A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “What did Roger do?” Isabelle congratulated herself on how well she hid her distaste.

  “Roger?”

  Nellie looked perplexed, then blushed an even brighter red. Isabelle was growing genuinely concerned that she was about to have an attack of apoplexy.

  “It’s not what Roger’s done, Miss. It’s what me and ’im’s done together.” Nellie looked at Isabelle as if she should understand.

  Isabelle nodded, thinking it best to say nothing rather than reveal her ignorance.

  “We want to get married. We planned all along. But Mr. Nashe, ’e likes ’is peace and quiet and I’m thinking ’e won’t like us ’ere with a baby and all.”

  Isabelle stared at Nellie. It took several moments before the single most significant word in Nellie’s little speech jumped out at her.

  “Baby?” Isabelle blinked, as if her vision and not her hearing were at fault. “Did you say baby?”

  Nellie nodded, huge tears welling up in her eyes but not quite spilling over. “A baby,” she whispered.

  Isabelle let out an undignified squeal of joy and grabbed the astonished Nellie in a tight hug. “That’s wonderful!”

  Isabelle abruptly jumped to her feet, unable to contain her excitement, and began pacing back and forth in front of Nellie. “There’s so much to do. We’ll need clothes and blankets and a cradle and—” She laughed. “Of course, a nursery! A room will have to be readied.”

  All at once, the enormity of the preparations required overwhelmed Isabelle. She stopped her pacing to look down at Nellie.

  “When do you think the baby will arrive?” she asked, then thought how odd the question sounded, as though the baby were a guest needing to be met at the train station.

  “I figure around the end of November.”

  “The end of November?” An alarming thought occurred to Isabelle. “Have you seen a physician?”

  Nellie shook her head, looking miserable, as if she expected Isabelle to accuse her of negligence.

  “You must have a physician.” Isabelle wasn’t certain exactly when a woman was meant to see a doctor in these circumstances, but wasn’t it better to err on the side of caution? “We’ll ask Dr. Garrick to attend you.”

  “But Miss—”

  Isabelle interrupted. “He’ll see to it you have the very best of care.”

  “Miss,” Nellie repeated, with greater emphasis.

  Nellie’s concern finally made an impression. Isabelle blinked hard several times. Maybe she’d gotten a little too carried away in all the excitement.

  “Mr. Nashe mightn’t be glad of all the fuss. Mr. Nashe mightn’t want to be disturbed.”

  “Nonsense!” That Nellie could even think such a thing insulted Isabelle on Jonathan’s behalf. “He should be happy for you.”

  “Maybe he should be, but will he?”

  Nellie made an effort to pronounce her h’s each time she said he, giving an odd, breathy emphasis to the word. Isabelle was reminded of Monique’s declaration: “You wouldn’t know this he if he were standing in front of you.”

  For the first time, Isabelle began to have her doubts. She had assumed Jonathan would be as overjoyed at the news of the baby as she was. But what if she was wrong? The question made her uncomfortable, as though the answer might change the way she felt about him.

  “I won’t have peace of mind until I know.” Nellie bowed her head a moment, then looked up at Isabelle. “That’s why I’m asking if you’d speak to Mr. Nashe for me.” She paused, then added, “Please, Miss. I don’t want to lose my position.”

  Isabelle resumed her seat beside Nellie, touched by her fears—which were, after all, no different than her own. Since the day she arrived, she had known exactly how it felt to be dependent on a steady wage, yet not have the assurance of a job from one day to the next.

  Isabelle took Nellie’s hand. “I’ll speak to him tonight, so you may put your fears to rest.”

  “Tonight?”

  Isabelle blushed at the conclusion Nellie must have drawn from her use of the word. “I mean, the next time I see him.”

  Nellie’s face fell, prompting Isabelle to add, “Which will be soon. Today.”

  “Thank you,” Nellie said, brightening at once. “You’re so very kind, Miss. I knew I could count on you.”

  Nellie’s gratitude embarrassed Isabelle, because she knew it to be premature. Nellie assumed she bore an influence with Jonathan that she herself was less than certain of. In fact, after her wanton behavior last night, and her repeated refusal to marry him, Jonathan might be inclined to do the very opposite of anything she asked of him.

