A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Roger? Why, for heaven’s sake?”

  Nellie shook her head, looking more worried than ever. “Not like that, sir. He sent him after Miss Tate.”

  “Where did she go?” Garrick’s stomach suddenly felt hollow, in spite of the large meal he’d eaten before setting out on his journey.

  “For a walk, sir.” Nellie’s hands got away from her and she gestured wildly. “He called me as soon as we got back. I’ve never known him to be in such a state.”

  Garrick could hardly believe his ears. “You saw him?”

  “No, sir. He spoke to me through the door, same as he always does.” She was back to wringing her hands. “He went on and on. Told me to send Roger after her at once.”

  Garrick frowned. “Why should he be angry that Miss Tate went for a stroll on the property?”

  “He weren’t angry with her.” Nellie looked down at her feet, and when she looked up again, her pale complexion had turned a deep rosy pink. “He saw her heading for the ruins and was worried, sir. Worried she would get hurt in amongst all the burnt timber and such.”

  “Hmm.” Under the circumstances, that was the only comment Garrick cared to make. The entire event sounded like a storm in a teacup. Jonathan’s curious behavior concerned him, but he thought he understood his motives. There had been a tragic accident some years ago, one for which Jonathan still felt to blame.

  “Here she is!” Roger called out as he rounded the corner of the house with Isabelle in tow. She looked disconcerted by all the fuss made on her behalf. “Right as rain, I might add.”

  “Thank you, Roger.” Garrick took command, nodding to Nellie. “You’d better hurry upstairs and tell Mr. Nashe he no longer need concern himself with Miss Tate’s well being.”

  Nellie dropped a quick curtsey and, without a word, ran into the house.

  Garrick tipped his hat and bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Tate.”

  “Dr. Garrick.” She nodded, hesitated a moment, then blurted out, “Am I in trouble?”

  He shook his head, smiling, hoping to put the young woman at her ease. It occurred to him that perhaps she was never at her ease. The more he learned from her sister about their situation, the more he marvelled that she maintained her composure as well as she did.

  “I’m here to ask if you would come for a ride with me.”

  She paled at the invitation, but hurriedly murmured her consent. “Of course.”

  Garrick spoke to Roger, who had hung back, expecting he might be needed. “Harness one of the bays to the gig cart, if you will.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When he was certain Roger was out of hearing, Garrick turned back to Isabelle. “To answer your question, Mr. Nashe was upset for some reason which we may or may not learn. You mustn’t give much credence to his moods.” He smiled, not wanting her to think he was lecturing her. “Life will be far pleasanter for you if you remember that simple advice.”

  Nellie hurried down the steps toward them. She was breathless when she arrived, which led Garrick to believe she had run both ways.

  “I told him, sir.” She glanced at Isabelle, then back to Garrick. “He was considerable improved at the news.”

  “Good. Then there’s no need to be upset.” He paused, giving Nellie a steady look full of meaning before he continued. “Will you fetch a parasol for Miss Tate?”

  Nellie was about to leave when Garrick stopped her with a gesture. Turning to Isabelle, he asked, “Is there anything else you would like her to bring?”

  Isabelle shook her head, and Garrick nodded in Nellie’s direction, dismissing her. When she had gone, he pulled an envelope from his pocket. “I have a letter from your sister, Miss Tate.”

  Isabelle took the letter, smiling her gratitude. “Then you have seen her, sir?”

  “Yes.” Garrick returned her smile. “In fact, the purpose of my visit is to acquaint you with the plans she and I have discussed.”

  When Isabelle looked at him suspiciously, Garrick hastened to add, “She should not be left on her own. There is a woman waiting for us in the village. If she meets with your approval, I would like to hire her as a companion for your sister.”

  “Oh, Dr. Garrick.” She laid her hand on his arm. “You can’t know what a burden of worry you have lifted from my shoulders.”

  “It is something I should have considered from the beginning.”

  Isabelle would not allow him to discount his kindness. “Most men would never have considered it at all.”

