A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Ow!” He jumped, holding the seat of his pants with one hand and waving the telescope in the air with the other.

  Nellie snatched at the telescope, but Will was too quick for her. “Give me that, before you break it.”

  “I’m watching Miss Iz and Mr. Nashe.”

  “It’s a sin to lie, Will.”

  “I ain’t lying,” he protested, with what for Will was an unusual display of temper. He poked the telescope at Nellie. “Take it. You just see for yourself I ain’t.”

  Nellie was so surprised by Will’s uncharacteristic bad humor that she did as he said.

  “That way.” He pointed, directing her gaze as she brought the telescope to her eye.

  “Oh my,” Nellie murmured, then a second time, louder, “Oh my!” She couldn’t believe her eyes.

  “What’d I say?” Will laughed.

  “Nellie, have you gone daft?” Cook shouted up.

  She ignored her. “Sweet merciful God and all the saints in heaven.”

  “Nellie?” Cook sounded worried now.

  “Oh, Cook, it is them. And they’re . . . And she’s wearing . . . He’s . . . ” She dropped the telescope long enough to say, “Get up ’ere! You’ve got to see this.”

  Cook threw her hands out to her sides. “Now how do you expect me—?”

  Nellie interrupted. “Will, go help her up.”

  Will hooted, then slid down the wet grass on the seat of his pants. “Come on,” he said when he reached Cook, pulling her arm to urge her forward.

  Cook didn’t resist. When she reached the root cellar, she pulled herself up, grabbing handfuls of grass, while Will boosted her from behind, standing below her and indecorously shoving both hands against her bottom.

  She reached the top, panting, and snatched the telescope from Nellie, who was muttering over and over to herself, “Oh holy Jayzus, holy Jayzus.”

  “Dear God!” Cook exclaimed, then fell silent, watching a good long while before she lowered the telescope. It dropped from her fingers as she turned to face Nellie. The two women stared at one another. Then, as if on cue, they both let out an ear splitting shriek. Cook put her hands on Nellie’s shoulders, Nellie grabbed Cook’s waist, and the two women started hopping in place, shrieking and laughing and shrieking again.

  The kitchen door slammed shut as Roger came running through, yelling for Joe that it must be some kind of accident. He reached the root cellar and stood staring up at the two women in disbelief. Just then, Cook lost her footing, and both she and Nellie tumbled down, holding onto one another as they rolled down the gentle slope like conjoined logs. Will started running around in circles, flapping his arms and cackling.

  “What the blazes?” Joe asked, coming up behind Roger. The two men stared at Nellie and Cook, who lay in one another’s arms at the bottom of the hill, giggling hysterically.

  Roger shook his head in wonder. “Either they found the rest of the elderberry wine, or the two of them has gone mad.”

  Chapter Twenty three

  Garrick slowed his horse to a walk, crossing the last half mile to Nashe House at a leisurely pace. Save for the occasional downed branch, little evidence remained of the morning’s storm. He could only hope his previous visit had left similarly little damage.

  He was not one given to unreasoning optimism, but when a cooling breeze commenced, Garrick’s spirits lifted. The gentle breath of wind carried the freshness of rain washed vegetation and, inexplicably, something more, something that always evoked Simonne’s memory, the scent of roses.

  Garrick could not account for the overwhelming sense of her presence, at least not by any rational means. Peace flooded his heart. Peace, and a certainty that events were playing out in a manner that pleased Simonne. He rarely prayed, but as he entered the forecourt of Nashe House, he whispered a plea under his breath for Simonne’s guidance.

  Will scampered out from behind the shrubbery that edged the foundation of the building. Garrick wasn’t certain, but he could have sworn Will had been spying through the parlor window.

  “What are you up to there?” Garrick asked as he dismounted.

  Will took the horse’s reins, thrusting out an upturned palm for the penny he had come to expect. “Nothing, Dr. Garrick, sir.”

  When the boy hung his head, Garrick suspected that Will had indeed been up to mischief. He handed him the penny, then said sternly, “What were you looking at through the window?”

  Will stared at the penny, unable to suppress a grin as he closed his fingers around it.

  “Will?”

