A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  Her presence in the garden raised other questions. What was her purpose in staying behind? Did she put herself above the others? Or perhaps—he couldn’t help smiling to himself—perhaps she was a free thinker. A non believer. A heretic.

  The possibility entertained him. He imagined engaging someone with a different point of view, the spirited discussions that would follow, the free exchange of ideas. Beside Richard, correspondence provided his only contact with contemporary thought. That, and the scientific journals. But letters lacked the spontaneity of conversation, the unexpected ideas and turns of logic that sharpened one’s mind.

  He abandoned his fleeting fantasy. She was a woman, which meant in all likelihood her education barely went beyond the ability to read and write. Perhaps a smattering of art or music. Young ladies were taught to dabble in insipid watercolors or crank out a piece of music with the rote sensibility of an organ grinder’s monkey. But never, God forbid, were they taught to think for themselves. Society viewed the education of women with as much abhorrence as it viewed him.

  There! He had thought of an advantage to life as a monster. It gave one a unique perspective. Outside the fray. He must remember to engage Richard on the topic.

  The woman emerged from behind the hedge and turned back toward the house. Jonathan squinted, trying to make out her features, but she was too far away for him to see. Moreover, why did it matter? Did he hope she would be hideously ugly and thus less likely to view him with disgust?

  The woman stopped beneath his window, for no apparent reason. Jonathan tensed, ready to hide behind the curtains if she should look up. Instead, she bent her head, then lifted her arms and placed her hands on the crown of her hat, feeling for the pin that anchored it to her hair. Her bodice stretched taut, revealing the shape of her breasts beneath. Jonathan held his breath, feeling like a cheap voyeur in a penny arcade but unable to look away.

  She twisted around as the hat came free, tossing it on the grass, then turned her back to him. He could almost believe that she knew he was watching and purposely meant to deny him a glimpse of her face. She began to withdraw her hairpins, dropping them one by one into her skirt pocket. Then, with a toss of her head, her hair tumbled down like a glorious waterfall, the chestnut waves cascading to within inches of her waist.

  Had she turned at that moment and stared directly at him, he could not have moved from the spot where he stood. He watched as her head tilted back and her hair hung down in a soft curtain that swayed with her movements. She thrust her arms straight out to the side, then began twirling, around and around again, like a spinning top, so fast that her hair whipped about her face, concealing her features.

  He laughed out loud, sharing the exultation of her childish delight. She staggered with giddiness, then dropped to her knees, and he could tell she was laughing, too. She turned her smiling face toward the sun. And then he saw what he had waited for.

  “God damn it!” He ducked behind the curtains. Did God have no mercy?

  No.

  He put his hand over his heart to be certain it was still beating. No, God had no mercy for such as he.

  The woman was beautiful. Breathtakingly, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  He had to get rid of her.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabelle woke with a loud gasp. She lay drenched in a cold sweat, her heart pounding in her chest with such force that she had to struggle for each breath, wheezing for air like a drowning victim pulled from the water at the last minute.

  The nightmare was gaining strength with each reoccurrence. She had to wonder how long it would be before her heart could no longer stand the strain and gave out altogether.

  The first gray light of dawn seeped in at the edges of the heavy drapes covering her bedroom window. The other servants would be rising soon. They would think her lazy if she stayed in bed, yet she wanted nothing more than to pull the covers over her head and hide from the rest of the world. From everything.

  Isabelle forced herself to get out of bed, to splash cold water on her face and perform a perfunctory toilette, going through the motions of combing her hair and getting dressed. She had no choice but to carry on, to smile and pretend to the others that nothing was the matter. She had no choice if she wanted to earn a better life for Jenny.

  But it had been four days now and Mr. Nashe had failed to meet with her or even to send a message concerning her duties. Whenever she asked Nellie or Cook what to expect, a shrug or a Don’t know, Miss was the only answer.

