A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  Madam shook her head dubiously. “There are so many who come and go.”

  “It was probably twelve or fifteen years ago.”

  “What was her name?”

  “Maria Tate. She had a young daughter, maybe thirteen, who—” Garrick turned his head aside and pretended to cough. He had nearly choked on his words. “The girl may have worked for you. Once.”

  Madam was known for her procurement of underage virgins for those whose tastes ran in that vein. Unfortunately, there were far too many men whose tastes did.

  “Oh, yes,” Madam said slowly, drawing out the words while she studied the picture again. “I’m beginning to remember now. She was a pretty young thing.”

  She glanced up, casting him a look of such unexpected sharpness that Garrick wondered what he had said to offend her.

  “But you should remember the daughter, my dear. You treated her.”

  “What?”

  “That’s where we never saw eye to eye, Doctor. You refuse to knock a baby for any of my girls, so they go to some apothecary who pokes at them with a length of wire and ends up killing the girl and the baby both.”

  A slow chill spread over Garrick, a glacial advance of recollection and regret that iced him to the marrow. He bowed his head. “Christ.”

  How could he have known? She had been so young then, nothing like the woman she was now.

  “Don’t fret, Dr. Garrick. She was one of the lucky ones. She lived.”

  He raised his head. Madam’s comfort, if indeed it was meant as such, only added to his regret. “She was mutilated. Beyond repair.”

  You cannot save them all, Simonne had said. But he should have tried. He should have done more.

  The pity of it was, his regret on Isabelle’s behalf was nothing compared to his overwhelming relief at knowing she could not possibly remember him. At the time, she had been too delirious with fever to know he was the one who treated her. She couldn’t know he was the one who cauterized her wounds to stop the bleeding—saving her life, yes, but also forever sealing her womb, condemning her to a barren, childless life.

  Madam shifted against her mound of pillows, sighing pointedly. Garrick took the none too subtle hint and returned to his original purpose.

  “What happened to the mother? To Maria?”

  “She got sick. Consumption. I sent her to the workhouse.” Madam shrugged, never one to apologize for her sins. “I’m not running a charity here.”

  Garrick wanted to judge the woman, but couldn’t bring himself to cast the first stone. As Christ had reminded the Pharisees, he himself was not without sin. He got to his feet, suddenly uncomfortable with the reflection of his own complicity that stared back at him from the old whore’s painted face.

  “You’ve told me what I needed to know.” More than he needed to know. “Thank you for your help.”

  Madam passed the daguerreotype back to him, which he quickly pocketed.

  “Don’t carry the weight of the world on your shoulders, Doctor. You didn’t make this world, you’re not responsible for it.”

  Garrick managed a lame smile, then took his leave with a bow. Back out in the street, he started running, with no idea the direction he would take.

  Chapter Thirty one

  “Isabelle, wait.”

  When she heard her name, Isabelle whirled around with a startled exclamation. Jonathan was standing behind her, not three feet away, and had caught her unawares. She gave an embarrassed laugh. “You surprised me.”

  Anyone else would have offered a light apology, an I beg your pardon, or some such automatic response. Not Jonathan. He simply stood there, somewhat out of breath, until Isabelle felt obliged to speak.

  “I thought you must have decided not to come.”

  “I told you I would.”

  Jonathan nearly cut her off before she finished, sounding annoyed by her lack of faith. Had it never occurred to him that she had a right to be annoyed with his tardiness?

  Rather than allow her irritation to show, Isabelle resumed walking, aiming once more in the direction of the rose garden. When a few paces on Jonathan came up beside her, Isabelle smiled to herself. With his long stride, he should not have fallen behind unless he hesitated. His brief indecision gratified her sense of justice, since it proved he had tasted what she meant to give him, a dose of his own rudeness.

  “The others are having a picnic after church.” She paused, glancing across at him to judge his reaction. “I was specifically not invited.”

  Jonathan replied with a noncommittal grunt.

