A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  Garrick paused to give Tate time to consider his words, looking around the shabby room until his eyes came to rest on the two sisters. Young Jennifer blushed again and stirred nervously in her seat. Her movement dislodged a cushion that had been covering a hole in the sofa.

  Isabelle Tate glanced in horror at the protruding tuft of horsehair and made a discreet movement to shift the pillow back into place. When she looked up and saw Garrick watching her, she colored. Garrick let his gaze drift casually, trying to spare her further embarrassment, but not before he’d seen her finger the frayed cuff of her dress in what must have been an unconscious habit.

  Tate coughed against the back of his hand. “You haven’t mentioned the salary.”

  “Haven’t I?” Garrick said in a distracted manner. He was thinking how the younger sister was like a bright jewel made unremarkable by the ugliness of her setting. And the older sister . . . the perpetual strain that overlay her features veiled them with a dull film, like lightly tarnished silver. Tarnished. Poor girl, that was just the word.

  When Tate coughed again, Garrick realized he’d allowed his thoughts to wander. He returned his attention to the reprobate sitting across from him, feeling not a shred of regret for the lapse. He hoped, in fact, that it had caused the man some discomfort. Looking at Tate’s sallow skin, he was reminded of a fat, squirming grub. The sort he’d like to squash underfoot.

  “The salary.” Garrick considered the pitiful excuse of a man before him and wondered if either girl would see a penny of Isabelle’s earnings. They might already be gambled away. Despite his distaste, he reminded himself that money was no object to Jonathan, especially if it could buy him another pair of hands.

  Garrick took a deep breath, certain of Tate’s consent before he said the words. “Because of the long commitment, and the fact that the place of employment is in a rather isolated spot . . . ” He paused to allow time for the others to consider the significance of what he had just said.

  “Yes, yes.” Tate nodded with an impatience that might have been comical if not for the glow of avarice lighting his bloodshot eyes.

  Garrick ignored the rude prompt and continued, exactly as he had planned. “My client is willing to offer two—”

  “Two dollars? Per week?” Tate drew himself up and puffed out his chest like a banty rooster. “Is that all?”

  Suddenly, Garrick felt tainted by the whole business. He had an overwhelming desire to settle the matter and get away from the wretched man before him. He swallowed his distaste and finished what he had been about to say when Tate interrupted him.

  “—thousand dollars for the duration of the year’s contract.”

  The younger Miss Tate let out an unladylike gasp, then covered her mouth with her hand and blushed violently. Miss Isabelle Tate briefly placed a calming hand on her sister’s arm, then got to her feet, taking advantage of the awkward silence to wrest control of the situation.

  “That is quite a generous offer, Dr. Garrick. Will you allow me a few days to consider my reply?”

  Garrick stood, recognizing his unequivocal dismissal. “Of course.” He bowed in the other Miss Tate’s direction, then turned to the father, who had risen to his feet as well. “Thank you for your time, sir.”

  Tate opened and closed his mouth, not once but twice, reminding Garrick of a fish out of water gulping for air.

  Once again, Miss Tate took command of events. “I’ll see you to the door, Dr. Garrick.”

  Garrick followed her lead out of the room. As she handed him his hat and gloves, he dropped his voice confidentially, so those in the other room couldn’t hear. “I know you must think this a most unusual situation. And frankly, it is. But please rest assured, Miss Tate, there is nothing untoward in my offer.”

  Garrick reached into his breast pocket and produced a small oblong case which he opened to withdraw his business card. “This is the address where I practice. If you would like to speak to me . . . ” He cast a meaningful glance toward the parlor. “ . . . in private, I would be glad to answer any questions you might have. I see my last patient at four o’clock. Anytime after that would be fine.”

  She took his card and pocketed it as she had the other. “I believe you are sincere, Dr. Garrick.”

  “I’m not asking you to take my sincerity on faith. I can provide you with references, a list of names that includes our mayor and the chief of the constabulary.”

