A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  Before either of them could answer, she turned and ran from the room, returning only seconds later with a small ribbon bound packet. Isabelle immediately recognized her letters to Jonathan, and beneath them, a stack of heavy vellum envelopes which bore the embossed seal of his personal stationery.

  Jenny held the packet out, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “Give those to me.” Isabelle snatched the letters from her.

  “I thought you were plotting against me—us. Richard and me. I had no idea, Isabelle. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jenny bowed her head and hid her face in her hands, crying softly.

  For the first time in Isabelle’s life, Jenny’s tears failed to touch her. She carried the packet to the hall table, untied the ribbon, then went through Jonathan’s letters, ripping them open one by one until she found the most recent.

  He had written it on the typewriting machine, then signed it with a splotch of ink that resembled the letter J. Isabelle read the letter quickly, then again, more slowly, trying to take in its meaning, feeling a slow, deep cold creep into her flesh as she began to understand. Even when she came to the inevitable conclusion, she refused to believe what she knew to be true.

  “No, no, no . . . ” She was shaking her head, denying the proof she held in her hands, only half aware that she spoke aloud.

  Richard came up behind her and rested a hand on her shoulder.

  Isabelle briefly met Richard’s concerned gaze then resumed staring at the sheet of paper in her hand. “This last letter, he’s telling me good bye,” she said woodenly.

  “Don’t upset yourself. We’ll explain.”

  “You don’t understand.” Isabelle shrugged Richard’s hand away, then turned to face him, defiantly thrusting the letter in his face. “Listen to this. Just listen.”

  Isabelle started to read aloud, but the page blurred until the words became illegible. She stopped to wipe her eyes, then began again, blushing at the necessity of revealing the intimate nature of Jonathan’s words.

  “Though you may forget me, know this, when I close my eyes for the last time, it is your face I will see. Your name that will be on my lips as I breathe my last breath. Adieu mon amour . . . ” She stumbled over the pronunciation of the French phrase, then looked up from the letter as she spoke Jonathan’s last, ominous word. “Farewell.”

  Richard was staring with blank eyes, his lips moving before he thought to give his words voice.

  “Adieu.” He shook his head, frowning. “Adieu mon ami. Those were his last words to me.”

  He seemed to be working it out, Isabelle thought, but slowly, fighting comprehension as she had first done.

  “Not au revoir—until we meet again—but adieu. He means to . . . ”

  When Garrick couldn’t bring himself to say it, Isabelle felt the sudden, cruel urge to hurt him for his squeamishness. “He means to kill himself,” she said flatly.

  “Oh no!”

  This was from Jenny, who had drifted into the hallway, distancing herself from them with a diffidence born of guilt.

  “The laudanum,” Richard said, not even glancing in Jenny’s direction. “He had taken laudanum before my visit.”

  Their eyes met as the horror of what Jonathan meant to do passed between them.

  “I have to stop him.” Isabelle knew she needed to act. Immediately. They had wasted too much time already, time that could mean the difference between life and death for Jonathan. “Your horse—let me have your horse.”

  “But you can’t ride,” Richard objected, looking at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses.

  “Roger taught me how,” Isabelle said fiercely, surprising herself with the forcefulness of her reply. But it was stupid to waste more time by arguing. She barged past Richard, prepared to steal his horse if need be.

  On her way out the door, Isabelle glanced back to see Richard still standing there as though rooted to the spot. “Hurry,” she said, exasperated by his inaction. “There’s no time to waste.”

  Roused at last by her urgency, Richard followed Isabelle outside. She expected him to argue with her further, but he simply helped her mount the horse. With no thought for propriety, Isabelle swung her leg over the animal’s back. She could ride faster sitting astride like a man.

  “I’ll follow you as soon as I can find a hack.” Richard handed her the reins with a mild warning. “Be careful, Isabelle. He’s a good horse, but sometimes skittish.”

  She nodded, barely listening, trying instead to remember what Roger had taught her. Take control, he’d said. That’s the important thing. Don’t show your fear.

