A Bouquet of Thorns

by Tania Crosse

  ‘This little fellow’s charming,’ Charles encouraged her. Oh, Rose would look glorious trotting about on its pretty back, an absolute picture, refined and perfect.

  ‘Yes. He’d have been perfect for Alice,’ she answered almost scathingly. ‘But I need something . . .’ She turned, her eyes swivelling avidly about the equine display. ‘Oh! Oh, look, Charles! Just being led in. Oh, we must look at that one. The palomino over there.’

  ‘But . . . it’s enormous.’

  ‘Like Gospel was, you mean?’ she snapped acidly.

  ‘Oh, Rose, I—’

  But whatever it was he said, Rose didn’t hear. She was already away and introducing herself to the horse before the vendor had tethered it.

  ‘Are you a dealer?’ she asked imperiously.

  ‘Er, no, miss,’ the surprised fellow stammered. ‘I’m selling her for my master. Decided he don’t need two horses, like.’

  ‘Right. And you haven’t recently come across a black gelding of similar size, by any chance? A thoroughbred cross type, but, well, a bit of a handful? About eight or nine years old?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, miss.’

  ‘Oh, well, tell me about this beauty, then.’ She smiled sweetly as Charles caught her up.

  ‘Fine animal, miss – er, ma’am,’ he corrected himself as he looked at the man who must be her husband. ‘A good hunter, fast, excellent jumper. But she won’t run away with you or ort like that. Lovely temperament. I has to say that I’ll miss her. Wish the master were selling the other one.’

  ‘So why is he selling this one?’ Charles demanded.

  ‘Well, not to put too fine a point on it, the master’s a heavy man and, well, just look at this girl. Fine legs, strong. Master’s reluctant to sell her, but he wouldn’t want to spoil her with his weight. You’d be all right on her, sir.’

  ‘It’s for my wife, here, not me.’

  ‘Well, might I say she’d be a perfect mount for the young lady. Fastest in the field with such a featherweight on her back, and never been known to throw anyone in her life.’

  Rose was already studying the animal in detail. Good clear eyes and ears, a soft mouth, which she didn’t mind Rose opening to inspect her teeth and judge her age. Rose ran her hand over the strong withers, along the backbone, and down each leg, which the mare was happy to lift in turn for Rose to check her feet. Her shining coat was at the pale-wheat end of the palomino’s golden colour spectrum, her mane and tail ivory rather than a pure white. She turned her head and nuzzled Rose’s shoulder, and Rose’s heart was lost.

  ‘What is she, sixteen hands?’

  ‘Sixteen one or two, I reckon.’

  Rose nodded. Very nearly the same as Gospel and of a similar age, healthy and clearly well cared for. ‘What do you think, Charles?’

  Charles dropped his head to one side. He had hoped to find something of a more sedate nature, but this was certainly a beautiful, elegant creature, quite suitable for the Chadwick’s elevated position in society. Though the animal’s size and fine lines reminded him of Gospel, it appeared to be of a far steadier disposition. And Rose seemed to have fallen in love with it. If he allowed her to have it, she might think better of him.

  ‘Could I try her, please?’ she asked the groom before Charles had time to answer.

  ‘Oh, I doesn’t have a saddle . . .’

  ‘I don’t need one. Would you give me a leg-up, please?’

  The poor fellow’s face lengthened in astonishment and he glanced at the woman’s husband for assurance. Charles blinked and then dipped his head in agreement. It would be a good test, and if Rose came off, he would put his foot down and make her go back to the piebald. So the man cupped his hands to take Rose’s foot, amazed to catch a glimpse of breeches beneath the riding skirt as the girl swung herself on to the horse’s back. In all his life, he’d never seen a member of the fairer sex ride astride, let alone bareback!

  ‘I’ll be ten minutes, quarter of an hour, if that’s all right. Oh, take this.’ To Charles’s horror, she pulled off her engagement ring and flicked it at the man who was becoming more flabbergasted with every second. ‘Surety that I’ll bring her back!’