  She met his eyes with the same direct, soul piercing look she had given him when she introduced herself. “I should have said I know you are trustworthy. I see it in your eyes.”

  He gaped at her. “You would judge my character by what you see in my eyes?”

  “Call it a gift,” she answered placidly, unperturbed by his incredulity. “Or a skill developed out of dire necessity.” This time it was she who gave a meaningful glance toward the parlor. “But whatever you choose to call it, I am never wrong.”

  Garrick felt like an ass. “In regard to myself, I must agree.”

  They both hesitated. The silence was uncomfortable, but Garrick waited, sensing she had something more to say.

  “I should tell you,” she began. Her gaze wavered, and she looked down, unable to meet his eye. She spoke so softly that Garrick had to lean closer in order to hear. “We—my family—are not welcome in society.”

  She looked up at him, and he could tell the effort it cost her. Watching her cheeks redden, he had to restrain himself from reaching out as he would to a distressed patient to offer her a comforting touch.

  “Because—”

  He interrupted before she could finish. “My client is not concerned with society, Miss Tate. In fact, he has withdrawn from it.”

  She looked at him, considering his words before she replied. “I don’t know who recommended me to you, but I fear their gesture was more an act of charity than an accurate assessment of my abilities.”

  “Beyond a conscientious application to the task, the only requirements for the job are integrity and . . . ” Garrick hesitated, knowing he could jeopardize her consent, but in the end decided to justify her faith in his honesty. “And discretion.”

  She looked at him, the edge returning to her gaze, and nodded as if she understood all the unstated caveats that lay beneath these seemingly simple requirements. Garrick was not a man to abandon logic, but in this instance, he intuited that any further elaboration on the subject would run counter to his purposes. He bowed and took his leave.

  Outside, Garrick paused on the steps to don his hat. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

  She had backbone, Miss Tate. And a directness he admired. There was no doubt in his mind that her strength of character was all that kept her family from total ruin.

  Garrick set off down the street, having decided to walk home rather than hail a ride from a passing cab. He needed the time to think. And the fresh air would clear his nostrils of the miasma of corruption that clung to Alfred Tate.

  * * *

  “What a distinguished looking gentleman.” Jenny spoke without turning away from the window, where she stood peeking out from behind the curtain.

  “Don’t let him see you gawking,” Isabelle said, coming behind her sister and looking out over her shoulder.

  She had to agree with Jenny, he was distinguished. And quite handsome for a man of—what?—just over fifty. He was a man who would age well, with his dark, closely barbered hair that had artfully silvered at his temples. He must have turned a few heads in his youth. Even now, judging from her sister’s obvious fascination. Isabelle smiled to herself, remembering how Jenny had blushed when the doctor kissed her hand.

  “Two thousand dollars!” Their father clapped his hands. By the time Isabelle and Jenny left the window to join him, he was nearly dancing a jig. He grabbed Jenny’s hands and twirled her around.

  “Two thousand dollars!” he repeated, dropping Jenny’s hands and stopping to catch his breath. “And I thought the man was talking two dollars a week!”

 
“It all sounds too good to be true.” Isabelle looked doubtfully at her father. There would be no reasoning with him. She recognized the greedy glint in his eye.

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Jenny spoke with a sudden desperate conviction which meant she had only now considered what life would be like without her older sister to shield her from their father’s excesses.

  “Nonsense! Think of the pretty dresses she can buy you with two thousand dollars.”

  “You mean I might have new dresses?” Jenny asked breathlessly.

  Isabelle’s stomach turned. The sight of her father corrupting Jenny with his greed sickened her.

  But Jenny wasn’t to blame. She was young, and poverty was all she’d ever known. The only dresses she’d ever owned were charitable cast offs, well worn and unfashionable. Isabelle had tried to embellish Jenny’s dresses with clever needlework, but there was only so much she could do.

  “I would like to give it some consideration before I accept the offer.”

  Her father turned on her, the greed in his eyes now sparked by anger. “What is there to consider? You are of age, girl. It’s time to do your share to help this family.”