  Isabelle turned her mount into the street, wondering how she could possibly hide her fear when her heart was pounding louder than the horse’s hooves against the pavement. She was afraid of this creature, not at all sure she could stay in the saddle. But a greater fear spurred her forward, the much, much greater fear of losing Jonathan.

  Isabelle twisted around in the saddle and looked back to see Jenny watching at the window, her face contorted with crying. Their eyes met, Jenny’s begging forgiveness. Her sister waved, mouthing the words, Be careful.

  Standing in the middle of the street, Richard called the words aloud. “Be careful, Isabelle. God speed.”

  Before Richard had finished, the horse broke into a fast trot. By the time they reached the city center, Isabelle knew she was in trouble. Unlike traffic on a busy weekday, the buggies and carriages that crowded the main thoroughfare traveled at a leisurely pace. Their occupants were enjoying a Sunday afternoon ride, more with the purpose of parading their finery than of reaching any particular destination.

  Isabelle jerked inexpertly on the reins when a pedestrian stepped off the curb directly in front of her. She narrowly missed the elderly woman by cutting across the path of a landau, earning herself a stream of invective from the startled driver.

  People stopped to stare. Many of them gaped open mouthed at the sight of a woman sitting astride a horse like a man, her heavy skirts billowing out around her, her hair loose and wild as she awkwardly guided her mount past obstacles at a speed that would have been foolhardy for the most experienced of riders—which Isabelle obviously was not.

  Traffic thinned by the time they reached the edge of town. Now that there was less risk of collision, Isabelle whipped the horse into a gallop, mercilessly kicking its ribs with her heels to goad it to a faster gait.

  There were miles yet to go, and she was already bruised to the marrow. Her inner thighs had rubbed raw. They felt wet, and Isabelle thought the dampness might not be sweat, but blood. Every bounce against the saddle was agony. The pain soon drove all else from her mind. She rode, numb to the stares of onlookers, numb to her fear of falling, numb to everything save the searing pain and the thought of losing Jonathan.

  She reckoned an hour had passed when they reached the village of Bear’s Ford. Richard’s horse slowed to a walk, finally rebelling against her commands. Out of pity for the creature, she allowed it to set its own pace. They had made good time, and the road was well paved the rest of the way.

  As if to mock her optimism, the first rain began to fall. It started gently, the soft drops cool against her face, but by the time the village was behind her, the rain had come in earnest. Isabelle urged the horse along and, surprisingly, it obeyed. The animal had made the trip many times with Richard and, sensing the journey’s end to be near, picked up its pace.

  Thunder rolled ominously in the distance. The rain was coming down now in torrential sheets, obscuring the road ahead. Isabelle’s sodden skirts grew heavy, dragging at her until she listed dangerously to one side. She hugged the horse’s neck, twining her fingers in its mane, and struggled to hang on.

  Black storm clouds blotted out the waning afternoon sun, ushering in a premature dusk. The landscape acquired an eerie cast, as though the vegetation held what little light remained and was now slowly fading with the
soft phosphorescence of a dying firefly.

  Everything around her was dying, Isabelle thought. To have come so close, only to meet defeat at the whim of nature. She sobbed, once, too physically drained to give full vent to her despair. The horse’s ear twitched reflexively against her lips.

  Thunder sounded again, nearer now, rumbling toward them like a warning drum beat. The horse blew a noisy breath through its lips and jerked its head up.

  Isabelle sensed danger, too. The air was charged with it. Gooseflesh prickled her arms, sending a shiver down her spine. Ahead, a ghostly outline appeared. It shimmered behind the gray curtain of water, advancing, then receding from sight.

  A burst of lightning briefly illuminated the scene, lasting long enough for Isabelle to see the mysterious shape for what it was, the iron gate that marked the entrance to Jonathan’s estate. She cried out in relief just as lightning flashed again, striking a nearby tree with an ear splitting crack. Her mount jerked its head violently to the side, twisting the reins out of her grip before it screamed and reared, pawing at the air with its forelegs, its eyes rolling wildly.