  And with a delighted chuckle, she was directing the steed through the crowded streets. The mare didn’t turn a hair at the unfamiliar sounds, the calls and shouts, and responded immediately to the lightest touch on the reins. Rose would take her out to Rundlestone and give the animal her head up the long, steep climb past the humble farmsteads towards Great Mis Tor. The ground would stretch her speed and stamina, and if she came through unwinded, she would be the one.

  The road to Rundlestone led out past the gaol. There was no festive day for the prisoners, no welcome rest from the gruelling toil. She brought the horse to a stop and it stood, perfectly still. Another test. And then Rose directed her to take a few paces backwards. She obeyed perfectly. Rose urged her on again, but not before she had spent some moments looking up at the building works within the prison walls. Convicts swarmed over the second of the cell blocks that was being raised to the forbidding five storeys. Seth, she knew, would be somewhere among them. Oh, for God’s sake, take care, she whispered fervently in her head. I’m doing what I can.

  And she brushed the tear from her cheek before they trotted on.

  ‘I’m taking Honey into Tavistock,’ Rose announced, not cringing at the outright lie since she had received word via Molly that Adam Bradley was at Rosebank Hall with some news for her.

  ‘Do you think that’s wise? You’ve only had her two weeks.’

  ‘Oh, Charles, you and I have been out over the moor together on some long treks, and she’s been absolutely perfect.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Charles conceded with a grimace. He had enjoyed their rides out together so that Rose could get used to Honey. Not that the animal had needed getting used to. The two mares had looked superb together; Tansy’s bright chestnut coat contrasting wonderfully with Honey’s creamy beauty, and Rose had been overjoyed. Was her heart, broken by the loss of her daughter – and, Charles reflected with a hint of guilt, of Gospel – beginning to mend? She seemed to have regained a purpose in life – though had Charles known what for, he wouldn’t have been so pleased!

  ‘All right, then. But be careful. And keep to the roads in case you get into trouble. And mind her. She’s a valuable animal.’

  And Gospel wasn’t? she thought bitterly. But the acrimony didn’t taint her spirit for long. It was a month since she had met the captain at Richard and Elizabeth’s house. It had seemed an eternity, but in the scheme of things, it was little time at all. What was the news? Would the good, upright man have to let her down gently, break the news to her with ultimate compassion that there was nothing he could do after all? She tried not to think about it, not to get her hopes up, but it was impossible, and she felt herself trembling as Honey cantered steadily along the track to the farm.

  They slowed to a walk to enter the yard. It was a pleasant morning for late September and the two younger Bradley children and baby Hannah were outside playing with some farm kittens. Just at that moment, Chantal Pencarrow and Toby Bradley, manfully carrying a bucket of milk, emerged from a barn and greeted Rose cheerily.

  ‘What a beautiful ’orse!’ the attractive girl gasped in her lilting accent. ‘Is it yours, madame?’

  ‘Yes! Her name’s Honey. I’m delighted with her. And do call me Rose.’

  ‘All right. Can I put ’er in the stable for you?’

  ‘Oh, yes, please. I can’t wait to speak to the captain.’

  ‘Father’s in the kitchen,’ Toby told her, and then he added a little shyly, ‘Chantal and I have just been milking the cows.’

  Rose followed the athletic young boy inside. The calm, serene atmosphere of the house once again struck her immediately, the fragrant aroma of dried herbs subtle in the air. Elizabeth was sitting at the table enjoying a cup of tea with Adam and Rebecca, and all three politely got to their feet to greet her.

  ‘I nearly went ou
t on the moor with Richard today,’ the captain told her. ‘I’m glad I didn’t now.’

  ‘You came just at the right time!’ Elizabeth beamed, getting another cup.

  Rose perched on the edge of one of the chairs as if it were red hot, aware of the nervous sweat that was trickling down her back, and she saw Adam smile knowingly.

  ‘Let’s not beat about the bush. You want to hear my progress report.’

  ‘And I’m sorry to say that Richard hasn’t had any luck with his enquiries about your horse. He’s asked all over the place, but no luck so far, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And I haven’t a great deal to report, but at least I’ve gathered some support.’

  Rose’s heart sagged. She had hoped for more than that, but she mustn’t let her courage flag. ‘Go on,’ she urged, nodding her thanks as Elizabeth passed her a cup of hot, steaming tea and pushed a plate of freshly baked, mouth-watering biscuits towards her.