  The boy looked up at him, forcing his smile into a frown in a comical effort at gravitas. “I was watching for mites, sir.”

  “Mites?” Garrick repeated, not sure that he had heard correctly.

  Will nodded, setting his cowlick in motion. “Bedly mites, sir.”

  “Bedly. Mites.” Garrick repeated Will’s words slowly, trying to cipher their meaning.

  The cowlick bobbed vigorously. “That’s right. Cause Roger says that be what the others is, cause they’s all c r a z y.”

  Will grinned, obviously proud that he’d told Garrick something he didn’t know, and in a rush of words, proceeded to tell him more.

  “Cause I looked with the spyglass and I saw Miss Iz and Mr. Nashe, I think they was Nashe ing something fierce, and when I told Cook and Nellie, they turned all bedly mite and rolled in the grass.”

  Garrick had been merely mystified before. Now he was alarmed as well. But trying to get any more sense from Will would undoubtedly prove a waste of time. “Stable my horse, that’s a good lad.”

  Before the boy was out of sight, Nellie was hurriedly descending the front steps. The woman looked surprised to see him. Surprised, but blessedly sane.

  “Hello, Nellie. I’m here to see Mr. Nashe.”

  She bobbed a curtsey, smiling broadly. “Will you be wanting some refreshment, sir?”

  “Tea would be welcome.”

  Nellie’s smile widened into a grin, her eyes glinting with a private mirth that, in the end, could not be contained. She giggled like a child presented with a new puppy.

  “I expect you’ll both be in need of refreshment. What with all the fresh air and exercise.”

  “Indeed,” Garrick said cautiously. He watched in amazement as Nellie curtsied, then turned and skipped up the steps. Her amusement puzzled him. Add to that the familiar remark from the ever proper maid, and he was beginning to believe there might be something to Will’s nonsense after all.

  Garrick glanced up toward the second story window in time to see one of the drapery panels fall closed. Jonathan would be expecting him, then. He entered the house, mounting the stairs to the second floor with a license enjoyed by no other. Reaching Jonathan’s room, he announced himself without knocking.

  Jonathan was slow to reply. When he finally spoke, he sounded reluctant, as though the constraints of courtesy forced a response he did not wish to give. “Are you alone?”

  “Of course,” Garrick replied, thinking it an odd question. When had he ever come otherwise? He eased the door open. Jonathan was sitting in the chair by the window.

  “Come in.” He motioned Garrick inside, not bothering to stand. “I saw you arrive, but didn’t dare hope you might be visiting me.”

  Garrick ignored the reference to his previous Sunday visits, when he had slighted Jonathan’s company for Miss Tate’s. In retrospect, he was forced to admit he merited Jonathan’s petulance, however little harm he had meant by his actions. But there were greater matters at hand just now, and he dared not allow himself to be diverted by lesser ones.

  “Nellie will be bringing tea shortly.” Garrick shut the door behind him, knowing the precautions Jonathan always took to shield himself from the servants’ eyes. He caught a rung of the ladder back desk chair and dragged it across the room, positioning a seat for himself opposite Jonathan.

  Jonathan accepted Garrick’s announcement without comment. He looked particularly dispirited, slumped against on
e corner of the wing chair with his thin, angular frame folded in on itself like a deck chair. When Garrick saw the wine glass on the table at Jonathan’s elbow, all his earlier optimism faded.

  “But I see you already have your refreshment.” Garrick leaned forward, reaching across for Jonathan’s glass. He brought it to his nose and sniffed the sickly sweet, unmistakable odor of laudanum. “How frequently?” he asked, replacing the wine glass.

  “Only to sleep,” Jonathan mumbled.

  A weak excuse at five in the afternoon. “How much are you sleeping?”

  Garrick was relieved when Jonathan shrugged by way of answer. At least he hadn’t attempted to lie.

  “There are better remedies in the pharmacopia for sleeplessness, ones without the poppy’s addictive properties. I could prescribe valerian, for instance.”

  Garrick heard the frustration creeping into his voice and chose to drop the matter, at least for the moment. Berating the boy would do no good. In fact, it would give him yet another reason for seeking the oblivion induced by the drug.

  “I saw Barlow on Friday.”

