Punish Me With Roses - a Victorian Historical Romance

by Juliet Moore

  Punish Me With Roses

  by Juliet Moore

  1836, England

  The beggar trudged through the snow, his threadbare coat's failure to block out the worst of the weather obvious from yards away. When Victoria Clavering saw him, she shivered and had to resist the impulse to pull her cloak tighter around her body. Seeing his worn out clothing and downtrodden walk reminded her of all she still possessed, even after the untimely death of her parents. It was Christmas and the beggar was truly alone. Victoria just felt like it.

  No one else standing on the expansive lawn of Blackmoore Manor seemed to notice the poor man. The company consisted mostly of Hugh Clavering's electors, the people he hoped would guarantee him a seat in the House of Commons. Tenants from Hugh's land were scattered across the lawn, joining their voices together to herald the arrival of Christmas. They had come a-wassailing and they wouldn't be disappointed. To impress the important Pickering, Carter, and Winston families, Hugh was going to make a huge show of spirited revelry and good will toward men.

  Victoria turned to him, her long-time cousin and recently her provider. "Did you see that man?"

  "I tried not to," he threw back, keeping his gaze on the carolers.

  "Do you wish to appear so hypocritical?"

  "Don't be foolish, Victoria. He is not one of my tenants. And you know I'm only doing this because the Pickerings are charmed by such things." He smiled at Fran Pickering, fifteen years old, and the girl moved closer.

  She was surprised that Hugh wasn't giving as much attention to Jane Winston. Perhaps he was smarter than she thought. "Why don't you impress them further by inviting that man to dine?"

  "At the table, Victoria? You must be out of your mind!"

  "I meant with the servants, Hugh. The point is, he needs to be fed. It's in the spirit of the season."

  "Next you'll say, 'Be a sport!' and expect me to fervently nod my acquiescence. Well it's not going to happen this time, dear." He lowered his voice. "Lord, if I had known you'd be such a handful, I never would have taken you in."

  How nice it was to be wanted. "He won't be any trouble. We have enough space, enough food, and certainly enough manners."

  "Forget it, will you? He's halfway home by now."

  "If he has a home."

  Hugh sighed. "Must you be melodramatic? If he'd been so destitute, surely he would have done something about it on his own."

  "And you say I know nothing of the real world!"

  He turned to face her. "Keep your voice down!"

  "Why should I? I think your guests should know how much you really care for the poor."

  "They are not just guests, child. The Pickerings, the Winstons, and the Carters are major constituents. I must regain my position in the parliament, or that beggar won't be the only one out in the cold."

  "Nonsense. You don't care one bit about the true meaning of your post."

  "And you may have gotten away with manipulating your parents, but I'm tired of you resorting to the same with me."

  "I wish they were still alive so that they could tell you how wrong you are." She shivered again.

  Hugh herded everyone inside. "Of course you're all invited to partake of some mead and hot cider. Everything is waiting in the hall."

  He made it sound as if hot drinks had appeared out of thin air. As with everything he did, the people would smile and comment on how nice Hugh Clavering was, as if he had come from hard work rather than his inheritance.

  Jane Winston sidled by with Nigel, her partner-in-crime. Even the glances she sent in Victoria's direction were oddly seductive, as if her man-pleasing persona wasn't something she could easily turn off. Victoria was sure the look Jane had gifted Hugh with had been scorching.

  Besides the carolers, she was the last person to enter Blackmoore. She liked the house, even with its unfortunate quality of housing Hugh. Its age-old Elizabethan architecture comforted her, as if it were a testament to the permanence of at least some things in her world. Her parents' stay was all too temporary, and even her current situation would soon change. When the House of Commons began its next session, Hugh would have to go back to his house in London. Would he take her with him or would he try to forget she'd even come to him by leaving her alone in the country? She'd stake her inheritance on the fact that he'd leave that decision to the last minute, as he did with most things that involved someone other than himself.