  Isabelle grappled for the saddle horn, too late. The wet leather slipped from her grasp. She slid backwards past the horse’s rump, landing face down on the hard macadam road. The fall knocked the wind from her lungs. As the last tremors of thunder passed through the earth beneath her, she lay there, unable to draw breath, expecting that any moment the horse’s hooves would descend and crush her skull like a ripe melon.

  The air returned to her lungs in a rush. Isabelle gulped it in, taking several wheezing breaths before she was able to move again. She pushed herself up using the flats of her hands and peered through the rain. The horse was galloping away from the road, angling across the open fields in a desperate attempt to outrun the maddening terrors of the storm.

  Isabelle struggled to her feet and limped toward the gate. Though she ached in every part of her body, she hadn’t broken any bones. It was a miracle of God, she thought wryly. But would one miracle be enough?

  Isabelle grabbed the heavy wrought iron gate and pulled. Nothing happened. She pulled again. Again, nothing. The gate was locked, and the house was nearly a mile distant. If she called for help, no one would hear.

  She called out anyway, yelling until her throat was raw and she nearly lost her voice altogether. There was no one to help her, no rescue from any quarter. Richard would never make it through the storm, even assuming he found someone willing to hire out a horse and carriage.

  She was utterly alone and completely powerless.

  Isabelle beat her fists against the iron bars. To know that Jonathan was on the other side, in need of her help, possibly dying . . .

  Then the answer came to her, almost as clearly as if someone had spoken it into her ear. The key. Of course! She’d nearly forgotten.

  Isabelle groped her way along the wall, feeling each stone, testing the rough edges for loose mortar. Her fingertips were bleeding by the time one of the stones shifted beneath her touch. She clawed at the seam, tearing her nails to the quick before the stone finally worked free, then pulled at it recklessly, not realizing its weight. The heavy slab fell to the ground with a thud. Another inch closer and it would have crushed her foot.

  Isabelle thrust her hand into the empty space, running her hand over the rock’s surface until cold, smooth metal met her touch. She drew the key from its hiding place and hurried toward the gate, in her haste slipping on the wet grass and nearly taking a second fall. Her hand shook as she slotted the key into the lock.

  The mechanism proved stubbornly difficult to turn. Isabelle withdrew the key and impatiently jammed it back into the lock, meeting with the same resistance on her second try. She swore aloud.

  Her blasphemy earned a swift retribution. The key slipped from her fingers and sank beneath the mud.

  Isabelle dropped to her knees and began running her hands through the mud, feeling for the lost key. A strand of hair fell across her eyes, and she swiped it away, leaving a streak of filth across her cheek. She swore again, then thanked God in the same breath when her fingers closed around the key. It made a sucking noise when she pulled it free.

  Globs of sticky mud coated the long shaft of the key. Isabelle wiped it clean as best she could against her filthy skirt, then fit it into the lock. This time, the key turned smoothly.

  She grabbed the iron bars and heaved them back, pulling with all her strength. The gate grudgingly gave way with a sharp groan of rusted metal. As soon as the opening was wide enough, Isabelle squeezed through.

  The long walk to the house seemed to take forever and, in the way of nightmares, no time at all. Isabelle sobbed with relief when the front door opened at her first effort. She wondered why Roger had left it unlocked, but was too grateful at not having to call out for help to give the reason more than a passing thought. If the door had been locked, it would have been impossible for her to rouse the household. She barely had the voice left to whisper, let alone to raise a cry for help that could be heard above the pounding rain. Even lifting the doorknocker would have required more strength than she yet possessed.

  The house was darker than the premature night outdoors. There were no lamps lit, not even a single candle. Isabelle lurched across the foyer, her arms outstretched to feel for obstacles in her path. Nothing barred her way until her foot struck the first step and the jolt sent her sprawling her full length along the stairs. She scrambled to her feet, getting hung up in her sodden skirt and nearly falling again, but too near now to her goal to mind the additional bruises.