  Isabelle took offense. Apparently, the others’ exclusion of her did not warrant his sympathy.

  The better part of her nature reminded Isabelle that Jonathan assumed his own exclusion to be so complete and universal that hers in this instance must seem to him unremarkable. She was the one who lacked sympathy. This recognition of her failing compelled Isabelle to confess what she would have preferred to leave unsaid.

  “I think the others may have seen us walking together last week.” She felt the heat rise to her cheeks. “I’m afraid they have come to quite the wrong conclusion.”

  “How inconvenient for you,” Jonathan said coldly.

  His sarcasm deftly turned the screw another revolution, boring into Isabelle’s conscience with the unfailing guilt she always experienced at putting her concerns above another’s. She attempted to atone for her failing with another confession.

  “It’s a small price to pay for your company.”

  Jonathan picked up his speed, obviously determined to end the conversation. Isabelle hurried to catch up to him, baffled that he would take offense at such a mild compliment.

  “Why are you trying to get away from me? What did I say?”

  “Those around me always pay,” he answered, without slowing down. “And the cost is always too dear.”

  Isabelle lifted her skirt above her ankles, nearly tripping in her effort to keep up. “My gain from our association far exceeds what small cost it has required of me,” she said breathlessly as she came up beside him.

  “Give it time.”

  “I would like to.”

  Jonathan continued on, ignoring her remark. Isabelle saw that the only way to get the truth was to demand it. She stepped in front of him, forcing him to an abrupt halt.

  “Are you going to end my employment here?”

  Jonathan jerked his head to one side, as though trying to keep her words from hitting their mark.

  “What makes you think that?”

  “It was plain enough you meant to do so last night.”

  “But I didn’t.”

  When he started to pass by her, she sidestepped, blocking his way.

  “Will you do so today? Because I can’t bear not knowing. If you want me to leave, Mr. Nashe, please tell me so now.”

  “Jonathan,” he said firmly.

  “I won’t let you go a step farther until you tell me.”

  “Are you that desperate to keep your position here? That you would go to such lengths as you did last night?”

  Did he know, or even care, how much courage it had taken for her to do what she did?

  Isabelle planted her hands on her hips. “You are implying that I am a liar. Or didn’t you hear a word I said last night?”

  “I heard you well enough, but—”

  “But you can’t forgive me for what I did? For exposing a part of you that you wanted to keep hidden?”

  “Your assumptions are unfounded,” he said stiffly, attempting to turn away from her.

  Isabelle grabbed his arm and forced him to turn back around. “I won’t let you turn away from me the same way you turn away from the rest of the world. If you plan to dismiss me, then I have nothing to lose by speaking freely.”

  “I thought we had agreed always to speak freely with one another.”

  “If you mean to keep your half of the bargain, then answer my question. Do you plan to make me leave?”

  There was a look in his eyes that s
hamed Isabelle. She let go of his arm.

  “I cannot make you leave,” he said. “No.”

  “Of course you can.”

  He shook his head, and his reply came in that disturbing voice of his, the especially low, rough voice that always took root inside her, sinking its tendrils in places she preferred not to think of.

  “Neither can I make you stay.” He took a deep breath and let it out, then added with greater force, “The choice is yours, Isabelle.”

  The choice was hers. She turned the idea over in her mind, at once elated and suspicious.

  “You allow me to choose?” Jonathan must know that she could not afford to leave his employ. He must know that poverty denied her the freedom of choice.

  They were walking once more, though Isabelle could not remember how or when they had continued on. When they came to the rose garden, she entered without giving it a thought, only stopping when she realized that Jonathan lagged behind. For some reason he seemed hesitant and, although he followed, she could tell he did so with the greatest reluctance.