  “I’ll do my best,” Isabelle said weakly, following her promise with an even weaker smile.

  They sat a while in silence, until Nellie asked shyly, “I was wondering, Miss, would you stand up for me at the wedding? Roger wants it all proper, in the church and all, and so do I.”

  “I don’t know what to say, I mean—of course.” Isabelle smiled again, broadly this time. “I would be honored.”

  Isabelle hugged Nellie for longer than she normally would have done, because of the need to hide her tears. They were tears of joy, to be sure, but tears of shame as well. Would God bless a marriage where she had the audacity to stand in church as the maid of honor? She was as far from being a maiden as anyone could be.

  Isabelle released her embrace. As she leaned back, Nellie met her eyes, then quickly glanced away.

  “I wish,” she began, then said no more.

  “What?” Isabelle began to wonder if Nellie had sensed her shame.

  “Nothing, Miss.” She motioned with the hand that held the handkerchief, waving it like a white flag of surrender. “I shouldn’t say.”

  “Why not? Tell me what you’re wishing for.”

  Nellie looked out at the garden, avoiding Isabelle’s eyes, and spoke as though addressing someone standing on the opposite side. “I wish ours wasn’t the only wedding. I wish the same happiness for Mr. Nashe.”

  “We all wish him happiness,” Isabelle said, feeling like a hypocrite.

  Nellie met her eyes. “I wish it for you, too, Miss.”

  Isabelle blushed and dropped her gaze.

  “I shouldn’t say this, but—” Nellie hesitated. “Earlier on, before you came, I fell asleep here on the bench. It weren’t like me to fall asleep in the afternoon, but what with, I guess, my condition, I did.”

  Nellie stopped and took a deep breath, looking around the garden for such a long time that Isabelle began to wonder if she meant to finish her story.

  “It’s so peaceful here, I can’t describe the feeling.”

  “I know what you mean,” Isabelle murmured.

  “Anyways, to go on, I had a dream, and that weren’t like me neither, but everything was so clear, like it were really happening.”

  Nellie’s story pricked Isabelle’s interest, because she had experienced a similar vision here of a beautiful woman, her silk skirts whispering as she moved about the garden.

  “What did you dream about?”

  “I saw Mrs. Nashe. I never met her, of course I never, but I knew it was her, from the portrait. So young and pretty.”

  Gooseflesh rose on Isabelle’s arms, and a shiver went down her spine.

  “It makes me sad, she died so young. But she was happy in my dream. Real happy. And we were all here, too, at the wedding.”

  Isabelle felt light headed. “Wedding?”

  Nellie nodded. “It was her son’s wedding.”

  “Jonathan?” Isabelle blushed and quickly corrected herself. “I mean, Mr. Nashe?”

  Nellie nodded again, so intent on telling her dream that she failed to notice the effect it was having on Isabelle, an oversight for which Isabelle was extremely grateful.

  “Yes, I saw the preacher, and Dr. Garrick, your sister, too. Plain as day. And Mr. Nashe standing up in front and—forgive me for saying this, Miss, it was just a dream.”

  “Go on,” Isabelle whispered, with a sick feeling t
hat she already knew what Nellie was about to say.

  “I saw you standing up with him.”

  Chapter Forty one

  Garrick retired to his library after dinner, poured a generous portion of his favorite single malt, and settled into his armchair, ready to lose himself in a good book. The day help had gone; Perkins, his butler, was the only servant who quartered in the townhouse. Garrick preferred it that way. More and more, he liked his solitude. He shared that characteristic with Jonathan, he supposed, though with less justification.

  He took a long swallow of the whiskey, closing his eyes as he savored the subtle smoky flavor. A slow warmth spread through his body and with it visions of more carefree times, when he’d spent the holidays from his medical studies hiking the Scottish highlands. The landscape impressed him there as it had nowhere else. A man felt his insignificance, gazing out over the solitary hills. The occasional crofter’s cottage blended so well with its surroundings that it seemed less a sign of habitation than a reminder of its lack. In the distance, the snow capped peaks loomed, majestic, austere, indifferent. Yet Nature showed her generosity there as well, with bright yellow gorse blooms scattered in gaudy largesse, the excess tempered by patches of soft purple heather.

