A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  Richard leaned closer and lowered his voice, as if what he had to say was too shocking to speak in a normal tone. “I don’t mean to imply that those born into poverty are naturally degenerate. The prosperous, too, when threatened with penury are capable of the worst sort of behavior. Once . . . ”

  Richard shook his head sadly, remembering. “Once I had to treat a young girl—barely thirteen, mind you—whose father had sold her virginity to pay his gambling debts.”

  “Dear God.” Jonathan looked away. A sour taste settled on his tongue, turning him against his wine.

  A virgin himself, he had often fantasized about sexual intimacy. But dear God, he could not imagine why any man would desire such with a mere child—much less force himself on one. His ignorance must be far greater than he’d realized, isolated as he was by both his wealth and his physical deformities.

  “What sort of future could that girl expect, after her own father allowed her to be ruined?”

  Jonathan shrugged, knowing Richard’s question was a rhetorical one, and at a loss for words besides. The subject discomfited him in ways he had little inclination to examine closely.

  Richard must have caught his mood, because he abruptly changed the direction of the conversation. “Enough of sad stories. Let’s talk of something that will rile us to the sort of anger we can enjoy.” Richard grinned. “Politics, for instance.”

  And so the next several hours were spent in wide ranging conversation, which settled into a good humored give and take of ideas that was always the highlight of the evening for Jonathan. It was close to midnight when Richard moved to take his leave.

  “Before I go, let me see that hand,” he said, suddenly asserting the authority of age and profession.

  Jonathan knew from experience there was no use resisting. Richard never allowed him to win an argument where his health was concerned. Reluctantly, he extended his arm. “It’s not so bad, really.”

  They both knew he lied. Richard reached for Jonathan’s hand and cradled it gently in his, shaking his head as he prodded the joints and gingerly tested the degree of extension remaining in the fingers. It was obvious Richard didn’t like what he saw.

  “You cannot continue to write with this hand. Keeping it cramped in the same position for hours at a time will eventually freeze your joints.” Richard lowered Jonathan’s hand, then sighed heavily. “Otherwise, I fear you will lose the use of the hand altogether.”

  “But my experiments. How will I keep a record of my results?” Jonathan fought the impulse to beg, as though Richard were God himself, who might be persuaded to bestow a miracle. He despised the whining tone in his voice even as he added his final, pitiful plea. “It’s all I have left.”

  Richard stared at him, his expression thoughtful, until Jonathan had to struggle not to avert his eyes. Regardless of Richard’s dire warning, he refused to cede the point. His scientific studies were all he had left. He couldn’t abandon them.

  “Why don’t you hire a secretary?”

  “A secretary?” The question had caught him off guard. When Richard continued to hold his gaze expectantly, Jonathan realized with growing horror that the man was serious. He laughed scornfully, though the sound that rose from his throat more resembled the surprised bark of a wild animal at the sudden bite of a steel trap. “You know I don’t like strangers here.”

  “I know,” Richard said in a soothing tone that merely heightened Jonathan’s anxiety.

  “People I neither know nor trust.” His voice cracked, but he forged ahead with his objections, his breath coming in short, rasping bursts between words. “Outsiders prying into matters that are none of their affair.” He paused, wheezing, until he could deliver his final protest. “Is that the best you can do?”

  “It’s the best you can do,” Richard said gently, trying to take the sting out of his words.

  “You have no idea what you’re asking of me.”

  “I’m asking you to save the use of your hand.” Richard threw his arm around Jonathan’s shoulders and gave him a fatherly hug. “Just consider it. Get used to the idea.”

  Jonathan’s heartbeat slowed as the wave of anxiety receded. He nodded, accepting the concerned affection behind Richard’s words even as, inwardly, he rejected the advice. Given time, Richard would surely come to see the utter preposterousness of his suggestion.

