Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose
Money couldn't buy happiness—or love
An ordinary hardworking girl, Rose enjoyed her job as a florist and found little to respect in the glamorously rich socialites who peopled the south of France.
She couldn't understand the idle pleasure-seeking life-style of the wealthy—and more specifically, that of Lance Hammond, who seemed its prime example.
Rose could honestly say that he was not her type—or at least she could until the day she met him…
CHAPTER ONE
ROSE TIVERTON placed the speckled pink orchids in a box, carefully fixed on the cellophane lid and tied a satin bow around it. Although she had been working as a florist for two years, she still indulged in daydreams about the recipients of the various bouquets she made up, and she could tell a great deal from the people who ordered them. The young man with a stammer who had bought a bunch of violets this morning had obviously intended to give them to his girl; the motherly looking woman who had hovered between daffodils and tulips had no doubt been buying them for her invalid husband, while the suave looking man in front of her now was no doubt a business executive intent on wooing his secretary!
"Thank you," the man said as he tucked the box under his arm. "I never expected to find a florist open so late. It's a good thing too. If I'd forgotten my wife's birthday she'd never have forgiven me."
"I'm sure she'll adore them," Rose replied and watched the customer leave the shop.
"A secretary indeed!" she thought wryly as she bolted the door and pulled down the blind. "The trouble with you, my girl, is that you let your imagination run away with you."
She began to clear the window of flowers, examining the bunches carefully before putting them into deep pails of water at the back of the shop. Then she sat down behind the counter and pulled a notebook towards her. Deciding what flowers to purchase each day was no easy task, for not only did she have to consider the special orders that had to be made, but also whether any of the left over stock would still be saleable in the morning.
Occasionally she went to Covent Garden herself to do the buying, and though it meant rising at dawn in order to be in time for the first pick, it was an effort she enjoyed, for she loved to wander among the masses of flowers and plants, their scent triumphantly winning over the less pleasant odors that wafted in from neighboring premises.
However, Mr. Marks the proprietor usually went, for he preferred to leave Rose to run the shop. "Another year or two," he had said, "and I'll let you buy the place from me."
Rose glanced around her. Another year or two. Why, if she had the money she would open her own florist's immediately! There was so much she could do to this place if it were hers: specialize in small, inexpensive bouquets; concentrate on certain types of plants and encourage people not to be embarrassed at just buying one or two blooms if they could not afford to buy more.
She sighed, and walking over to the wash basin, began to powder her nose in front of the mirror. "I'm likely to be an old lady before I ever have a shop of my own," she thought. "And then I'll be looking for a young person to whom I can sell it!" The idea brought a smile to her lips and she smudged the lipstick she was trying to apply. With an exclamation of annoyance she rubbed it off and began again, peering closely into the mirror. Large grey eyes looked back at her from a small oval face which even after a long day still had the shiny quality of youth about it. It was a youthfulness at variance with the way she wore her hair, for it was long enough to reach her waist and was looped in a thick chestnut plait around her head. Many times Rose had toyed with the idea of cutting her hair short, but always at the last moment she hesitated, reluctant to abandon the especial pleasure she received each night when the pins were taken out and her hair rippled over her shoulders like a curtain of mahogany.
She replaced the powder compact in her handbag, put on her coat and, taking a final look around, switched off the lights. In the far corner a cluster of rose petals gleamed pink and she picked them up and held them in her hand as she locked the door and walked down the road.
A cold wind beat against her as she crossed Grosvenor Square and she shivered and thrust her hands deep into her pockets, wincing slightly as her skin, chapped and sore, rubbed against the material. "One of the hazards of being a florist," she thought, for not even the most expensive cream could keep smooth hands that were continually dipping into ice-cold water and fondling rough stems. Not that she would change her job for any other; since she was a child she had been determined to work among flowers.
She turned into Duke Street and, shielded from the wind, slowed her pace, suddenly enjoying the crisp air. It had a tang of the sea about it and she was caught on a wave of homesickness for her father and the Devon village where she had been born.
She reached Oxford Street and stood on the pavement waiting for a gap in the stream of traffic. The line of buses and cars stopped to allow a taxi to turn round, and Rose had one foot off the curb when she saw a black poodle picking its way in a leisure!y fashion across the road. She became aware of a woman or. the opposite pavement calling the dog, but the animal took no notice and had almost reached the curb when the taxi completed its turn and the traffic surged forward again. A blue car bore down on the poodle and, hardly aware of what she was doing, Rose jumped into the road and gripped the dog by the neck. There was a grinding of brakes and a tremendous jolt in the small of her back, followed by a searing pain which made the whole scene lose its focus. Slowly, as if there was a long way between herself and the pavement, she felt herself falling and then knew no more.
When Rose returned to consciousness white walls met her gaze and a light shone so brightly on her eyes that she closed them again.
"She's coming round," a voice murmured and Rose opened her eyes once more and saw the white of a nurse's uniform.
"Where am I?" she asked weakly.
"In hospital. But you're going to be all right. Just lie quiet now."
"My head," Rose groaned. "I've a terrible pain in my head."