  Adam Bradley gave her his warm, kind smile. ‘Well, I’ve spoken to my lawyer in London. He has no experience of such things himself, but he does have connections, friends in high places as they say. Including a barrister who’s an expert in criminal proceedings and a circuit judge who was really shocked when he learnt all the facts. He reckoned that in his summing up, the judge at your Seth’s trial should have tried to sway the jury away from a conviction. It’s a difficult situation, one judge criticizing another, but the important thing is that this other judge is willing to take up Seth’s cause if we can produce sufficient evidence.’ Adam paused, tapping his fingertips together. ‘The other thing is that I have also managed to enlist the support of our local Member of Parliament. And I’ve hired a private investigator to track down the witnesses in the case.’

  Rose breathed in deeply, puffing out her cheeks. Every nerve in her body had been on edge, expecting the worse. At least there was still some hope, but she felt deflated, her emotions tangled in a devastating web. ‘Thank you so much, Captain Bradley.’

  ‘Adam, please. I’m sorry I have no more to tell you at present, but I did warn you that such things take time.’

  A dejected silence settled around the table, but only seconds later, the remaining children all tumbled through the door in happy array.

  ‘You will stay for lunch, won’t you?’ Elizabeth invited her with a broad smile.

  ‘Yes, thank you, I’d love to.’

  ‘And Rose is very lucky. She ’as a beautiful new ’orse. She’s lovely, and Papa will be very jealous because ’e likes ’orses very much!’

  Yes, Rose thought, and her mouth curved wistfully. Honey was a dear, a salve to her aching heart. But she wasn’t Gospel . . .

  Fifteen

  ‘I’m taking these to Alice,’ Rose told Charles, glancing down at the last dahlias she had picked from the well-manured flower beds in the garden. They were a strong pink, each petal tipped with white, and she was sure Alice would have loved them when she grew older. When winter came, Rose was sure she could find some variegated evergreen to take to the grave, or a tiny sprig of heather hiding somewhere on the moor. She had already taken some interestingly marked stones, the sort of thing she would have taught Alice to appreciate. Had she been alive . . .

  ‘Do you want to come with me?’ she asked, pushing the thought painfully aside.

  ‘Er, no. I’m rather busy at the moment. Actually, Rose, I think I shall need to go to London for a couple of weeks, and I was wondering . . . it might do you some good to come with me. Have a change of scene.’ And stop her from going to the churchyard so regularly. He was sure it was only keeping her bereavement alive.

  He was both pleased and amazed when she answered at once. ‘Yes, that would be nice.’

  Little did he know that she merely considered a trip to London might help pass the time before Captain Bradley had some more news for her. It was only the faith she had placed in Adam that enabled her to survive the numbing grief over Alice that bound her in its evil clutches. Although she attended the little grave at least twice a week, Charles never accompanied her. Sometimes Florrie would go with her in the new single Brougham that Charles had finally acquired, with its cosy, plush interior to shield them from the Dartmoor weather, Ned sitting aloft in the driving seat, clad in some fancy attire that Rose thought quite pretentious. But on most occasions, as today, she went alone, riding Honey whatever the weather.

  She left the beautiful mare tethered to the iron gates where she could still see her while she tended both her father’s and her tiny daughter’s adjacent graves. She arranged the flowers and then knelt in the grass, her head bowed over her tightly clasped hands. Oh, if only they were both still alive, the burden of her marriage to Charles would have been so much more bearable. How could God be so unkind as to take them both from her? She felt the savage pain in her heart, allowing the sorrow to wash over her in the quiet of the churchyard, nothing but the wind moaning in her ears. No one to witness her stultifying sadness. And the tears trickled down her cheeks.

  But she couldn’t cry for ever, and the tears had eased her misery, at least for a while. She may have lost Gospel, but now she had Honey, who was so sweet and gentle-natured. She had Amber and Scraggles and the one puppy they had kept, Lucky, the runt that Seth had revived after its birth. Oh, Seth, I haven’t forgotten you. She looked across at the prison, so daunting, so inhuman. She gritted her teeth, swung herself into the saddle, and set Honey for home.