  “Very well, I’ll consider it. But allowing another person into my home is not an idea to which I can ever become accustomed.” Disliking himself for his display of bitterness, Jonathan added, “Any more than I can become accustomed to this burnt out shell of a body.”

  * * *

  “Evenin’, Dr. Garrick, sir.”

  Roger, the groom, caretaker, carpenter, and whatever else Jonathan needed him to be, was already waiting beside the carriage when Garrick let himself out. A strapping, handsome young fellow with dark, wavy hair and blue eyes that were always lit with good natured optimism, Roger had quickly blended in with the small staff, and had just as quickly made himself indispensable.

  As Roger held the door and saw him into the carriage, Garrick had a twinge of conscience for making the man drive out at such a late hour. It would be well past two before he got back to Nashe House. But then he remembered Jonathan paid well enough that his staff were only too happy to do whatever he asked, at any time of the night or day.

  Garrick settled back against the deeply cushioned seat as they drove off. A hired hack or his own horse was his usual mode of transportation in town. He had to admit, he enjoyed the indulgence of the weekly ride in Jonathan’s luxurious carriage. It gave him time to think things over. And he always had a great deal to think about whenever he left Nashe House. Tonight more than usual.

  They had gone about a mile before Roger stopped to unlock the enormous wrought iron gate that barred the entrance to the estate. The thick stone wall that enclosed the grounds, as formidable as that of any fortress, had been added after Simonne’s death.

  Jonathan had been inconsolable at the time. He neglected the upkeep of the grounds until the lawn and gardens ran wild. Added to the spectacular pile of rubble that had once been the western wing of the mansion, it was enough to draw curiosity seekers from miles around. Worse yet were the young rowdies who dared one another to prove their manhood by spending a night at the so called haunted house. After several unnerving incidents, Jonathan finally roused himself from his grief stricken torpor long enough to commission the erection of a wall. The result was a barrier capable of deterring even the most determined thrill seekers.

  When Roger climbed back onto the driver’s seat and they had set off in earnest on the long stretch of road into town, Garrick allowed the rhythm of the swaying carriage to lull him. But try as he might, he couldn’t fall asleep. His mind kept going round in circles, over and over the same problem—Jonathan was about to lose the use of his hand. The blazing bedpost that had crushed it also left such deep burns that it had been impossible to set the bones properly. Now, though still a young man, he was plagued with arthritis, and the advancing stiffness and pain that accompanied it.

  Jonathan must do nothing further to strain his joints. His stubborn perseverance was to be admired, but in this case, it would do him more harm than good. Scribing his notes, he labored over a single page for an hour or more to achieve what would have taken a fully abled man five minutes to accomplish. He needed a secretary, that was all there was to it.

  Garrick thought he could clear the first hurdle, which was to convince Jonathan of the efficacy of the idea. Mulling over the problem, he cast about in his mind for a means of finding someone suitable for the post.

  It began to dawn on him that this was easier said than done. Certainly, Jonathan’s habit of providing generous remuneration to his staff would draw eager applicants. But few people could tolerate the prolonged isolation that came with living at Nashe House, surrounded by two thousand acres of uninhabited countryside. Even fewer would tolerate their employer’s eccentricities.

 
It would be disastrous to overcome Jonathan’s reluctance, only to have the new hire leave within a few weeks. Or even a few days. He would never be able to convince the boy to try again.

  To be safe, he would have to require the commitment of a year long contract at the very least. That meant finding someone desperate enough to be grateful for the job. A desperate man would be far more likely to adapt to Jonathan’s ways.

  What made the task even more difficult was the fact he couldn’t advertise the position. The Nashe name meant money—thanks to Cornelius, might he rot in hell. Anytime people got a whiff of that name, the greedy and unscrupulous came out in droves, as they had for the California gold rush. He would have to be careful to make discreet inquiries, not let the Nashe name get bandied about. If someone both willing and suitable could be found, then—and only then—would he reveal the prospective employer’s name.