  He warmed to her praise in spite of his attempts at modesty. “I feared you might find my efforts intrusive.”

  “Nothing could be farther from the truth.” She grasped his hand between both of hers. “How can I ever thank you?”

  “Your sister’s well being is thanks enough.”

  Isabelle released his hand and stepped back, a sudden blush rising to her cheeks. “Forgive me. I became overly effusive in my thanks.”

  With fortunate timing, Roger pulled up in the cart. His arrival gave Garrick an extra moment to think of something to say that would distract the shy young woman from her embarrassment.

  “At my age, Miss Tate, when a beautiful young woman becomes effusive in her praise of me, I find it a rare compliment—one that requires my gratitude rather than my forgiveness.”

  Garrick smiled down at her, watching his words effect an even deeper blush to her complexion. Judging from her reaction, he guessed that receiving a compliment was actually a much rarer event for her than for him.

  “Shall we?” Garrick gestured toward the waiting cart. He had decided on the cart rather than one of Jonathan’s fancier carriages for the ride into the village. They would no doubt be the center of attention as it was without arriving in a carriage that would cause a stir in New York, much less the tiny hamlet of Bear’s Ford.

  Nellie hurried out with the parasol. When Isabelle had taken it, Garrick guided her by the elbow toward the cart. He helped her up, then seated himself beside her and took the reins from Roger.

  * * *

  Jonathan watched through the narrow slit between the curtains until they traveled out of sight. His curiosity was as unbearable as the sensation of sandpaper scraping over his scarred back. Why had Richard driven off with her without announcing his presence? Without so much as a word in his direction? And what had he said to her that produced such a look of open admiration?

  He envied Richard that look. The most he could ever hope for in the looks he elicited was the absence of revulsion.

  He turned from the window, repeatedly grasping and releasing the vial in his pocket. He had taken to carrying it with him at all times. The elixir was a constant temptation, to be sure, but just knowing it was there if he needed it comforted him.

  A bottle of port sat on a nearby table. He poured some for himself, then stared at the liquid in his glass, rolling his shoulders in a useless attempt to shake off the feeling of something crawling under his skin.

  “What the hell?” he asked aloud. What the hell did it matter how he found relief? He took the vial from his pocket and measured a few drops into his wine. The crawling sensation grew worse. He rolled his shoulders and rotated his head first one way, then the other. As before, his efforts failed to help.

  “What the hell?” he asked again, adding a few more drops.

  Jonathan carried his glass to an armchair near the window. As soon as he seated himself, he quickly downed the drink and, waiting for it to take effect, leaned back in the chair. Outside his window, the road stretched to the crest of the hill, where it disappeared from sight. Eventually, Richard would have to return along the same road.

  He wondered whether she would return with him. Not that he cared one way or the other about the woman.

  The woman. He still found it difficult to name her, as if doing so would anchor her all the more firmly to his life.

  His eyes soon grew heavy, his empty stomach having hastened the effect of the laudanum laced wine. When he fell asleep, it was with another woman’
s name on his lips. Jezebel. But the woman in the vivid dreams that followed, like him, had no face.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Monday afternoon Isabelle arrived a good quarter hour early, though she did not expect Mr. Nashe himself to be punctual. She told herself she had no cause for complaint on that account. His punctuality—or lack of it—was his prerogative. She could not forget that Mr. Nashe paid her wages, ridiculously generous wages for what was asked of her, and she meant to do her best to please him so he would continue paying them. Jenny’s future depended on it.

  She wandered aimlessly around the room while she waited. The parlor looked exactly as it had before, every item perfectly arranged, bare of the sort of casual clutter found in rooms that are actually lived in—a book laid aside, a pillow out of place, a vase of fresh spring flowers gathered on a leisurely walk. The result was curiously lifeless, like a tableau in a museum. Even the decanters of wine and whiskey were arranged along the sideboard in perfect symmetry, appearing more for display than use.