  The journey to London seemed to take an eternity, Charles studying business papers most of the way. They travelled first class, of course, and ate in the restaurant car. Back in their compartment, Rose returned to the book she was reading, but she couldn’t concentrate and spent most of the time gazing out of the window as the countryside flew past. At last they arrived in the capital, the silhouettes of the buildings standing like solid giants against the darkening skyline. Paddington was bustling with passengers, luggage piled high on trolleys, engines hissing out steam, the slamming of carriage doors. Charles engaged the services of a porter and hurried Rose into a cab, and soon they were bowling through the dark, wet streets of London to his immaculate terraced house in a smart, fashionable square.

  It was quite pleasant to be back, and the servants greeted her respectfully but with some affection. Would she like a bath run for her after the long journey? Oh, yes, that would be wonderful, not only because she felt tired and dirty, but because she secretly loved to see hot water gushing out of the taps, which was a novelty for her.

  Her delight, though, was the private park in the middle of the square to which only residents were entitled to hold a key. Rose would spend hours there, a heavenly oasis in the buzzing metropolis. And she didn’t always find herself alone. She met other residents, mainly bored wives and daughters who found this polite young woman with her country accent quite refreshing, even though she chose to ignore certain procedures of etiquette such as exchanging visiting cards, but invited them in for tea then and there! Charles certainly approved of these associations, which kept her occupied while he was visiting his bank or his broker, or attending board meetings at one of the many companies in which he had substantial investments. He might have had a fit, however, if he had known that Rose would converse with anyone who happened to be in the square, male or female, and that as word spread, more gentlemen residents than ever before were finding an excuse to visit the garden in the hope of meeting his beautiful and charming wife!

  But when she was alone there, Rose would sigh as she sat back on the bench, remembering the period when she had stayed in London before, exactly a year ago. She had known then that her marriage to Charles had been a mistake, but it had provided a comfortable home for her crippled father, which was more important to her than anything. And then she had received the telegram from Florrie and she had rushed home to Dartmoor. Her dearest, beloved father had died a few days later.

  Oh, how cruel fate could be! Soon after, she had discovered she was pregnant and had then given birth to the child she had hoped would reuni
te herself and Charles. But then she had lost Alice, Charles had sold Gospel, and the only man who had brought her solace was festering in Dartmoor’s cold and brutal prison for a crime he had not committed. Rose would close her eyes, trying to blank it all from her mind. She would listen to the pretty birdsong of the thrush and the blackbird, but would hear in her head the bark of the raven or the wild cry of the buzzard from high on the moor.

  Sometimes she would take bread with her and crumble it into tiny morsels to attract a flock of cheeky sparrows to her feet, and one particular fellow would eat out of her hand. She surprised the elderly gardener by chatting to him as he burned the fallen autumn leaves on a smouldering fire. And sometimes a bittersweet spear of regret would stab somewhere about her heart when a neighbour’s nanny would push a perambulator into the little park and sit down to converse with her.

  Another child. A son. It was what Charles wanted. She hadn’t fallen again yet – not that it was for want of trying, she thought grimly to herself. If Charles needed to be out of the house on an early business errand of some sort, she was spared the morning ritual, but it seemed that almost every night he could not sleep until he had satisfied himself. Even when they returned dog-tired from a dinner party or an evening at the theatre, which Rose had to admit she really enjoyed, Charles ruined her elation with his carnal demands. She felt used, like a discarded sack. She felt no other emotion but disgust and resentment as she lay in the darkness while Charles grunted and groaned on top of her. Even if he had shown her some affection, it would be too late now. He had betrayed her, and there was no going back. She could never love him. And she did not know how she could face the rest of her life with him.

  One afternoon, however, they were due to attend the opening of a small art gallery for a young painter Charles had met some time ago in a West End coffee house, and whose talent Charles considered deserved a chance. Charles had agreed to pay him a grant for two years to see if he could become established, in addition to which Charles was now to finance the premises and its grand opening. It looked well for Charles, of course, and Rose at least felt pleased that her husband was patronizing the arts and offering the young man a unique opportunity. The artist depicted a whole range of diverse subjects, she had been told, and she couldn’t wait to see them.