"I'm not surprised," the nurse said. "You went smack on the pavement before anyone had a chance to catch you. I'll give you something to make you sleep again and you'll feel much better when you wake up."
As she spoke she prepared an injection but when she came over to the bed with it, memory returned to Rose so forcibly that she struggled to sit up.
"The dog," she cried. "What happened to the dog?"
"Nothing happened to it, thanks to you," the nurse said. "And if you ask me, people have no right to let their animals run about loose like that. You could easily have been killed, you know, dashing into the traffic the way you did."
Rose relaxed on the pillows and was no longer listening as she felt the prick of the hypodermic in her arm. The dog was safe and she was able to put it out of her mind.
When she awoke again it was morning and a doctor was standing by the nurse's side looking down at her.
'You're feeling better today, Miss Tiverton," he said, more as a statement than a question.
"Yes, thank you." Rose tried to sit up, but the walls seemed to close in on her and she fell back on the pillows again. "At least, I do as long as I keep still."
"You'll feel dizzy for a while yet," the doctor said. "You were badly concussed, you know. We were expecting you to take even longer than you did to become rational again."
Rose stared at him in surprise. "How long have I been here then?"
"Three days."
"Three days! I can't believe it. And how long will I have to remain here?"
"Another week, I'd say, and then a fortnight convalescence somewhere…"
"But that's impossible! I must get back to
my job."
She tried to sit up but the movement caused such a sharp pain that she could not talk.
The nurse leaned forward and caught her wrist. "You must lie quiet, dear. You won't do yourself any good by getting excited. You had your insurance card in your handbag and Matron has already spoken to your employer."
"Everything's under control," the doctor interposed. 'You've nothing to worry about. Just take things easy and you'll be fine."
For the next few days Rose had no option but to do as she was told for she was not allowed any visitors. It was an edict that did not worry her for all she longed to do was sleep. Even her natural curiosity seemed to have disappeared, and it was not until the end of the week, when she was able to move her head without a continual stabbing pain, that she gave any thought to the fact that she was in an obviously expensive private room.
"I must have been seriously ill," she said to the nurse in charge of her. "Otherwise I'd have been in a public ward."
"Not with Mrs. Rogers paying the bill!" the nurse grinned.
Rose was puzzled. "I don't know a Mrs. Rogers. What's she got to do with it?"
"She's the owner of the dog you saved. And what a state she was in! Couldn't do enough for you. She arranged for this room and said you were to have whatever you wanted. She's been in every day asking to see you and even brought the dog in the first time. You should have seen Sister's face!"
Rose smiled and closed her eyes.
"Now don't go to sleep again," the nurse said firmly. "Not when the doctor's allowing you your first visitor."
Instantly Rose was wide awake again.
"Why didn't you say so before? Who is it — Mr. Marks?"
"No. The dog's mother — Mrs. Rogers," the nurse said dryly and rustled out of the room.
The afternoon sun was pouring through the window, lighting up the red tints in Rose's hair and accentuating the paleness of her face when the nurse showed in a grey- haired woman wrapped from head to toe in mink. Her wrinkled hands as she pulled off her gloves glittered with diamonds, and when she leaned over the bed a treble rope of exquisite pearls could be seen around the crepy neck.
"You must be Mrs. Rogers," Rose smiled and held out her hand.
"My dear, thank heavens you're better." The woman caught Rose's hand in hers and pressed it gently. "I can't ever thank you enough for saving my Benjy. No words on earth can do that. But when I think of what could have happened to you…" She shivered. "The very thought of it makes me ill."
"Well, nothing happened to me," Rose interrupted. "And in a few days I'll be perfectly well again."
Mrs. Rogers looked at her intently. "You're so pale and thin, my dear."
"I'm naturally thin, "and most people are pale when they've been in bed for a week."
"Maybe so," said the woman. "But what you really need is a nice holiday in the sun. And that's what you're going to get."
Rose looked mystified. "I don't understand."
"It's quite simple. I'll arrange for you to go on a Mediterranean cruise. I've already spoken to your employer and he says your job will be open for you whenever you're well enough." She patted Rose's arm with her beringed hand. "Now, I don't want any disagreement about it, my dear. It's the least I can do for you after what you did for me''
Rose's eyes filled with tears at the woman's kindness. "It's terribly good of you, but I can't possibly accept."
"Of course you can!"
"But I can't. I really mean it. I couldn't possibly take a reward for what I did."
"It isn't a reward, my dear," Mrs. Rogers added quickly.
"That's what it seems like to me," Rose answered. "Anyway, my father lives in Devon — right by the sea — and I can go and stay with him."
Mrs. Rogers gathered her things together and stood up. "I won't argue with you any more. You're young and like all the young are obstinate. But old people can be obstinate too — as you'll find out for yourself when you get to my age. I'll be back tomorrow and we'll talk about my plan then."
For the rest of the day and the following morning Rose pondered Mrs. Rogers' offer, but no matter from which angle she considered it she still found it an impossible one to accept. A Mediterranean cruise sounded ideal but to take it would put her under an obligation to someone who was practically a stranger. "If the poodle had belonged to a charlady I'd have been lucky to get a couple of oranges," she thought. "I certainly can't accept a cruise."