  Like so much of the rest of the house, the room exuded an air of misery. Its gloomy atmosphere was beginning to affect her own mood.

  The place might be depressing, Isabelle decided, but there was no reason it should remain as dark as a crypt. She walked purposefully to the window and pulled the drapes aside. Sunshine streamed in, instantly animating the character of the room. Pleased with the effect, she went to the other window and opened the drapes there as well.

  An ugly voice came to her then, the same one that always lurked in the background, ready to invoke her shame. It said the light would reveal her as completely as it revealed everything else. Her drab features, her shabby clothes—all would be mercilessly exposed.

  Isabelle shook her head in disgust at her moment of vanity. She had been hired to do a job, not as an item of decoration. What did it matter, the extent of her plainness? Her employer wore a mask, for pity’s sake.

  She thrust her hand into the ray of sunshine and studied it as though it were some foreign object and not part of her own body. Here was the source of her change in fortune. One good hand, needed to function in place of her employer’s useless one. She flexed her fingers, then rotated her wrist, disturbing the surrounding dust particles with the movement.

  Behind her, the door opened softly. Isabelle snatched her hand from the light with the unthinking reflex of someone who has touched a hot stove. Her heartbeat quickened. She grasped the high backed desk chair in front of her, needing an anchor against the rising panic that threatened to rob her of her faculties.

  She had dreaded this moment. Despite Dr. Garrick’s reassurances, she expected Mr. Nashe would be angry with her. Nellie had described how upset he’d been over her excursion into the ruins. She repeated the words to herself, a refrain against her failing courage. Remember the reason you are here. For Jenny.

  The door closed as softly as it had opened. There had been a lapse of time, enough to suggest that he had hesitated at the threshold—considering his displeasure with her, no doubt.

  The way a small animal senses the arrival of a predator, Isabelle sensed rather than saw him enter the room. She turned her head a bare fraction of an inch, watching him out of the corner of her eye, gripping the chair back when he stepped toward her. Even when it became apparent he was merely positioning himself in front of a chair, she found it impossible to relax. He continued to stand until, finally, with a slight turn of his wrist he gestured for her to be seated.

  Isabelle blushed at her stupidity. He remained standing out of politeness, not—as she had imagined—to confront her.

  She took her seat at the desk, leaning away from the light in an effort to conceal her reddened cheeks. He sat, too, with a graceful economy of movement, discreetly scooting the chair back where she would find it difficult to look at him directly. As much as she feared him, there was no denying the fact that he seemed equally uncomfortable in her presence.

  The clock chimed a single note, unnaturally loud in the stillness. The sound hung in the air then died away, followed by another and another, until finally the fourth chime struck and faded and the hollow ticking was all that remained to fill the silence.

  “Yesterday . . . ”

  When he began in his low, rough voice, Isabelle felt obliged to turn and face him, though it was obvious he preferred otherwise.

  “You ventured into the remains of the western wing.”

  He spoke without inflection, his voice a harsh rasp that abraded all nuance from the words. The mask obscured his eyes, making them impossible for her to read.

  “I didn’t know you had forbidden it.” The relentless ticking of the clock seemed to be coming from inside her own head.

  He leaned forward in his chair. Without thinking, she leaned away, though he sat a good ten feet from her.

  “I forbid you nothing, Miss Tate. But for your own safety I must ask that you not go there unaccompanied.” His emphasis of the word belied its meaning. His asking sounded nothing like a request and everything like a command.

  He settled back in his seat, draping his arm over that of the chair. The gloves he wore could not disguise the length of his fingers, nor the easy elegance of his hand in repose. In contrast, his right hand lay in his lap, the fingers rigidly curled in on themselves. Despite the bizarre incongruities of his appearance, he had the air of a monarch seated on his throne, one who has just declared a boon to an undeserving subject.

  Isabelle resented his attitude, his air of commanding superiority, and most of all, his assumption that he had a right to order her about. But she remembered her reason for bowing to his rule, and struggled to conceal her resentment.