  The yew hedge bounded the garden on four sides, forming a perfect square. In the far corner, Roger’s handiwork was immediately visible. Four long metal rods staked into the ground supported the corners of a length of heavy canvas. Beneath this makeshift awning, a table covered with a white damask cloth held a large wicker basket and, to one side, a silver urn. A bottle of champagne was cooling inside the urn, plunged up to its neck in cracked ice. Fine china and silver had been laid out for them, two of everything, including a pair of crystal champagne flutes.

  Isabelle immediately thought of a wedding breakfast. Not the social event before the ceremony with guests and family in attendance, but the more intimate affair shared by the newlyweds after their wedding night.

  “I see what you mean,” Jonathan said, coming up behind her. “Cook and the others have allowed their fancy to travel in quite the wrong direction.”

  “Yes, quite,” Isabelle agreed, though her own flight of fancy had taken an even more inappropriate direction.

  She went up to the table, wanting as much to get away from Jonathan as to see what Cook had prepared for them. She lifted the basket lid, letting it fold back on its long metal hinge.

  “Caviar,” Jonathan said over her shoulder, indicating the dish of tiny, glistening eggs nestled in a bowl of ice. “And smoked oysters.”

  He laughed wryly, as though more embarrassed than amused. Isabelle didn’t understand the humor.

  “Wild strawberries,” she added, and glanced back to see if that amused him as well.

  Jonathan lifted the dome of a cake stand positioned just behind the champagne urn. He stared for a moment, then said under his breath, “Oh, Cook, what have you done?”

  “What do you mean? It looks like a perfectly delicious cake to me.”

  He replaced the dome. “Gâteau au chocolat—chocolate cake. It was my mother’s recipe.”

  Isabelle sensed a shift in his mood, and not for the better. Thinking to distract him, she picked up a serving spoon and one of the china plates. “May I serve you? What would you like?”

  Jonathan stepped back from the table, lifting one hand to signal her to stop. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

  He continued backing away from her until he came up against a stone bench. It was the one where Isabelle liked to sit and think when she visited the rose garden.

  She lowered the spoon back to the table, realizing her utter stupidity. If she had been thinking at all just then, she would have understood Jonathan’s problem before she’d embarrassed them both.

  “Please forgive me for my thoughtlessness.”

  Jonathan said nothing to acknowledge her apology. Despite the mask, his discomfort showed in the way he held his body, like a hunted animal poised to bolt toward safety. Then it occurred to her, the simple solution, and she smiled.

  “We’ll sit there, on the bench, back to back.” She paused to give him time to appreciate her suggestion, then to further assure him added, “I won’t see you.”

  He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  Isabelle unexpectedly remembered Monique’s fetching pout and, sensing defeat, decided to give it a try.

  “What a shame to waste such a lovely picnic.” She puckered her lips and frowned slightly, calling forth her best approximation of Monique’s expression, at the same time hoping she did not look as ridiculous as she felt.

  “But . . . ” He stopped, his eyes on her mouth.

  Good heavens, Isabelle thought, it works. He was weakening.

  She recalled the effect Monique’s effusive praise had on Dr. Garrick and adopted a broad smile. “I knew you wouldn’t wish to disappoint me.”

  It was a lie, to be sure. She knew nothing of the sort.

  As Isabelle watched Jonathan draw a deep breath, her optimism of a moment before quickly faded. He was readying himself for an angry speech, about to put her in her place for presuming to know his wishes.

  She should have known. Monique’s tactics only worked for women with Monique’s beauty.

  “I . . . ” he began, then stopped and shrugged as he’d done before. He began again, his words coming slowly. “I would never disappoint you if it were within my power to prevent doing so.”

  His quiet confession exposed the selfishness of her little games.

  Too ashamed of herself to think of a response, Isabelle picked up the serving spoon and started to fill a plate.

  “Will you open the wine?” She kept her back turned, pretending that she never doubted he would do otherwise.

  After a long moment, he approached the table. She busied herself with filling the second plate, then set it down and turned to look at Jonathan. He was working the cork loose, easing it out expertly with his thumb while he gripped the neck of the bottle in his fingers. As she watched, Isabelle noticed for the first time that he wasn’t wearing gloves. He had obeyed her edict.

