by Tania Crosse
‘How . . . how did you find him?’ she spluttered at last through the tears of pure joy that strolled down her cheeks.
‘It was Richard, not me,’ Seth told her, smiling down at her utter jubilation. ‘The telegram was from him. He’s not a gambling man. Can’t afford to be and he’s passionately against it because of his father. But he’d heard through the grapevine of a new phenomenon in the racing world based over at Exeter racecourse. A black thoroughbred cross suddenly appeared on the scene and was taking the racing world by storm. Had a reputation for its temper, though, and Richard just wondered if it couldn’t possibly be Gospel. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I couldn’t break your heart by getting your hopes up and then have it turn out to be a wild goose chase. And that’s why I needed the money. Successful racehorses don’t come cheap, but I did manage to knock the price down a little and I have some change for you.’
Rose gazed up at him, at the light in his smiling, shining eyes. How could she ever have doubted him? The world dropped away as her soul filled with her love, her need, of this good, kind, sensitive man.
‘How can I ever thank you, Seth?’
The elation slid from his radiant face and his muscles moved into a sombre expression that dampened her euphoria.
‘You can do one thing for me,’ he said seriously, and her heart bounced in her chest. ‘But it’s an awful lot to ask, and I will understand if you won’t . . . Marry me, Rose, and make me the happiest man alive.’
‘What?’
He lowered his eyes, his face crestfallen. ‘Please. Think about it, Rose. Not yet, of course. You’ve been widowed barely three months. I know I have absolutely nothing to offer you. And when people find out who I am, which they’d be bound to in time, they’d say I was after your money—’
‘But we’ll know differently.’
It was Seth’s turn to be stunned as her words sunk into his brain. He slowly raised his eyes, his brow puckered. ‘Is that . . . is that a yes?’
‘Yes.’ She shook her head, gave a grunt of surprise and delight. ‘Yes, I suppose it is!’
Her breath fluttered in her throat, and nothing else in the world seemed to matter as the anguish of all that had happened faded away and she stood, wrapped in Seth’s arms. Her heart soared. For, at long last, she had found the man with whom she wanted to spend the rest of her life . . .
Dr Raymond Power slowly signed the letter, then leant back in the chair with a wistful sigh. He would hand it to the governor in the morning. The position of prison surgeon had provided him with a decent wage and reasonable accommodation for his dear wife and family, allowing him also to attend the more impecunious inhabitants of the area at nominal fees. But it was time to move on, and now he had secured a partnership with an elderly physician in a fashionable quarter of Bristol, and with luck, he would acquire the entire practice in time.
His wife had hated Princetown. The dismal settlement cut off from the rest of humanity, the lack of acceptable society, the appalling climate – snowdrifts and lacerating winds in winter, damp, driving rain and swirling mists even in summer, and no protection from the sun on the rare occasions that it did shine. But it wasn’t because of his wife that he was leaving.
He was a man of medicine. Of healing. And he simply could not reconcile his vocation with the position he held. In the early days, Dartmoor had been used purely as a sanatorium for consumptive and other infirm convicts, sent there for the fresh air and the benefit of their health. Ironic. For soon the gaol had also become the dumping ground for the most notorious criminals in the land, to be punished by sleeping in cold, damp cells, existing on a starvation diet with a decidedly dubious water supply, and expected to work like slaves. And when they caught pneumonia digging drainage ditches on the open moor in impossible conditions, had a limb blown off or were blinded by explosives in the quarry, or fell from the high prison blocks they were building, he, Raymond Power, was the one who had to patch them up in whatever way he could so that they could return to some other gruelling task. And then there had been the outbreak of fever when all his efforts had not prevented so many from dying. Not that anyone cared particularly, as the regime was such that there were few warders like Jacob Cartwright who felt able to exercise a little compassion.
But the worst part of being prison surgeon was having to pronounce a man fit for punishment, to be subjected to the inhuman procedure of being birched or flogged. He had reached the stage where he could stand it no longer, but the turning point had been the begging, passionate letter from the young woman he had admired so deeply and who had implored him to help the recaptured escapee. Poor beggar had turned out to be totally innocent and now, it seemed, he was to marry his saviour. Well, good luck to them both. They deserved some happiness after what they’d both been through.
Raymond had never liked that husband of hers. He didn’t like him being wed to the vivacious young girl who had captured his own heart so many years previously. He had reared away from his feelings, shot through with guilt, but it was a secret he had thankfully managed to keep safely locked away. He was already married with a family that he loved dearly; was old enough to be her father, and yet . . . he couldn’t help dreaming. She wasn’t just beautiful. She was captivating. With a generosity of heart, a fervent compassion, a wild, free spirit. He would miss her terribly, a slender, ethereal figure charging over the moor on that enormous, elegant horse of hers that seemed to have reappeared, as reckless and headstrong as she was. But it was better that way, though he would never forget her. Rose Maddiford from the Cherrybrook Gunpowder Mills. Rose from Cherrybrook.
Cherrybrook Rose.
Author’s Note
All details regarding conditions at Dartmoor Prison at the time of this novel are believed to be correct, but this is a fictional story and should not be considered a statement of fact. George Frean was the real-life proprietor of the gunpowder mills and he is portrayed as the kindly gentleman he is believed to have been.
The ruins of the gunpowder mills stand on private land and can only be viewed from the public footpath. Anyone who trespasses does so entirely at their own risk.