants,’ the woman put in with a reassuring smile. ‘Our village wise-woman?’

  ‘Ah,’ Rose answered with some relief, for she indeed welcomed the information. Richard Pencarrow was considered ‘the maister’, the charges against him had evidently been dropped, and the husband of a caring and respected member of the community was unlikely to be a vicious brute. Altogether, Rose felt encouraged. ‘Well,’ she prompted, ‘perhaps you’d be so kind as to direct me to the Hall?’

  ‘Yes. Rosebank Hall. Follow this road,’ the man indicated, waving his arm. ‘And arter aboot a mile, thee turns up a track on to the moor. Just keep following. ’Tis a long way, mind, but thee cas’n miss it.’

  ‘And mind you goes in the back door. ’Tis always open.’

  ‘Oh, er, right,’ Rose replied with surprise. ‘Thank you kindly.’


  She flashed her lovely, natural smile, making the man’s day, and turned Tansy along the way he had pointed out. As he had said, the track was easy to find, and as they gradually climbed out of the valley, Rose relaxed in the saddle and admired the view as a watery sun began to break over the higher ground. It was as if she was in a different world, one in which the pain in her heart ceased to exist. And when Rosebank Hall – a square building of some size although nowhere near as imposing as Fencott Place – came into view, Rose began to focus her thoughts and wonder about the said Mr and Mrs Pencarrow. A wise-woman would surely be of a certain age, and she prayed they would both be sympathetic to her cause.

  Mrs Pencarrow was nothing like she had imagined. Crossing what was clearly a farmyard, Rose found somewhere to tether Tansy and then knocked tentatively on what appeared to be the back door. There was no answer, and when she tried the handle, it turned and she found herself in an inner hallway with a second door immediately opposite. This time, she rapped loudly, and started when a voice at once called out to her to enter.

  She was in a farmhouse kitchen, but rather than the aroma of cooking, an overwhelming fragrance she recognized but could not immediately name permeated the air. And then she noticed the bunches of different herbs hung in rows from drying racks, and the mystery was solved. Jars lined the walls, filled with powders from green to brown, or liquids of all manner of colours. Not just a wise-woman then, but a herbalist. Rose was amazed.

  ‘Good morning, miss. Can I help you?’

  Mrs Pencarrow’s voice was quiet and gentle, and Rose’s eyes widened even further, as its owner was not many years older than herself. A petite young woman, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt and with a riot of golden hair secured only with a ribbon, was coming towards her with an outstretched hand which Rose instinctively took in hers. The pretty face was smiling in welcome, the eyes the most striking, translucent amber Rose had ever seen.

  ‘Mrs Pencarrow?’ she mumbled.

  ‘Why, yes. But do call me Beth. Now, what can I do for you? You’re not from round here, are you?’

  But before Rose could reply, a further door opened, and an attractive girl of about twelve years old bounded into the kitchen, an infant struggling in her arms. Rose might have been punched in the chest, and she felt the room spin around her.

  ‘Elle s’est réveillée,’ the girl said casually as she handed the child into the waiting arms of Elizabeth Pencarrow. ‘Tu veux que je fasse la vaisselle?’

  ‘Oui, s’il te plaît. Oh, I’m sorry. This is my daughter, Chantal.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you, madame.’ And bobbing a curtsy, the girl went over to the deep stone sink.

  Rose had to swallow hard and make a conscious effort to take a grip on herself. A baby. Much older than Alice. But a baby. And its presence slashed at her heart, throwing her bereaved soul into turmoil. Elizabeth Pencarrow and the older girl might have been speaking in a foreign language, she thought, and then, as her mind cleared, Rose realized that they had been.

  She shook her head, blinking hard as she battled to put her thoughts straight. ‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered in bewilderment. ‘’Tis Mr Pencarrow I need to see. I have a message for him from . . . from someone he met in the Tavistock police cells.’

  Elizabeth Pencarrow’s smiling face became still, and the colour drained from her cheeks. She fumbled for one of the kitchen chairs and lowered herself into it, dandling the infant subconsciously on her knee. ‘Oh, dear,’ she finally breathed. ‘’Tis an episode we thought were behind us.’

  In her own anguish, Rose recognized the friendly woman’s distress. ‘Oh, no, ’tis nothing for you to worry about,’ she said quickly. ‘’Tis just that your husband . . . well, he shared a cell with another man. And this other man, he was convicted and now he’s serving his sentence at Dartmoor Prison. And he needs Mr Pencarrow’s help.’

  Elizabeth was absently stroking her baby’s curling hair. ‘Yes. I remember . . . Richard did speak of someone. Someone he said didn’t seem at all like a criminal. But he never knew what happened to him. Is he . . . is he your husband?’

  She looked up, her eyes deep and pensive, bringing a frown to Rose’s face. Seth her husband? The question somehow unnerved her.