  “Of course, sir. Thank you for your concern.”

  The polite varnish covering her words wore obviously thin in spots. Isabelle was not surprised when her poorly veiled sarcasm provoked a sharp response.

  “Oh come, now. You say it as though I were a tyrant and you my dutiful—” He stopped when she turned in her chair and glared at him.

  “Slave?” she asked archly.

  Her heart sank as she realized what she’d done. Where had it come from, this sudden, thoughtless need to strike back at him? She had forgotten herself. Worse, she had forgotten her purpose. She had forgotten Jenny.

  “That is not the word I would have chosen,” he said carefully. “You are certainly not a slave, to me nor anyone else.”

  “Yes.” The word erupted with harsh sibilance, her anger rising too hot and fast to be contained. “Yes, I am, as are all women. We are born to it.”

  He stared at her a long while. When he finally spoke, he sounded genuinely baffled. “What an extraordinary statement.”

  Isabelle felt dizzy with relief. He had responded to the content of her words and not their delivery. God willing, he might yet accept her apology.

  “Forgive me. I spoke too freely.”

  “You may always speak freely with me.” He paused, then added with surprising lightness, “In fact, I command you to do so.”

  Isabelle laughed nervously. He had made a joke of her rudeness, with the same self deprecating humor he’d demonstrated the last time they met. She liked him for it.

  “Shall we begin?” he asked easily.

  She picked up a pen, holding the nib against the desk to steady her shaking hand. “Whenever you wish, sir.”

  “A letter, then.”

  He told her to address it to a Professor Thomas Hunt Morgan, Bryn Mawr College. Isabelle wrote hastily, thinking it better to have to recopy the letter rather than fall behind in the dictation. As he continued with the body of the letter, she bit her lower lip in concentration, bending her head close to the paper in an effort to keep pace.

  After speaking several sentences in rapid succession, he paused, seeming at last to recognize her struggle to keep up. She continued to scrawl the words across the page, less concerned with their appearance than with their faithful transcription.

  He waited until she looked up to signal her readiness t
o continue. Instead of resuming the dictation, he added conversationally, “The Morgans were friends of my father’s family. Professor Morgan is more or less a contemporary of mine.”

  She nodded, not knowing what was expected of her.

  “You may have heard of his infamous uncle.”

  “No, sir, I haven’t.”

  She swallowed hard, feeling the confession slide down into the pit of her stomach like a heavy stone. It was inevitable that her ignorance would eventually reveal itself, though she had hoped to disguise it a while longer. But pretending knowledge she didn’t have would be foolish. Deception always came to light in the end.

  He shrugged, barely lifting his shoulders. “No reason you should have. His uncle earned his notoriety during the War of the Rebellion. His band of men—Morgan’s Raiders, they were called—made a nuisance of themselves until, eventually, the Union put a price on his head.”

  “He fought for the Confederacy, then?” Isabelle asked out of genuine interest, though she found it strange that Mr. Nashe had embarked on this unsolicited anecdote.

  “Yes, until he was captured. Betrayed by his own neighbor.”

  She shook her head, venturing what she hoped was an inoffensive opinion. “Those were tragic times.”

  “Quite.” He lifted his hand and rested the first two fingers against his temple, tilting his head slightly as he did so. “I am glad not to have lived during such a time.”

  Isabelle tried to think of something interesting to say, something that wouldn’t sound trite. She imagined Mr. Nashe often engaged in educated discourse with this professor. Or Dr. Garrick. He must think her dull as ditch water by comparison.

  “Where were we?” he asked, and sat up straight again.

  His abrupt abandonment of their conversation didn’t surprise Isabelle. He could be charming when he wanted, but she was learning from her own experience what Dr. Garrick had warned her of, that Mr. Nashe’s moods blew hot and cold.

  She looked down at the letter and read back to him, “As what word reached me during your absence has excited my interest.”

  He nodded. “Begin a new paragraph.”