  Her nerves were in a state over the matter. Her stomach had twisted itself into a permanent knot. She could scarcely eat, she slept only poorly, she started at the slightest noise. The others often had to repeat what they said to her, words she’d heard perfectly well the first time but was too preoccupied to remember. And in spite of her resolve not to complain, she had begun to do just that.

  “Get used to it,” Old Joe commented one day from his corner in the kitchen. “Like tryin’ to prise a oyster out of its shell to get him to do a thing ’fore he’s ready.”

  He meant the advice kindly. They were all kind to her. But they maintained a certain deference, as though they were just as unsure as she what role their mysterious employer meant for her to play in their household.

  The uncertainty of her situation was bad enough, but when she was being truly honest with herself, she had to admit that Mr. Nashe himself was her greatest fear. The dread of meeting him hovered over her like an evil specter; it followed her everywhere, until she felt haunted by the man’s invisible presence.

  Isabelle made her way to the kitchen, trying to shake off her dour mood. She would beg a task of Cook, some small chore—anything to keep her mind off her uncertain situation. Anything to keep from thinking of Mr. Nashe.

  Isabelle heard Nellie and Cook just before she reached the doorway. The pleasant back and forth of their normal conversation had become so familiar that their raised voices alarmed her. She stood at the threshold, unsure whether to enter the room or turn around and leave as quickly as possible. Apparently she had barged in on an argument between the two women.

  “Not a bite.” Nellie dropped the silver tray onto the kitchen table. It landed with a dangerous clink and rattle of cutlery bouncing against delicate bone china. “Not even a single cup of tea.”

  “I ain’t surprised.” Cook stood over the sink, her back to Nellie as she spoke. “It’s ’cause she’s here.”

  Isabelle realized with a sinking feeling that Cook was referring to her.

  “’e hasn’t touched ’is food in five days. ’e’s going to starve.” Nellie tended to drop her h’s when she was upset. And Isabelle had never seen her so upset.

  When Cook didn’t answer, Nellie added, “You’d best speak to the doctor.”

  “Humph.” Cook scrubbed the pot she was cleaning with exaggerated vigor. “He was the fool brought her here in the first place.”

  “If you don’t, I will.”

  Isabelle cleared her throat loudly, then spoke up with forced brightness. “I came to see if I can be of assistance.”

  Both women turned toward her, surprise and—to their credit—guilt written on their faces. Isabelle knew it was ridiculous to pretend she hadn’t heard. Nothing was to be gained by keeping up false appearances.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear—”

  “I’m sorry, Miss, we was out of line.” Nellie looked close to tears.

  Cook, however, did not recant. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to face them. “Let her have her say, girl.”

  Isabelle reddened. With both women waiting expectantly, she searched for the right words, remembering the old adage about not burning one’s bridges. Then again, what harm could come of speaking bluntly, when she had yet to find a way across the bridge of doubt and distrust against her?

  “I’ve served no purpose here except to upset the normal order of things. Apparently, I was hired without Mr. Nashe’s approval.”

  She looked at Nellie, then back again at
Cook, hoping one of them would contradict her. Their silent corroboration of her worst suspicions hardened her resolve to do something—anything—to end the intolerable wait forced on her by Mr. Nashe’s continued disregard.

  “I intend to write to Dr. Garrick, since he was the one who hired me, and demand an explanation.”

  “Oh no, Miss.” Nellie clapped a hand over her mouth as though she feared to say more.

  “There’s no need to write,” Cook said. “He’s coming to dinner tonight.”

  “Tonight?” Isabelle had expected another few days to consider her problem. Foolishly, she had burned her bridges after all. There was nothing for it except to put the best possible face on the matter. But when she attempted to do so, her mouth refused to shape itself into any semblance of a smile.

  “Please—” She faltered and had to begin again. “Please let me know as soon as he arrives.”

  Isabelle turned abruptly and left the room, needing to escape the house, to find somewhere she could be alone and think. Any longer around the others and she would be certain to betray her emotions.