  Isabelle clamped her lips together. Her hands fisted at her sides until her palms felt the bite of her nails. She had to wait until she could control her voice before she dared reply, and even then, it was with a clenched jaw.

  “I have already done more than my share for this family.” She gave her father a hard look. “Well before I came of age.”

  For a moment, she thought he might strike her. Instead, he turned his back with a gesture of disgust. “If you cared about your sister, you would want to help her.”

  “Oh Papa!” Jenny cried.

  His words hurt worse than a beating. But her father was wrong. She did care for her sister.

  With the money she earned, maybe it would be possible for Jenny to escape this nightmare. Maybe it would be enough to send her away to boarding school.

  And, truth be told, she wanted to get away, too. Her father hated the sight of her, because he couldn’t look at her without seeing his shame. She was sick to death of his shame. Her own was hard enough to bear.

  Was it Dr. Garrick’s kind eyes that convinced her to accept his offer? Or simply her selfish desire for escape?

  But she was fooling herself to think the decision was hers to make. She had no choice in the matter.

  Not while Jenny needed her help.

  Chapter Four

  Despite years of practice at hiding her true feelings from Jenny, it took all Isabelle’s self control to hold back her tears as she hugged her sister good bye. Alfred Tate played the scene for all it was worth, casting himself as the bereaved father bravely seeing his daughter off on her journey, apparently forgetting—at least for the moment—that he was the one who insisted she leave.

  Smiling bravely, Isabelle waved to Jenny until the carriage pulled away and she was certain her family could no longer see her. Then she sank back against the seat and allowed herself to cry, though only a little. It wouldn’t do to arrive with eyes red and swollen from a bout of unrestrained self pity.

  Once they left the town, the unaccustomed sights outside her window provided a welcome distraction. The open meadows and gently rolling pastureland would have been unremarkable to most people, Isabelle knew, but she had rarely left the gray buildings and crowded thoroughfares of her neighborhood. To her eyes, she could just as easily have traveled to an alien land on the far side of the globe rather than the fifteen miles or so they had thus far journeyed into the countryside.

  Villages and farmland eventually gave way to an untamed landscape lacking any sign of human habitation. Isabelle leaned forward to see when a deer stepped out of the wood into the clearing beside the road. The creature seemed to be watching her as well, warily lifting its head to follow the passing carriage.

  The pastoral scene belied the fantastical stories that circulated concerning the railway magnate’s mansion. Isabelle had always discounted the exaggerated tales of Cornelius Nashe’s son, who it was said lived alone in the haunted ruins, and mad as a March hare. One story had it that he died in the fire there a dozen years ago and had come back as a fearsome revenant who fed on the flesh and blood of any soul hapless enough to wander onto the property.

  It was all sheer silliness, of course. And beside, she didn’t need such tales to frighten her. The prospect of entering the employ of a man she’d never met was terrifying enough, not to mention leaving home for the first time after having signed away an entire year of her life.

  Isabelle sighed. If only the year would go by as quickly as the last hour.

  She was trying to convince herself it would when they came to the limestone wall that marked the boundary of the Nashe estate. An enormous gate spanned the width of the road, blocking their passage. Roger stopped the carriage, got down from the driver’s seat and came around to Isabelle’s window.

  “Almost there, Miss.” He grinned.

  Isabelle smiled wanly, unable to think of a reply, and felt a blush rise to her cheeks. Though he had been scrupulously proper from the first, the driver’s direct manner flustered her. She was unused to a man’s attention, especially such an attractive man. Nor did she want such notice. Her shame, she was certain, marked her in ways apparent to anyone who looked closely. It had grown to her like a second skin.

  Roger went to the gate and tugged at a stone in the adjoining wall until it pulled free. He reached into the empty space and found a key, which he fit into the lock, turning it until the bolt gave way with a harsh groan of rusted metal. He swung the heavy wrought iron gate aside, then drove the carriage through, stopping to return the key to its hiding place before pulling the gate shut behind him with a loud clank.