  She looked around the hall, now full of loud revelers, and she had to admit that Hugh was apt at playing the gracious host.

  "Victoria, help hand out the mead."

  She walked toward Hugh rather than the tenants. She wasn't finished with him.

  "What now?" Unless she'd mistaken the hungry glint in his eyes, he had been about to join the Pickering's family circle. If he got that couple on his side, they would bring many others to the election to vote on Hugh's behalf.

  "I want to help that man."

  "You're still thinking about that! Now it really is out of our way. I can't drop everything and--"

  "I know. I'll go after him myself." The fire on her right-hand side was tickling her with its warmth. She wanted to do what was right, no matter how uncomfortable or how much she'd cringe against the cold winter air.

  "No. Absolutely not." Hard lines were set in his face after too many years of frowning at the smallest detail.

  "Fine. Have it your way." She immediately turned and started to leave the room.

  He was at her side in only a moment. "Where are you going?"

  "I can't stand to be in this room one minute longer." The people seemed to be more voluble than possible for their number. The fire suddenly felt too hot, even though all through England they were experiencing a winter unlike any other.

  "What is wrong with you? I'm not trying to be cruel, Victoria. You must understand that. I think it's important for good friends to be together over the holidays, without any strangers to upset the balance." His tone was gentle, pleading.

  She took a quick look around the room, even though it was hardly necessary after the way she'd been studying the same group of people all evening. "These people are your friends?"

  "Well, not the tenants..."

  "If this group of people is your closest friends, then I feel more pity for you than anything else. Not only that, but I don't know even one of these people. If love during the holidays is so important to you, then why isn't there anyone here that is close to me?"

  He frowned. "But who do you have?"

  She shook the snow from the bottom of her cloak to avoid meeting his eyes. "You might have contacted your father. He did send me that letter."

  "If he's as sick as he claims, he wouldn't have been able to travel."

  "Even more reason for me to visit him." She touched the key that was hidden under her high-necked bodice. It unlocked the drawer she'd put her uncle's most recent correspondence in. She'd reread the letter every night since she'd received it.

  The action made him look down at her dark blue dress and frown. He'd told her not to wear something so prudish, but she'd ignored his unasked-for advice. "I already told you that you can't go to Cornwall. But like most things I forbid of you, you'll probably do that too."

  "I would never disobey you if you were at least fair with me. Why don't you at least try to understand? I've mentioned before how much I'd like to meet someone that was close to my parents."

  "But it's not as if you didn't grow up with them, Victoria. There's nothing a relative could tell you that you don't already know."

  Now she looked at him and made sure that he saw the emotion in her eyes. "I may have known them wel
l, but now they're gone. I certainly can't discuss them with you. Maybe a closer family member might be more interested." She thought of the dusty portraits that hung in the gallery. The only tribute to Hugh's own parents that existed in all of Blackmoore.

  "I do think you should stay awhile. The guests will wonder what has happened to you."

  She shook her head.

  He didn't say another word before joining the Pickerings. The only reason he'd spoken to her as long as he had was probably to think of a suitable excuse to explain her absence to his "friends."

  She went straight to the forbidden domain: the kitchen.

  "Oh dear!" Mrs. Higgins, the cook, almost dropped the bowl of blood pudding when she laid her eyes on Victoria.

  "Don't make a fuss, Cook. I'm only here to get some food."

  "What for?"

  "For one who might have to do without."

  Work-worn hands went to the ample hips immediately. "Something funny is afoot. I'd bet my pay that you're up to no good."

  She approached the older woman, wrinkled through hard work rather than through taking life too seriously. She preferred the cook's company to her own cousins. "I'll explain everything to you if you'll just prepare a basket of food."

  "You'll explain first, Miss," she replied, lord and master of her own domain.

  She quickly explained the plight of the poor beggar and tried to appeal to Mrs. Higgin's maternal side. She was so sure of the response that she still hadn't removed her cloak. The heat from the oven made her anxious to be on her way.