  Having outlined the steps he needed to take, Garrick felt his mind more at ease. He looked out the carriage window, into the inky darkness of a moonless night, and let his thoughts drift. After his weekly visit with Jonathan, they invariably drifted in one direction—Simonne. The boy had always borne a strong resemblance to her. Even now, with the facial likeness expunged, he could see her gestures in him—a graceful turn of the hand, the subtle half shake of the head to the right and back again when her interest was piqued by a remark, the way she rested her fingertips against her temple when she became absorbed in conversation.

  Simonne. His eyes misted over at the memory of her. Cornelius, the bastard, never appreciated her qualities. He had brought her back from France the same way he acquired the fine antiques that furnished his palatial home. A beautiful, sophisticated aristocrat whose family name added luster to the Nashe riches. An acquisition to add to his prestige.

  She never fit in here. The women were jealous of her beauty, the men too crude to appreciate her inner qualities. And though no one was reckless enough to turn down a party invitation from Mrs. Cornelius Nashe, she soon tired of the vapidity of society life.

  Then she bore a son, and the child became the center of her world. But as the boy grew, Cornelius blamed her—and later, he blamed his son even more—for producing a child who was nothing like him, neither in looks nor temperament. He was his mother’s son, so much so it was enough to make a person believe in the virgin birth. Of course, given the circumstances, they were all extremely fortunate that was the case.

  Jonathan spoke French from the cradle, and he and his mother conversed exclusively in her native language. They were a shield to one another, a buffer against Cornelius’s angry, blustering bullying. Whatever verbal abuse he hurled at them, they were able to smile and later say much worse to his face. And as even insults sound beautiful when spoken in that elegant language, Cornelius was none the wiser.

  The carriage hit a pothole and jarred Garrick awake. He had finally slept, carried away by his memories. He had dreamed as well, but as dreams often do, its substance evaporated as soon as he opened his eyes. All that was left was a feeling, a clear, unshakable impression that Simonne had spoken to him. But he could no more recall her words at this moment than he could converse with her corporeal form.

  Damn. Garrick whispered a frustrated curse. Then, à propos of nothing, the idea came to him. A patient of his had that very day told him of a business acquaintance fallen into penury due to his twin vices of drink and gambling. He had two daughters whose prospects he had ruined along with his own. The elder daughter was of age and would surely be grateful for the opportunity of respectable employment. Garrick smiled to himself, liking the thought of solving two problems with one bold answer.

  Roger pulled to in front of Garrick’s townhouse, leaping down from his seat to open the carriage door and help him out. Garrick nodded his thanks and bade him God speed, then let himself through the ornamental gate and up the walk to his door. As he fitted his key into the lock, he decided to set his idea in motion the very next day. He would contact his patient, find out where the reprobate father lived, and pay the family a visit.

  As his Scottish granddad used to say, While the iron is hot, ye durst strike.

  Chapter Three

  Garrick turned the corner, entering a street that twenty years ago might have been considered part of a respectable, even fashionable, neighborhood. Now it was neither, as the well to do residents had long ago fled from the unsightly encroachment of commerce.

  Garrick pulled the card from his coat pocket and checked the number he’d been given. When he looked up again to search the row of townhouse doors, a sudden gust of wind surprised him. A clump of debris had gathered into a swirling dervish and was headed straight toward him. Garrick threw his arm in front of his face and danced aside, successfully avoiding the filth, yet still managing to catch a cinder in his eye.

  He stood there, blinking away his tears, while farther down the street two cats yowled, accompanied by the sound of an open gate clanking against its metal latch, a monotonous, unmelodic note played by the restless wind.

  It was an inauspicious beginning to his undertaking, to say the least.

  Garrick continued on, wondering what sort of welcome he would receive when he reached his destination. He had written earlier and would be expected, though he had no idea how the family might respond to an offer of employment that stated neither the name of the employer nor the location.