  Life itself seemed generous then. His future lay ahead of him, the possibilities of roads not taken, the giddy illusion of choice. But with each road taken, with each choice, he had abandoned the other possibilities. His direction now appeared set, the path narrowed, with no room to turn back, no crossroads, only a weary progression toward the same sad tomorrow.

  Garrick took another long swallow of whiskey. A mind mellowed by drink would help him turn his back on regrets and face the immediate difficulties before him. What was it Madam said? You didn’t make this world, Doctor. You’re not responsible for it.

  But Jonathan was his responsibility. And now, Jenny. His attempt at easing Jonathan’s difficulties had been an unmitigated disaster, start to finish, the end result Jonathan’s broken heart. As for Jenny—he cringed with shame every time he recalled how he had played on her affections to get her to remain at home.

  A loud banging at the front door brought Garrick to his feet. He hurried to answer the distressed caller, snatching up his jacket and thrusting his arms into its sleeves on the way. He actually welcomed the interruption. A serious medical emergency was a straightforward call to action, one that diverted him from his deplorable habit of self recrimination and regret.

  He arrived right behind Perkins, who shot a concerned look in his direction before opening the door. A woman stumbled across the threshold and fell, sobbing, into Garrick’s arms.

  “There, there,” Garrick reassured her, though he himself had turned cold with dread. Whatever had happened to the normally calm, level headed woman he knew must indeed be terrible to have reduced her to this hysteria. “Tell me now, what is it?”

  He prised her arms from around his neck, intending to encourage her to look at him. The ability to calm women with a look was a knack he’d discovered early on. He welcomed the gift as an asset to his profession, but took no pride in it, considering it an accident of nature, this set of features the fairer sex found arresting.

  Garrick leaned back to put some distance between them. As soon as he got his first good look at her face, his heart began to race.

  “Perkins, fetch some ice and a cloth.” The butler wasted no time with a reply, starting toward the kitchen with commendable haste. He threw up a hand to indicate he’d heard when Garrick called out after him. “Then bring me my bag.”

  “Come and sit down, Mrs. Cooper, and tell me the problem.”

  Her sobs had subsided somewhat, interspersed now with pitiful moans. Garrick put his arm around her shoulders and supported her as she allowed him to guide her into the library. He was already imagining the worst that might have happened to Jenny, but knew he would first have to calm Mrs. Cooper before there was any hope of getting a coherent story from her. He helped her into the armchair, then pulled a footstool close and sat beside her.

  “Here.” He handed his unfinished drink to Mrs. Cooper. “Drink this.”

  Garrick remembered that her Methodist faith forbade strong drink, but she eyed the contents of the glass only a moment before nodding gratefully. He gave her the glass; though she took it with both hands, they shook so violently, he had to put his own hands over hers and guide the drink to her lips. She downed the whiskey in one gulp.

  Perkins arrived then. He had already wrapped the ice in a linen tea towel, which he handed to Garrick.

  “Let me see to that.” Garrick took the glass from Mrs. Cooper and set it on the chairside table before turning his attention to her injury. When he gently rested the ice pack against her swollen eye, she winced, then let out a sigh of relief as the cold numbed her pain.

  “Laudanum, sir?” Perkins, having assessed the situation, was already opening Garrick’s medical bag.

  “Yes. Bring me the bottle, then fetch a glass of port.” The wine covered the taste of the drug better than whiskey. Besides, he couldn’t bring himself to do such an injustice to a good single malt.

  “Can you hold the pack yourself?” he asked Mrs. Cooper. She nodded, barely able to whisper her thanks. The whiskey was taking effect, Garrick noted with relief. “Now, can you tell me who did this to you?”

  Mrs. Cooper met his gaze with her one good eye. The other had swollen nearly shut.

  “Mr. Tate, sir.”

  Garrick bit back a curse, cutting off the flow of invective with the same swiftness he would use to apply a tourniquet to a gushing wound. His voice emerged low and preternaturally calm from the pressure required to stem his anger.