However when Mrs. Rogers arrived the following afternoon she made no attempt to persuade Rose to fall in with her plan.
"If your pride is involved there's no point in arguing with you," she said. "So I've got another suggestion which I think you'll find much more acceptable."
The woman drew her chair closer to the bed and Rose listened with growing wonder to an offer she had never believed possible.
It appeared that Mrs. Rogers spent at least four months every year in the South of France and stayed at the Hotel Plage in Cannes. It was one of the most luxurious hotels on the Cote d'Azur and apart from having its own perfumery, hairdresser's and gift shop it also had its own florist's. It was here that Mrs. Rogers proposed Rose should work!
"I know the manager very well indeed and I have already spoken to him on the telephone. He will be delighted for you to start work any time you wish. The job is by no means arduous," the old woman informed her, "and you would get the benefit of sunshine and sea air without putting yourself under an obligation to me."
"But why is the job vacant?" Rose asked.
"The woman who's been running it unexpectedly left to get married a week ago, and Monsieur Ferrier has not yet succeeded in replacing her. I've already spoken to your present employer and he thinks it would be too good an opportunity for you to miss."
Rose's breath came out in a long sigh. "You've thought of everything, haven't you?"
"Of course," Mrs. Rogers replied triumphantly. "My late husband always used to call me the most managing of women!"
"I can see why," Rose smiled. "Tell me, how long would I have to stay in Cannes? I mean, would I be able to leave if I didn't like the job?"
"You arc perfectly free, my dear. All I have done is to procure you the offer. Once you're there you're completely on your own and if Monsieur Ferrier wants to give you the sack I won't be able to stop him."
Mrs. Rogers stood up. "Now then, it's all settled. You'll be able to convalesce at your father's home and as soon as you are fit enough to travel I'll make all the arrangements."
After her visitor had gone Rose gave herself up to thoughts of sunshine, long stretches of golden sand and the excitement of a new job in a glamorous setting. Whoever would have believed that saving the life of a poodle could lead to such a marvellous future?
CHAPTER TWO
IT was not until a fortnight after her accident that Rose boarded the Cornish Express at Paddington and within a few hours had exchanged the smoke-filled air of London for the bracing air of Devon.
As always, when she first saw the grey stone house where she had been born she felt a thrill of homecoming. People used to neat little whitewashed cottages with roses round the door might not like this one, yet it had something of more lasting value than the stereotyped prettiness of most country cottages. Mystery and romance seemed to imbue its very stones — stones which had stood for almost four hundred years and looked sturdy enough to stand for another four hundred. Even the garden, neglected and overgrown though it was, had a wild beauty that always tugged at Rose's heart, although she could not stop herself from heaving a sigh as she looked at the weed covered lawns and tangled borders.
But it was the tall man with the lined face and thick iron grey hair who came to the door to welcome her who held Rose's attention.
"It's so wonderful to see you, Dad," she cried and flung herself into his arms.
"You should have told me you'd had an accident," he said as he patted her shoulder. "It wasn't right of you to wait until you were out of the hospital."
"There was
no point in worrying you."
"Even so —" He held her away from him and looked at her intently, his grey eyes extraordinarily like her own. "You look as if you could do with a few weeks down here. I hope this isn't going to be one of your usual rushed visits?"
"Certainly not. But let me come in and get settled, and I'll tell you all about it."
"Of course. How stupid of me."
Keeping his arm over her shoulders he led her into the living room, and as soon as they had settled down on either side of the fireplace Rose told him of the job she had been offered in the South of France.
"It's a wonderful opportunity for you," her father said seriously. "I've always felt it a shame that you were cooped up in a little florist's in the back of beyond."
"You can hardly call a mews turning off Grosvenor Square the back of beyond! And anyway, I'll still be working as a florist even if it is in France."
"Maybe so, but at least you'll have the opportunity of meeting some young men. Your mother was married and had had you by the time she was your age."
"I've never been in love," Rose said. "And I'm romantic enough to consider that love is the most important thing in marriage. After all, I saw the wonderful life you and Mother had and I wouldn't accept anything less."
"I don't want you to accept anything less," her father said gruffly. "But there aren't many marriages like your mother's and mine. She was a woman in a million."
The atmosphere became charged with sadness and Rose stifled a sigh. What a tragedy it was that her mother had died so unexpectedly. Her parents had been an ideal couple, for Marion Tiverton had combined a strong sense of fun with an equally strong maternal instinct, while Desmond Tiverton, a brilliant historian, had just enough of the little boy in his make-up to give scope to his wife's all-embracing protectiveness. And it had certainly been all-embracing, Rose mused, remembering the innumerable stray animals that had found refuge in their home. It was from her mother she had inherited her love of animals and flowers and from her father her strong sense of independence. It was strange to think that it had been her mother's trait that had resulted in her being here now and recuperating from an accident and the independence which she had inherited from her father that had resulted in her taking a job in Cannes rather than accepting a cruise.
Rachel Lindsay - Heart of a Rose Page 1