  “Who?” Jonathan asked after a long pause, absent mindedly toying with a fold of the curtain.

  Garrick began to wonder at the cause of Jonathan’s distraction, whether the laudanum was not so much to blame as his obvious depression.

  “Your attorney.” Garrick reached inside his jacket and pulled a small packet from his breast pocket. “This came for you. I said I would deliver it and save Roger the trip into town.”

  Jonathan turned to face him, finally displaying an interest, however mild. “What is it?”

  “From your aunt, I believe, judging by the postmark.”

  Jonathan sat up straight for the first time since Garrick had entered the room. “Tante Auguste?”

  Garrick handed over the packet, then settled back in his chair, smiling as he watched Jonathan tear at the brown paper wrapping. Jonathan’s question did not require an answer, since Simonne’s sister was the boy’s only known living relative.

  Though he had some difficulty unknotting the twine that secured the packet, Jonathan did not ask for assistance, and Garrick knew better than to offer. When Jonathan finally succeeded in tearing away the last of the wrapping, both men exclaimed at the beauty of the elaborately hand tooled leather that bound the small volume. Jonathan opened the cover, and a sheet of onionskin covered in Auguste’s elegant French cursive drifted to the floor.

  Garrick bent to retrieve the letter, noticing for the first time the condition of Jonathan’s boots. His heart quickened. The dried mud covering Jonathan’s boots could mean only one thing. He had been out of doors that afternoon. In broad daylight! It was nothing short of a miracle.

  “Your boots are frightful,” he said, disguising his excitement. He handed the letter to Jonathan. “Let me fetch your slippers for you.”

  Garrick left Jonathan to read the letter, partly to give him privacy, but more so to hide the grin that he found himself unable to suppress. With a belated understanding of Nellie’s barely contained hilarity, he determined to quiz her at the first opportunity.

  When he returned, Jonathan had laid aside the letter and was reverently leafing through the small volume. As Garrick placed the slippers near his feet, he glanced at the open book and recognized the unmistakable shape of poetry on the page.

  Jonathan handed him the book. “She says she has bequeathed me her most prized possession.” He laughed unconvincingly, unable to cover his obvious embarrassment. “She says Mother came to her in a dream and told her I had need of these poems.”

  A cursory study of the titles told Garrick all he needed to know. “Love poems?”

  Jonathan nodded. “Read the dedication.”

  Garrick turned to the front and read the hand written inscription. It began Ma chère Auguste, then quickly devolved into language certain to incite the censor’s ire. He searched for the title page, immediately recognizing the name of the notorious poet whose work had caused a scandal in France, the most libertine country on the Continent. Elsewhere, it had caused an uproar.

  “An extraordinary woman,” he commented tersely, handing the book back to Jonathan. “Now give me those boots. I’ll put them out for Nellie to clean.”

  Jonathan looked down at his feet, as if only just aware of their condition. Planting the sole of one boot against the heel of the other, he pulled his foot free, then repeated the process, complaining as he did so. “I’m not a child, you know.”

  Garrick took the boots and placed them in the hallway, just outside the door. “You should hire a valet,” he said, when he returned.

  “Oh, certainly, that is exactly what I need.” Jonathan gave him an accusing look. “As if the secretary you found isn’t enough trouble.”

  Garrick countered Jonathan’s sarcasm with good humor. “Which reminds me of our discussion Thursday evening.”

  “What of it?” Jonathan shifted uneasily, bracing both arms against those of the chair, as if he intended to launch himself from his seat and bolt for the nearest exit.

  “I believe I have a way to help you express your contrition.”

  “You don’t say?” He shrugged, feigning an air of disinterest that fell far short of its intended result.

  There was a knock at the door before Garrick could explain. “I’ve brought your tea, sir,” Nellie called out.

  “Thank you.” Garrick rose to retrieve the tray from the hall table.

  “That will be all,” Jonathan added, taking the precaution of turning his back to the door should Nellie be slow to retreat.

  “Hot scones with strawberry jam.” Garrick lowered the tray onto the table beside Jonathan’s chair, discreetly setting aside the laudanum laced glass of wine. “Cook is a treasure.”