  “I think you had better start at the beginning, Mrs. Cooper.”

  She took a deep breath and reached for his hand. Garrick squeezed her fingers in encouragement.

  “We had just finished dinner when he came barging in. I could tell right away he’d been drinking.”

  “It would have been most unusual had he not,” Garrick said when she paused. “And then?”

  “He took Jenny by the arm and dragged her into the parlor.” Mrs. Cooper shook her head at the memory and began to cry again, the tears silently coursing down her cheeks. “I tried to go in after them, but he slammed the door in my face.”

  The room went dark. At first, Garrick thought the electric lights had failed. His vision soon returned, however, and with it a new understanding of what it meant to be blind with rage.

  “Did he hurt her?”

  Mrs. Cooper shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

  Garrick let out the breath he’d been holding. “Thank God.”

  “They argued, though. I could hear him shouting at her. I put my ear to the door, but Jenny was talking too quiet for me to hear what she was saying. Then the door opened—it almost knocked me down—and she tried to leave.”

  “Tried to leave?”

  “He grabbed her arm and raised his hand to hit her. That’s when I came in between, trying to stop him, and he did this.” Mrs. Cooper lifted the ice pack as though Garrick needed to be reminded of what lay beneath.

  “I’m so sorry. You’re a brave woman, Mrs. Cooper.”

  She replaced the ice pack, shaking her head. “No, sir, just foolish. But he made me mad, treating his own daughter that way.”

  “What did Jenny do?”

  “She ran away, out the front door. I was yelling for her to run, and she did.”

  “Dear God.” Garrick squeezed his eyes shut, trying to rid himself of the image of Jenny fleeing into the night.

  “He shouted out after her.” Mrs. Cooper shuddered at the memory, then added in a near whisper, “I hope she didn’t hear him.”

  The bastard had been paid to stay quiet. Garrick felt a fool for thinking Tate would honor the agreement. Already knowing the answer, he felt obliged to ask all the same, if only to encourage Mrs. Cooper to unburden herself.

  “What did he say?”

  Mrs. Cooper b
owed her head. “I hate to repeat it.”

  “Please.”

  She looked up, her tears coming faster now. “He said, I’ve already got one whore for a daughter, I don’t need two.”

  Garrick looked away, afraid to meet Mrs. Cooper’s eye. His emotions were too close to the surface and of such a murderous variety, he dared not risk revealing them.

  As his gaze wandered around the room, he saw the drapes were not yet drawn. Dusk had faded into night, allowing passersby to see into the room and make what they would of this unfortunate domestic scene. Though Perkins could easily have performed the task, Garrick went to the window and pulled the drapes closed, restoring their privacy and, more importantly, giving himself time to think.

  God knows what Jenny told her father in the heat of the moment, Garrick thought. If he were a betting man, he could safely wager that his own name had entered the conversation. He should have known Tate for the greedy bastard he was. The man would never be satisfied with the money, no matter what amount he was paid.

  Appearances favored Tate’s purposes. Garrick knew the fact that he had already succumbed to extortion only served to strengthen the case against him. The public had an insatiable appetite for scandal. He could just imagine the headlines in the yellow sheets: Respected Physician Debauches Underage Girls. Jenny’s name would be dragged into it, along with every other girl he’d ever treated. Madam wouldn’t be above manufacturing a few stories of her own, if the price was right.

  Behind him, Perkins cleared his throat discreetly, prompting Garrick’s realization that he was clutching the drapery fabric in both fists. He quickly let go, then self consciously tugged at his waistcoat and smoothed the lapels of his hastily donned jacket before turning to face Mrs. Cooper. Her bruised and swollen eye reminded him that there were more important things at stake here than his reputation.

  “Do you know Jenny’s whereabouts at the moment?” he asked.

  “No, sir,” she replied sadly.

  Garrick took the wine glass from the ever efficient Perkins and uncorked the laudanum bottle. He counted a sufficient number of drops to ensure Mrs. Cooper would sleep soundly through the night without pain, then handed her the glass. “Drink this medication, please, Mrs. Cooper, while I tell you what we must do.”