  Perhaps Monique was right. Perhaps she had underestimated her own power.

  Jonathan popped the cork, which made a sound like a soft sigh of gratitude. As froth bubbled up through the neck of the bottle, Isabelle snatched the crystal flutes off the table and held them out for Jonathan to fill. He poured gently, careful to keep the wine from foaming over the lip of the glass. When he was finished, he pushed the bottle into the urn, shoving it in deep, until the ice covered its rounded shoulders.

  Isabelle watched him perform this task, admiring his easy efficiency. When he had finished, she put the two glasses on the table and took him by the arm. “Sit down now,” she said, leading him to the bench, “and let me serve you.”

  Jonathan obeyed without protest, sitting where she put him. Isabelle returned to the table and gathered a plate and cutlery in one hand and a glass of champagne in the other. She took these to Jonathan, setting the glass beside him on the bench and settling the plate on his lap. When she had finished, she made another trip to the table for her own food.

  “I’m seating myself behind you.” Isabelle lowered herself onto the bench, keeping her back to Jonathan. “And I promise you, even should a runaway carriage or a charging elephant come at us, I won’t turn to look.”

  Jonathan laughed uneasily.

  “You will need to trust me.” Isabelle had to prompt him for a reply. “Do you?”

  “Yes,” he said grudgingly.

  Isabelle sipped the wine cautiously. She hadn’t wanted to confess that this was the first time she had ever tasted champagne. She liked it and took another sip. The bubbles tickled her throat.

  “À votre santé,” Jonathan said. “To your health.”

  “To yours.” She heard him put his glass on the bench. “What would I say if I were in France?”

  “Exactly what you said. To yours. À la vôtre.”

  “À la vôtre,” Isabelle repeated. She picked up her fork, then paused, listening for Jonathan to do so. “Tell me what you’re eating, so I can have the same.”

  Behind her, Jonathan laugh
ed. “I see through your ploy. You want to make certain that I’m eating.”

  “Think what you will. I merely wanted to share your experience.”

  Isabelle pretended to be miffed. Though, truthfully, she was a little miffed that he doubted her motives.

  “Smoked oyster,” Jonathan said.

  Oysters were another delicacy she had never tasted. Most of the time, her family had been fortunate to afford potatoes rather than turnips. Isabelle speared one with her fork, then brought it to her mouth, hesitating for a moment. The shellfish was gray and wrinkled, and did not look particularly appetizing.

  She touched the oyster experimentally with the tip of her tongue, then bravely wrapped her lips around it and sucked it off the fork.

  “You’ve gone awfully quiet,” Jonathan said. “How do I know you’re eating?”

  Not wishing to speak with her mouth full, Isabelle swallowed the oyster whole. The lump of flesh slid down her throat, producing a strange sensation, one she couldn’t say she particularly enjoyed.

  “Do you like these?” she blurted out.

  “I take it you do not.” Jonathan gave a short, breathy laugh that sounded as if he were more disgusted than amused. “And they are the last thing I need. Let’s move on to something else.”

  He paused as if deciding. “Caviar.”

  Isabelle studied the tiny glistening rounds on her plate. The caviar looked just as slimy as the oysters.

  “I like it neat. “

  “Neat?”

  “Unencumbered by the flavor of toast or biscuit.”

  Isabelle put down the roll she had just picked up and looked dolefully at the dollop of fish eggs on her fork. She had been hoping to disguise the texture of the caviar with the bread.

  “Have some champagne first, to cleanse your palate.”

  Isabelle reached for her champagne. Instead of sipping her drink, she took several quick gulps, nearly draining the glass.

  It was a good decision. The wine fortified her for the next delicacy. She closed her eyes, trying not to anticipate the feel of the caviar against her tongue, and closed her mouth around the fork. She drew the cool metal tines between her lips, prolonging the moment as long as possible before she deposited the caviar on her tongue.