One Wild Winter's Eve

by Anne Barton

  Charles seemed different the next morning. Not distant, precisely, but less playful. More focused on the tasks before them—namely, visiting Rose’s mother in the hospital and purchasing passage for them on the next ship sailing to America. They dressed in silence, collected their bags, and left the inn before the sun had fully risen.

  Rose sat in the saddle in front of him, enjoying the muted beauty of the frosty dawn. Sore from three days of riding, she was grateful that they’d soon reach London, but apprehensive also. She could no longer pretend that this was simply a grand adventure after which she’d return to her normal life, complete with maids, mansions, and modistes. Her world had changed forever, and though she wanted nothing more than to be with Charles, she couldn’t deny she’d miss the life she’d known.

  “Our first stop will be the docks,” Charles said, “to purchase passage on a packet ship. I don’t like the idea of taking you to the shipyards, but I like the idea of leaving you alone even less.”

  “I’m sure I shall find the experience exhilarating.”

  He snorted slightly. “Let us hope it’s not too exhilarating.”

  “Do you know when the next ship sails?”

  “No, but hopefully in the next day or two. The longer we stay in London, the greater the danger.”

  One or two days. She tried not to think about how little time that left her to say good-bye to her mother…  and to her life. She leaned into his chest and looked over her shoulder, up at him. “Are you worried that we’ll be caught?”

  Staring at the horizon, he shook his head. “My only concern is keeping you safe.”

  “You’ve done a wonderful job protecting me.”

  “Have I?” He gave a hollow laugh. “What about the night you had to sleep in a barn? Or the three days you had to ride for hours on end in the bitter cold?”

  “That couldn’t be helped,” she countered. “Besides, I don’t need to be pampered.”

  “Perhaps not. But if you think the last few days have been difficult…  well, they might seem like paradise after our six-week voyage to America.”

  “I’m not prone to seasickness,” she assured him.

  “That’s good. Even the best sailors are sick during a strong gale, though. And there will be other hardships. Awful food—you can expect a lot of herring and garlic bread—and very little privacy.”

  If Rose didn’t know better, she’d think he was trying to frighten her. To make her rethink her decision. She didn’t flinch. “I’ll manage.”

  “I’m going to try to purchase a cabin for us, but I’m afraid it won’t be first class.” He avoided her gaze as though embarrassed. As though he feared he’d disappointed her. Her heart ached for him.

  “I wasn’t expecting first class,” she said. “To tell you the truth, I’m happy to know that we won’t be in steerage.”

  He shook his head, appalled. “I would never subject you to that.”

  “But if I weren’t traveling with you? Would you have been in steerage?”

  He shrugged. “Probably.”

  “Then you should allow me to pay for the difference in the cost of our tickets.”

  “No.” It was final. Adamant.

  “Why not? That’s money that you could put toward purchasing land.”

  “I won’t take money from you, Rose. You freed me from prison and now you’re leaving behind everything to come with me. The least I can do is buy your bloody second-class ticket.”

  Rose gasped, stung. She wanted to shake him and make him understand. Although it occurred to her that kissing might be more effective. Unfortunately, neither was possible while they were riding, so she had to depend on words—a poor substitute for either shaking or kissing. “I didn’t mean to offend you or to suggest you couldn’t provide for me.”

  “No? Then what did you mean?”

  Tears burned at the back of her eyes. How could she make him understand? “I have some money—not a lot, but if we’re going to make a life together, I don’t see the point in your refusing it. It doesn’t matter whose purse it comes from—we’re going to be together forever now. Aren’t we?”

  He pulled up on the reins, and Pandora lurched to a stop. His lips pressed tightly together, he remained silent for several seconds. At last, he said, “Don’t you see? I’ve already taken everything from you. And it kills me. I want to leave you with something of your own…  and in doing so, maybe I’ll be able to preserve a scrap of my self-respect.”

  A tear trickled down her cheek. She wanted to take her stupid coins and throw them on the ground for having come between her and Charles and shattering their harmony. “How long do you intend to punish yourself?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because as long as you do…  you’re punishing me, too.”

  He cursed under his breath, wiped away her tears, and hugged her close. It wasn’t exactly an apology, but it seemed to be the best either of them could manage at the moment. “I didn’t mean to upset you,” he said.

  She nodded. “I’ll be fine.” But she wasn’t sure she would be—not unless Charles realized she needed him to be more than a protector and provider. More than anything right now, she needed a partner.

  “The Perseverance leaves in four days.” The teller adjusted his spectacles and checked the ledger in front of him. “One private cabin left. No porthole, but of course you’ll have access to the deck when you need fresh air.”

  “Sounds charming,” said Charles.

  Rose squeezed his hand. “We’ll take it.”

  As Charles handed over the coins, the teller wrote down their names. Or rather, the fake names that Charles had given. She’d had three different married names this week alone…  and she still wasn’t married.