  "You-know-who ain't gonna like this one bit."

  She waited.

  "Oh, get on with you! Take a seat and I'll fix something up."

  The woman was true to her word. In only five minutes time, she'd prepared a small meal using cuttings from the largest portions. She dropped it all into a small basket and handed it to Victoria.

  "Thank you!" She hurried toward the back exit.

  "Are you going all by yourself?"

  "Don't worry about me, Cook. My parents always insisted I value my independence."

  She leaned forward. "Maybe a groom..."

  "And disturb him on Christmas? No. This is my plight."

  "Well, take care of yourself, then."

  She nodded and left the warmth of the kitchen for the biting cold of night. When the cool air touched her exposed skin she wanted to run back inside. The perspiration she'd built up from being in the hot kitchen turned to ice the moment she left its sanctity.

  Her cloak was long and thick and made of heavy, black velvet. It had been made for her when she'd spent a winter with her parents in Germany, where icy snow was commonplace. But she had also worn heavier, woolen dresses underneath. In the freezing, unexpected chill of the current winter, with only a dinner gown underneath, the soft garment didn't break the biting wind.

  She trudged across the snow to the white-roofed stable, her cloak trailed in the snow behind her. She spared a quick glance for the house, and although the harsh winter difficult for the entire country to bear, she had to admit that it made Blackmoore all the more beautiful. It reminded her of the fairy tale castles she'd seen in Germany.

  Inside the stable it was warmer, but her hands were stiff when she struggled to saddle the horse. She hoped her plan wasn't as futile as Hugh had suggested. Would she even be able to find the man? She wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd first seen him, but she knew she had to make an attempt regardless of it.

  The stable boy's tomcat was getting under her feet while she tried to prepare the horse for her ride. He seemed a little too interested in the lump of hay in the corner of the stall. She moved some of the dark yellow straw with her foot. Her heart caught it her throat.

  The little kitten was frozen solid. She almost picked it up, her initial reaction being a desire to help the poor thing. But before her gloved hand had touched the body, she realized it was useless. The little thing was a gone goose; even the supposed father knew that and had ambled off into another part of the stable.

  She took a deep breath and willed herself not to cry. She had to remind herself that she was an adult, but she had picked a kitten from the litter only a week ago... had named her and everything. She didn't know if the frozen cat was the one she'd picked, but that didn't alleviate her sadness. She'd asked Hugh to have one of the stable boys make sure that all the animals were inside the stable before shutting the doors. The doors hadn't been shut at all.

  Why was the man so cruel and uncaring? She wouldn't even forget any of the things he'd done since he'd taken her in: he made her feel like an outsider, refused her even the simplest of requests, and showed reckless disregard for anyone other than himself. And now her uncle needed her and Hugh was forbidding her from going to him.

  She forced her mind back to the issue at hand and coaxed the horse into the cold air outside. The young chestnut mare was averse to leaving the straw covered floors of the stable and Victoria didn't blame her. But somehow she urged her into the courtyard, mounted, and rode through the same crest of snow she'd noted earlier.

  * * *

  Victoria found the poor man sheltering in the ruins of an old abbey. The snow had begun to fall again, and tiny flakes covered the black velvet of her cloak.

  The man saw her approach and she wasn't prepared to see the expression that flitted across his face. Perhaps she was imagining it, but he seemed to have been expecting her. Something about his comfortable, genial demeanor tipped her off.

  She dismounted, and before she could show him what she'd brought, he spoke to her.

  "Now who might you be, pretty lady?"

  She held the basket of food in front of her body. "I came from Blackmoore. We saw you walk by and thought you might be hungry."

  He smiled with the look of a man who'd seen it all. "Sit, sit."