  The sound resonated along Isabelle’s tautly strung nerves. She had entered a different world, uncertain of her welcome, and didn’t need this added reminder that the way home was now barred to her.

  They soon reached the crest of a hill, and the house came into view. Roger brought the carriage to a halt, allowing her time to take in the sight. From their vantage point, the mansion could be seen in its entirety. The building was larger than any she’d ever seen, and certainly larger than any place she ever could have believed someone would actually live. Two long wings flanked a central spine, forming a symmetrical, H shaped design. Fire had reduced the rear half of one wing to rubble, where charred timbers lay scattered about like the decayed remains of some giant animal.

  Isabelle understood the stories now. Her own fancy had taken flight at the first glimpse of the mammoth structure. Here, in the full light of day. She imagined how it must look at twilight, its hulking form crouched against the earth like a sleeping monster waiting to devour its next victim.

  She couldn’t help feeling relieved when Roger urged the pair of horses forward with a toss of the reins, and the carriage began its descent into the valley. As they drew nearer to the mansion, her thoughts took a less fanciful turn. She had once seen a stereopticon slide of a French castle in the Loire Valley. The resemblance was striking, just as the message was clear: the man who lived here ruled his world as completely as the most powerful monarch. The thought unsettled her further. Everyone knew Cornelius Nashe’s reputation. Might the son be as much a tyrant as the father?

  Mercifully, they were soon approaching the house, and she had little more time to brood over her misgivings. They entered the drive that looped in a half circle before the main entrance, where a welcoming party stood ready to greet her. Roger stopped the carriage directly in front of them.

  There were two women in the little group, who smiled expectantly as Roger helped her from the carriage. One was still young, no more than thirty at most. She was an attractive woman, with brown curls peeking from beneath her cap, a generous figure and an even more generous smile. She radiated a warmth and kindness that immediately put Isabelle at ease.

  The younger woman took it upon herself to speak for
the group. The older woman, though no doubt the senior member of the staff, seemed content to let her do so.

  “Welcome to Nashe House, Miss. I’m Nellie.” She bent her knee in a quick, shallow curtsey.

  Isabelle blushed. Did they think she was a lady? In her embarrassment, she held out her hand, something she ordinarily would not have done.

  “Isabelle Tate.”

  Now Nellie blushed. She took the offered hand, but only briefly, as if she’d touched something on a shop counter never meant for sale. Stepping back, she gestured toward the older woman.

  “This ’ere’s Cook.” When Nellie dropped the h, it was the first time Isabelle noticed her English accent.

  Cook nodded solemnly, not in an unfriendly manner, but as one who acknowledges the gravity of the moment.

  Roger came around the back of the carriage to put Isabelle’s valise on the ground next to her. When he straightened, his eyes went to Nellie’s. An acknowledgment passed between them, and Isabelle read in it an affection they were too circumspect to display openly.

  “I’m Joe, Miss.” The tall, thin man who had hovered in the background spoke up. He bobbed his head and his wizened face broke into a grin. “The groundskeeper.”

  Isabelle returned his smile, hoping for Joe’s sake that somewhere he had a troop of younger, able bodied men to assist him.

  Just then, a boy darted out from behind Nellie’s skirts. Isabelle clapped a hand over her heart, startled by his sudden appearance.

  “We call him Old Joe, Miss Iz.” The freckles that covered the boy’s nose and cheeks danced apart as a wide smile spread across his face. “Cause he’s old.” His eyes beamed with delight at his own joke.

  “Will!”

  Nellie swatted at the boy in a pantomime of reproach, which he ignored, instead skipping over to Isabelle. The cowlick sticking out of his unruly thatch of red hair quivered like a singular bright feather shooting straight up from his scalp.

  He stopped in front of her valise and looked down in disbelief. “Is that all you got?”

  His innocent question threatened Isabelle’s fragile composure. Shamed by the paltry shabbiness of her belongings, she wondered what the others must think of her.