  ‘I . . . er . . . no. I’m married to . . . to someone else,’ she faltered. ‘But Seth . . .’ She saw Elizabeth raise a surprised eyebrow at the use of a Christian name. ‘He escaped. He’s innocent, you see, and in a moment of folly, he just . . . ran off into the mist. But he broke his ankle and took refuge in our stables. We live nearly two miles the other side of Princetown. Out on the moor, you see. I helped him, and we became friends. He told me everything that happened. He was convicted on, well, what I think they call circumstantial evidence. But I believe he was innocent,’ she stated with firm conviction. ‘But he were caught and taken back to prison. Which is where he’ll stay if someone doesn’t help him. But I really don’t know what to do, and Seth mentioned your husband . . .’

  She gazed beseechingly into the woman’s eyes, her forehead folded with consternation. Elizabeth slowly set the restless child on its feet and watched as the infant tottered across the floor. It seemed to Rose to take an eternity before she spoke again.

  ‘And what about your own husband?’

  Rose drew in her bottom lip and swallowed. ‘My own husband believes that if you’re convicted, then you must be guilty. He doesn’t know I’m here. But I beg you, Mrs Pencarrow—’

  ‘Beth, please,’ the other woman corrected. ‘And of course you must speak to Richard, though I’m not sure when he’ll be back. He went out at the crack of dawn to check on the sheep up on the moor. There’s been so much rain of late, and ’tis said there’s liver-rot about. But you’re more than welcome to wait if you have time. How did you get here? ’Tis a fair step.’

  ‘Oh, I rode,’ Rose replied, filled with relief that Elizabeth was willing to listen to her, and then feeling remorse that, in her anxiety, she had forgotten about Tansy tethered outside.

  ‘Then put your horse in the stables and come back and have a cup of tea.’

  ‘Thank you so much. ’Tis most kind of you.’

  Elizabeth turned her tranquil smile on her, and Rose hurried outside, already feeling happier. Elizabeth Pencarrow, stranger though she was, had instilled some confidence in her. She found the stables easily enough, putting Tansy in a stall beside an enormous, dozing cart horse, and finding a bucket of water for her. When she returned inside, Elizabeth was pouring out a freshly brewed cup of tea for each of them. The girl, Chantal, smiled openly at her. She was tall and dark as a gipsy, not remotely like Elizabeth, and Rose wondered how on earth Elizabeth could be her mother. Surely she wasn’t old enough!

  That serene smile Rose was already beginning to know lifted the corners of Elizabeth’s mouth. ‘Chantal’s my stepdaughter,’ she explained easily as she saw Rose looking at the girl. ‘Richard was widowed in France. He’s a fair bit older than me, you see.’

  ‘Ah.’ Rose was becoming interested, her curiosity drawing her mind from the void that Alice’s death had gouged out of her soul. ‘And ’twas French you were speaking, then, just now?’

  ‘Yes. When we first met, Chantal didn’t speak any English, and I didn’t speak a word of French. But we’ve learnt from each other. Oh, do sit down, Mrs . . . I’m sorry, I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Chadwick. Rose Chadwick.’

  She sat down, relieved beyond measure that Elizabeth Pencarrow was such a homely, understanding woman despite her youth. But at that moment, the infant struggled to its feet and wobbled across the room in that uncertain way little ones have when learning to walk, chubby arms raised to shoulder level. Its sturdy legs stumbled to the nearest available landing point at the right height for its tiny hands, which happened to be Rose’s thigh. The child gazed up at the stranger, mouth stretched wide with a proud grin revealing a set of little front teeth.

  The knife twisted in Rose’s side. ‘How old?’ she man
aged to gulp.

  ‘Thirteen months. Her name’s Hannah.’

  The child gurgled contentedly, and as she studied her wide, chestnut eyes, Rose could see in them amber flecks the same colour as her mother’s. The minuscule face was framed with a cap of coppery curls, and all at once Rose’s chin quivered and she felt two fat tears stroll down her cheeks.

  ‘Mrs Chadwick?’

  Elizabeth’s brow was pleated as she put out a hand, her head tipped in questioning as she sensed the stranger’s despair, and Rose felt herself tumbling into the chasm of her pain again.

  ‘I . . . buried my own daughter yesterday,’ she croaked. ‘She was . . . just eight weeks old . . .’

  It was too much, this profound sensitivity and compassion of Elizabeth Pencarrow’s, and Rose sank willingly into it, setting free the terrible, savage agony that was her grief. She shook with the tears that engulfed her, choking her, blinding her, as she was comforted not only by the arms of Peter Tavy’s wise-woman, but also by her French stepdaughter. It was a moment of release, of cruel torment that was necessary to start the healing process, and when it began to subside, Rose felt freer, at ease, perhaps more so than at any time since her father’s death. Elizabeth made her drink something that tasted quite disgusting before she was allowed to sip at her tea, but in this quiet and lonely farmhouse, amongst these total strangers, Rose began to feel some peace. She found herself relating the entire story of how she had come to marry Charles and how her own life had deteriorated since then.

  Elizabeth was a good listener and brought her hands together in front of her lips as if in prayer. ‘Our first child was stillborn,’ she murmured in a torn whisper. ‘So I know how you feel. But now we have Hannah. So there is always hope.’

  Rose lifted her head, wiping her tears on the back of her hand. Elizabeth seemed so calm, so complete, and Rose could scarcely absorb what she had just said. ‘But . . . Oh, I’m so sorry. But I don’t think I want any more children. Not with Charles, anyway.’