  She somehow managed to make sure that only her cloak was lying in the snow when she sat down. She had planned to unpack the basket, but he took it from her hands as soon as she was seated. It was just as well, she thought. She assumed he was grateful enough to have the food. She didn't have to serve it to him too.

  He nodded slowly as he surveyed the contents of the basket. "You're a kind woman," he said as he picked at one of the entrees.

  She studied his relatively clean face. Most prominent was the gash that snaked across his temple. That poor man. "I wish I could offer you shelter for the night, but--"

  He didn't meet her eyes, eating while he spoke. "You were told not to."

  She felt Hugh's offenses afresh at the man's sure response.

  "I'm sorry to assume, but I've been turned away from that manor before. It's why I didn't even try tonight." He ate voraciously but paused every so often to wipe his fingers on his jacket. His clothing was torn, but quite fine. It made her wonder what fascinating stories he might tell of his past.

  "I must apologize on his behalf." She wondered if a conversation with this man could possibly be more welcome than one with Hugh's richest electors. "Do you normally frequent these parts?"

  He gave her an odd look then, in between picking at the pheasant with short, clean fingernails. "Why do you ask?"

  Taken aback by his response, she said, "I was merely interested."

  Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea.

  She started to stand up. "I'll let you eat the rest of your dinner in peace. Merry Christmas."

  He stopped eating, his face contorted in confusion. But only a moment later, it was gone. He grinned. "Did I hurt your feelings? I wouldn't want to do that to such a kind lady."

  She felt an unexpected wave of fear settle over her body. But the man hadn't moved. Was it paranoia, the cold winter air, or instinct? No matter what his protest, she didn't intend to stick around long enough to find out.

  "I am sorry if I've made you uncomfortable. Please let me give you something in return for this feast."

  Her heart beat faster as she started to step away. "That's not necessary."

  "I insist." He beg
an to root around in his old knapsack.

  She glanced at her horse. She'd never been able to mount on her first try without a block. Rather than have her back to him, she supposed it was better to wait and see what he wanted to give her. Could it really be anything bad? If it was a knife, she'd run. A gun, she'd--

  There was no way he could have a gun... could he?

  She was about to scream for help when he produced the item that he'd been searching for: a bottle of amber liquor. He handed it to her and it felt cool in her hands.

  She was so relieved that she smiled at the bottle as if it were the best Christmas gift she'd ever received.

  "It's French brandy," he told her. "Better, and more cheaply obtained than anything you'd find here."

  She wondered how he'd come by the liquor and hoped that it wasn't stolen. But accusing him of anything wouldn't return the bottle to its rightful owner, so she accepted graciously. After all, Hugh would be pleased. He'd never been one to turn down a good drink.

  The poor man had already gone back to the basket. He was eating slowly then, but that was probably out of embarrassment. He must have been starving.

  "Merry Christmas," she said again and he waved. Without assistance, she mounted on her first try. Things were looking up. Feeding the beggar had probably done more for her than it had for him. Her problems were petty in comparison. Hugh was a fiend, but she should be thankful for what she did have. Moreover, it was Christmas.

  When she finally made it back to Blackmoore, she thought it would be best to sneak inside. She slipped between two groomed hedges and entered the garden. The shrubbery path led to the veranda outside Hugh's study. It took her only a moment to assure herself that it was empty. She went inside.

  Finally some warmth! The fire had been left on and she discarded her cloak halfway into the room. It would drip water onto the floor as the snow melted, but at that moment she couldn't find it in herself to care. She was flushed with the success of her mission.

  She sat in front of the grating long enough to feel whole again...both physically and emotionally. When she was ready to go to bed, she thought of leaving the brandy on the floor with the cloak, but thought better of it. She carried to bottle upstairs to her bedroom, pulled back her bed curtains, and slid the brandy underneath the bed. But while she started to get undressed, she felt as though something was missing. She bolted to her dresser with an idea of what might have been disturbed. She ripped at the ribbon that held the key from around her neck and opened the secret drawer.