  Footsteps followed her into the hall. “Miss Isabelle.” Nellie hurried toward her. “If it was up to us,” she began, twisting her hands together. “I mean, we’d like you to stay, but it’s Mr. Nashe . . . ”

  Nellie looked at her imploringly, as though hoping Isabelle would finish the thought for her. Isabelle waited, herself at a loss for words.

  “Mr. Nashe doesn’t take well to strangers,” Nellie finished, grimacing in frustration at her inability to explain.

  “I know.” Isabelle rested a hand on Nellie’s arm, intending to soothe her, but the gesture had the opposite effect. As if a floodgate had opened, the words gushed out, with Nellie scarcely stopping to draw breath.

  “I pray for the poor man every night. How anyone can live the way he does, shut inside, never coming out of his rooms—I can’t imagine. Dr. Garrick’s the only one that sees him. I’ve worked here six years and ain’t never laid eyes on him once.” She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiped at her eyes, adding pitifully between sniffles, “He ought to know he’s nothing to fear from us.”

  The maid’s distress was so apparent, her sympathy so genuine, that Isabelle felt compelled to comfort her. “You have a tender heart, Nellie.”

  Nellie’s eyes widened. She stared at Isabelle without speaking, until Isabelle began to worry that she had sounded patronizing.

  “Oh, Miss,” Nellie finally managed. “Oh.”

  Once again, Nellie lapsed into silence, as if her former outburst had exhausted her supply of words. Isabelle began to feel increasingly awkward. More from a need to fill the void than anything else, she asked, “What do you think I should do?”

  It must have been the question Nellie was waiting for. Or rather, Isabelle thought, it was the tacit permission to speak her mind she had needed. Far from being at a loss for words, Nellie began rattling off her answer as though she had prepared her speech well in advance.

  “Cook won’t have me talking to the doctor. If I did, there’d be no living with her. But you can. You can tell him how Mr. Nashe won’t give you any work. Tell him how he won’t eat. Tell him . . . ” Nellie glanced nervously over her shoulder before continuing. “Tell him Nellie thinks Mr. Nashe is abusing himself.”

  “What?”

  “With his medicine.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle felt herself blush and hoped Nellie hadn’t guessed what she’d at first thought. Fortunately, the other woman took no notice, intent on making herself understood.

  “His pain medicine,” Nellie added.

  “What sort of medicine does he take?”

  Nellie glanced nervously behind her again, then leaned toward Isabelle and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Morphine.”

  Isabelle gaped at Nellie. This was indeed a revelation. She chose her next words carefully.

  “That’s a dangerous medicine to abuse.”

  Nellie nodded several times, the curls that had strayed from beneath her cap bobbing up and down with the movement. “I know, Miss. Which is why I’m asking you to talk to Dr. Garrick.”

  Isabelle considered Nellie’s request. She could appreciate the woman’s dilemma. If Nellie spoke to the doctor against Cook’s wishes, it could jeopardize her position. She, on the other hand, had little to lose. Nothing, in fact, if Mr. Nashe dismissed her.

  “I’ll do it.”

  “Oh thank you, Miss.” Nellie grabbed her arm and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll tell Roger to see you have your chance as soon as the doctor gets here.”

  She looked over her shoulder again. “I’d best be getting back before Cook suspects anything.” She squeezed Isabelle’s arm one last time, then turned and, lifting her skirts, ran back to the kitchen.

  Isabelle watched her go. Now more than ever the house felt oppressive to her. Without stopping to fetch a shawl against the brisk March wind, she headed outdoors.

  A good long walk was what she needed. And time to think about her future—one that, she had to admit, looked bleak indeed.

  As for her employer . . . how sad to think a man with his wealth could not find a reason to enjoy life. But in light of Nellie’s revelation, Mr. Nashe’s solitary existence began to make sense.

  If she had only known, she would never have agreed to accept the position. The man, it seemed, was a morphine addict.

  Chapter Nine

  Standing at the bottom of the circular drive, Isabelle rehearsed yet again what she planned to say to Dr. Garrick. She had arrived early to give herself time to consider her words. Now, after waiting nearly half an hour, she had gone over her speech so many times that she had committed it to memory.