  “Tell me your plan.”

  “Ah, yes. The plan,” Garrick said slowly. He poured two cups of tea, then handed one to Jonathan, deliberately taking his time to reply.

  While Garrick tasted his tea, Jonathan set his cup aside, tapping his fingers against the arm of his chair. His impatience eventually got the better of his manners. Without waiting for Garrick to finish, he leaned forward and demanded, “The plan?”

  Garrick nodded, popping the second half of a scone into his mouth. He could tell he had Jonathan’s undivided attention, which was the outcome he’d been trying to achieve.

  Before he could finish chewing, Jonathan added ruefully, “It had better be a good plan. I’m afraid I’ve further compounded my difficulties since we last spoke.”

  Garrick swallowed, no longer tasting the strawberry jam. A sour taste filled his mouth as he imagined all his well laid schemes coming to naught. “What did you do?”

  The undamaged half of Jonathan’s face flushed scarlet, in startling contrast to the waxy pallor of his scars. He looked down at his slippered feet and muttered his confession. “I told her she is beautiful.”

  * * *

  Garrick left Jonathan cooking in a stew of embarrassment, misgiving, and uncertain hope. He had readily complied with the plan, if for no other reason than to be rid of his meddlesome friend. Garrick did not celebrate the success. He knew the greater challenge lay ahead of him.

  He found Nellie in the kitchen, wearing the same irrepressible grin as when he’d last seen her. Cook hurried in from the pantry when she heard him inquire as to Miss Tate’s whereabouts.

  “She was headed for the rose garden,” Cook informed him. “But that was a good three quarters of an hour ago.”

  “Thank you.” Garrick inclined his head. “And thank you for the delicious scones.”

  “I’m pleased you enjoyed them,” she answered modestly, smoothing the front of her apron.

  Garrick noticed a leaf of grass caught in Cook’s white hair. He smiled, wondering if she had, indeed, taken a roll in the grass as Will had said. That was a sight he was sorry to have missed.

  “Until Thursday.” Garrick started for the door, then turned. “I am happy to see you looking so well, ladies
.”

  “We are quite well, Dr. Garrick, sir,” Nellie replied. Cook chimed in. “Now.”

  The two women exchanged a look, resembling a pair of cats who had just finished off an especially tasty canary. They leaned their heads together and giggled like schoolgirls sharing a private joke.

  Shaking his head, Garrick took his leave. He would have liked to join in their mirth, but it was too soon to welcome Jonathan’s unexpected venture outside his rooms as the victory they had all hoped for. If Jonathan’s courage earned him nothing but defeat, then he might never be persuaded to try again. Only time would tell.

  Garrick found Miss Tate as Cook had said, in the rose garden. She looked up from her book, surprised to see him.

  He bowed. “May I join you?”

  “Of course.” Miss Tate tucked a ribbon between the pages to mark her place and set her book aside while Garrick lowered himself onto the bench. When she looked up, she saw him glancing across at her. The color rose to her cheeks as though he’d caught her at some indiscreet act. “Mr. Nashe kindly allowed me the use of his library,” she explained.

  Garrick acknowledged her comment with a perfunctory smile. He wondered about her preference in reading matter, then decided it might be better not to know, especially if it were one of the more lurid romantic novels she was reading.

  He rested his hands on his knees and redirected his gaze toward the garden. The rosebuds had begun to fill out. In no time at all, they would blossom. Garrick sighed. “This was Simonne’s favorite retreat.”

  “Simonne?”

  “Jonathan’s mother.”

  Several seconds passed before Miss Tate offered a comment.

  “I can understand,” she began hesitantly, as though afraid to express her opinion. “I love to come here myself. It’s such a peaceful spot. It makes me feel . . . ” Her words trailed off.

  Garrick turned to look at her directly. “The feeling is difficult to explain, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. They shared the understanding in silence until Miss Tate ventured a timid question. “Was she very beautiful? Mrs. Nashe?”

  Garrick pulled his watch from his waistcoat pocket. He pressed the clasp to open it, staring fondly for a moment before passing the watch to Miss Tate. She avoided his touch when she took it from him, as if the accidental brush of his fingertips might cause her pain.