  There was a table at the top of the stairs and on it a lamp and a paper box of matches. Isabelle fumbled open the box, nearly spilling its contents, her fingers clumsy from cold and exhaustion. She could barely drag the match across the lighting strip, much less with sufficient speed and pressure to produce a spark. After several attempts, she was about to give it up as useless. Then suddenly the match head burst into flame with a tiny sulfurous explosion.

  She lit the lamp, holding the match until it burned down to nothing. Sucking her burnt fingers, uncaring of the pain, Isabelle adjusted the flame, then replaced the glass chimney. The wick needed trimming, causing the flame to gutter often, but it produced sufficient light to guide her to Jonathan’s door. She knocked, then entered without waiting for an answer.

  “Jonathan?” Her voice sounded strange to her own ears.

  She held the lamp above her head and surveyed the room. It was empty.

  The bedroom door was closed. He had to be there, she told herself. Asleep.

  “Jonathan?”

  She stood outside the door, swaying from exhaustion, her heart pounding in her ears, and called his name a third time.

  “Jonathan?”

  Why didn’t he answer?

  Isabelle turned the knob and slipped into the room, quietly, not wanting to wake Jonathan. Which was silly after all the noise she’d already made.

  He wasn’t there.

  The bedcovers lay jumbled and twisted. If Jonathan had slept that day, it must have been a fitful rest, Isabelle decided. She went to the bed and ran her hand over the sheets where he would have lain. The bed linens were cold to her touch. She caressed the depression his head had left in the pillow.

  Idiot. What was she doing? Wasting time when every second counted. When every passing moment might be the last . . .

  The last time she was in this room, they had lain together. He had been such a gentle lover, so patient, so . . .

  “Stop it!” Isabelle didn’t recognize her own voice, but she understood the warning. Time. Time was against her, and she had already lost too much.

  Too much time, not Jonathan. She couldn’t lose Jonathan.

  Her thoughts were beginning to get tangled up, as jumbled as the bed linens. Isabelle felt a wild laughter rising inside her, gaining strength, and she pushed it back down. Exhaustion had brought her to the brink of hysteria. She couldn’t let that happen.

  Where was he?

>   The library. Of course.

  She fled the room, fled the memories it held, everything a blur now. She should not have wasted time indulging in fond memories when Jonathan needed her. She should never have left him.

  She could never forgive herself if . . .

  Isabelle wouldn’t allow herself to finish the thought. She hurried down the stairs, passing through the parlor where they had spent so many hours together. But remembrance of their time there had not brought Jonathan to that room. The library was the only place he could be.

  Her arm had begun to ache from holding the lamp aloft. As soon as she entered the library, Isabelle set it on the nearest table. She leaned back against the door, which closed with a soft click of the latch. She looked around the room, unwilling to believe her eyes.

  He wasn’t there. The panic started to build again, the wild urge to laugh.

  Where could he have gone? Where does a man go who wants to die?

  She wanted to laugh, to cry, to scream for help.

  Then, an inexplicable peace came over her accompanied by a distinct scent of roses. Isabelle remembered her first glimpse of Jonathan, a dark figure striding across the lawn, expertly threading his way through the rubble. Though she had not known his destination at the time, his determined haste demonstrated a clear sense of purpose.

  And then she knew. She knew with a certainty she couldn’t explain, she knew it in her bones, in the deepest part of her, right through to her very soul. Where else would he go but there?

  She roused herself, fumbling with the door latch in her haste, then flung the door open and ran through the dark house, back outside, into the storm.

  The rain had not abated. Lightning streaked across the sky, too distant now to reveal her way, even briefly. The charred remains of the western wing showed black against the shadows as though they had absorbed the accumulated darkness of all the nights since the fire. She maneuvered the scattered rubble as best she could, managing to detect the larger obstacles by judging shades of darkness.