  When the carriage came into view, Isabelle waved discreetly. Roger saw her and touched his cap in answer. He had sought her out before leaving for town and suggested that they meet at a certain distance from the house, where Cook was less likely to observe them.

  Roger slowed the horses to a walk, finally bringing them to a halt a few feet from where she stood. He jumped down from the driver’s seat and opened the carriage door. Dr. Garrick descended, elegantly dressed in an impeccably tailored dove gray suit and carrying a silver capped walking stick.

  He tipped his hat in her direction. “Miss Tate. What a pleasure to see you.”

  She nodded, thinking how unnatural her smile must look. It certainly felt unnatural.

  “Are you settling in well?” he inquired conversationally as he walked toward her.

  She ignored his question, too nervous to engage in the expected amenities. “Dr. Garrick, I need to speak with you.”

  He lifted a brow in momentary surprise, but quickly recovered his self command and replied smoothly. “Of course.”

  “In private, sir.”

  The doctor looked around, considering their options, and finally motioned toward the western side of the house, away from the kitchen. Apparently, he knew as did the rest of them the advisability of avoiding Cook’s observant eye.

  “Why don’t we sit in the garden? We still have some light left.”

  Isabelle nodded, and the two set off across the lawn in silence, stopping when they came to a low bench with a view of the setting sun. Dr. Garrick waited for her to be seated, then sat at the opposite end of the bench, propping his gloved hands on top of his walking stick and angling his body toward her. He settled a look of rapt attention on Isabelle that nearly sent her fleeing for the house.

  “Well, Miss Tate? I am at your disposal.”

  There was a sharpness in the doctor’s eyes that hadn’t been there before. Isabelle puzzled at the cause a moment, then realized she could delay no longer. She drew a deep breath, only to find as soon as she opened her mouth that her carefully planned speech had completely vanished from memory.

  “I don’t know how to say this, sir . . . ” Her voice trailed off. She honestly had no idea what to say.

  The doctor waited, doing nothing to ease her discomfort. Befuddled by his relentless
gaze, Isabelle heard herself blurt out the unadorned truth.

  “I fear I must tender my resignation.”

  “Whatever for?” Dr. Garrick frowned. His eyes had lost all trace of kindness.

  “Apparently Mr. Nashe doesn’t want me here.”

  “Did he say so?”

  Isabelle was glad for the fading light. She knew her cheeks were burning.

  “No, sir, that’s just the problem. I’ve heard nothing from him, nor received any word of instruction as to my duties.” Her anger flared. In spite of her better judgment, she allowed her irritation to show. “As I said, apparently Mr. Nashe would prefer I leave.”

  “Of course he would.” Dr. Garrick sounded equally put out, though with her or Mr. Nashe, she couldn’t tell.

  He looked away, toward the salmon colored clouds stretched across the horizon. “It doesn’t matter what he prefers. We must do what is best for him.”

  She was certain her employer had reached the age of majority and that, legally, he could not be forced to act against his will.

  “I cannot render my service if he doesn’t allow it.”

  Dr. Garrick stared into the distance, seemingly lost in thought. After a minute or two, Isabelle became uncomfortable with the silence. “Sir?”

  The doctor turned toward her with an abruptness that gave her a start. “I will see that he allows it, Miss Tate. And I have no intention of releasing you from your contract.”

  The interview had not gone at all the way she had planned. The doctor’s rebuke made it all the more difficult to say what she needed to say next. But she had promised Nellie.

  “There is something else you should know, sir.”

  “Yes, Miss Tate?” He stared back at her gravely.

  Isabelle said a silent prayer for courage.

  “I overheard Nellie and Cook arguing. Mr. Nashe hasn’t been eating his meals. And Nellie thinks . . . ” Dr. Garrick was scowling now. It took all her nerve to finish. “Nellie thinks he may be injecting morphine.”