  The door he arrived at sorely needed a fresh coat of paint. The steps, however, had been swept clean, evidence that poverty had not defeated industry. Garrick took a deep breath, grasped the knocker, and gave three sharp raps.

  The door opened almost immediately. Garrick started to speak, stopping himself just in time from asking the young woman standing there to fetch her mistress. The dress she wore was so plain that he at first assumed her to be the maid. But of course, the reprobate could not afford servants.

  Garrick bowed and produced his calling card. “Dr. Richard Garrick.”

  She took the card, looking at it rather than him. Garrick noticed that her hand was trembling as she read. Quickly, almost furtively, he thought, she pocketed the card in the folds of her skirt, then stepped aside, head bowed, murmuring for him to enter. He removed his hat and gloves and placed them on the hall table while she closed the door behind him.

  When she turned back toward him, she held out her hand. “Isabelle Tate.”

  Her demeanor had completely changed. The contrast was startling, rendered all the more remarkable by the steely determination writ in every line of her expression. Her head held high, she looked at him with a gaze so direct and piercing, his heartbeat quickened. Garrick took her hand, and though it felt small and delicate in his, her grasp was firm for a woman’s.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Miss Tate.”

  She gestured toward the parlor. “Please, come in. My father and sister are waiting to meet you.”

  “Father,” she began as she entered the room.

  “Alfred Tate.” The man cut his daughter off as he sprang from his seat and crossed the room to greet Garrick with outstretched arm. “Come in, sir.”

  Garrick employed his professional smile, reassuring yet not too familiar, as the man pumped his hand. The tang of wintergreen on Tate’s breath failed to cover the stronger smell of whiskey. Garrick noted the mass of broken capillaries around his nose. Despite the low light in the room, he could see the yellowish cast to the man’s cornea, a sure sign of jaundice and a failing liver.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Tate.”

  “But I’m forgetting myself!” He spoke a little too loudly, his gesture a shade too flamboyant, as he motioned toward the young woman on the sofa. “My beautiful daughter, Jennifer.”

  Garrick thought it odd the way Tate emphasized the word beautiful, as though the older daughter were something else altogether. Whether intentional or not, it had been a subtle insult.

  “Oh, Papa.” The young girl offered her hand, shyly turning her head aside with downcast eyes.

  Because
he knew it would please her, Garrick took her fingers and touched a light kiss to the back of her hand. With his professional eye, he judged her age at sixteen, perhaps seventeen. Somewhat less professionally, he observed the mass of golden ringlets that framed her charmingly innocent blush. When she glanced up at him and he saw her eyes for the first time, his heartbeat quickened, though not from the impulse engendered by her sister’s regard. He had never seen such vividly blue irises.

  “My pleasure,” Garrick said quietly, meeting her gaze. He tried to think of something less formal to say, but his eloquence had fled.

  “Do have a seat,” Tate said.

  The invitation brought Garrick to himself. He waited while Isabelle moved silently across the room to sit next to her sister, then stiffly seated himself on the edge of the offered chair. The others stared at him expectantly.

  “I hope you have had time to consider my letter,” he began. “If you have any questions, I am here to answer them.”

  Tate leaned forward eagerly. “This gentleman seeking a secretary, just who is he?” He looked at Isabelle for the first time since she’d entered the room and bestowed her with a syrupy smile. “I have my daughter’s safety and reputation to protect.”

  The man’s concern was so blatantly false, Garrick had to swallow hard to force down the knot of disgust that formed in his throat. “I’m not at liberty to say until we have established a contract.”

  “A contract?” Tate asked, as though he’d never heard of the idea before.

  “Yes.” Garrick nodded. It was little wonder the man lost money at cards. He had never seen anyone do such a poor job at bluffing his hand. “My client requires a year’s commitment. If your daughter is prepared to sign a contract to that effect, I will be glad to furnish you with references. If you find them insufficient to convince you of the legitimacy of this offer, you may void the contract.”