  Charles had said he’d try to quickly procure a marriage license so they could wed in London, but Rose discouraged him. It was too risky while they were trying to avoid detection by constables and her family. There would be time later, she’d told him. Perhaps when they were at sea. It wouldn’t be the wedding she’d dreamed of, but as long as she was with Charles, it would be enough.

  “Four days,” Charles repeated. “I wish we could leave sooner, but this will give us time to visit your mother and to purchase the clothes and other items you’ll need for the journey.”

  Rose frowned. It seemed wasteful to spend money on dresses and undergarments when she had an armoire full of them just a few blocks away, but they might as well have been in India for all her chances of retrieving them. The hurt from that morning’s heated discussion hadn’t yet subsided, and she had a feeling that if she objected to purchasing a few necessities he would be even more offended. So she sought another topic of conversation.

  “Where will we stay while we’re in London?” she asked.

  “I have a friend who owns a shop a couple of blocks from the wharfs. He lets out the rooms above the shop, and I can count on his discretion.”

  The prospect of meeting one of Charles’s friends both delighted and intrigued her. “What sort of business is it?”

  “A pawnshop. Patrick has all sorts of things, but mechanical objects are his specialty. He buys broken watches, music boxes, and the like, repairs them, and sells them for a profit.”

  “I can’t wait to meet him,” she said.

  “He already knows a bit about you,” Charles admitted.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s the one who used to read me your letters.”

  Charles and Rose stood on Cannon Street outside the pawnshop, he with the brim of his cap pulled low over his face, she with the hood of her cloak drawn forward. While they waited for the lone customer to leave the shop, she admired the tidy storefronts and the colorful wares displayed in their windows. The streets bustled with hackney coaches, folks scurrying to work, boys selling newspapers, and girls selling oranges.

  And she realized she’d been here before. Her half sister’s bookshop was located less than a block away. With the generous allowance that Owen now gave
her, Sophia didn’t have to continue to run the store, but she chose to anyway. She was probably behind the counter now, helping a customer or shelving new books. Rose practically ached with the need to see her.

  “Are you all right?” Charles asked. “You look a little sad.”

  Rose knew she should tell him that Sophia’s shop was nearby, but then he’d insist on leaving this area, and he wouldn’t be able to see his friend, and they’d need to find another—possibly more expensive—place to stay. She would just avoid the bookshop and hide her face whenever she walked outside. It was only four days.

  “I am fine,” Rose said. “Though I suppose I’m nervous about visiting my mother later today.” It was the truth, if not the whole of it.

  Charles shot her a sympathetic smile. “I’ll be at your side, today and always.”

  “I know.” But hearing him say it aloud still made her heart squeeze in her chest.

  “The pawnshop is free of customers,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They crossed the road and entered the store, ringing a small bell above the door. Patrick glanced up from a worktable strewn with metal springs, nuts, bolts, and other parts, looking mildly peeved about the interruption. But his expression changed the moment he recognized his friend.

  “Holland!” He wiped his hands on the front of his apron, untied it from his waist, and flung it onto the table. The men shook hands and clapped each other on the back. Their face-splitting grins said they were genuinely happy to see each other, and for the first time, Rose realized that she wasn’t the only one who would be severing relationships when they left for America. Charles was making sacrifices, too.

  “This is my fiancée, Rose.” The fact that Charles introduced her using her real name spoke volumes about the trust he had in Patrick. And yet, he’d left off “Lady” and her surname. Perhaps he felt the formalities would have created an unnecessary barrier between her and his best friend. Whatever his reasons, she rather liked being known just as Rose.

  She pushed back the hood of her cloak and extended a hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” She swept her gaze around the store, stuffed to the gills with trinkets, objets d’art, and the sorts of odd treasures one finds in an attic. “You have a fascinating shop.”

  Even as Patrick beamed at the compliment, Rose could see his mind at work, trying to determine if she was the same lovesick girl who’d written to Charles over and over again.

  “We’ve known each other for many years,” Charles confirmed, “and were only recently reunited. We just bought our tickets for the next packet ship to America. We sail in four days.”

  “America, at last.” Rose detected a hit of wistfulness in Patrick’s voice. “Congratulations, my friend.” More brightly, he said, “I think this calls for a toast.”

  Charles held out a hand. “Not yet. For reasons I’d rather not discuss, there are various people who are trying to stop us from going. We need a place to stay…  a place to hide.”

  “You know you’re welcome here.” He smiled at Rose. “Both of you.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said.

  He glanced out the front window of the shop and started moving toward the door. “Looks like I’ve got a customer coming in, but you know the way upstairs. Make yourselves comfortable, and you can tell me more later…  or not.” He raised a brow at them, then turned his attention to the gentleman who ambled into the store.

  Charles swept aside a heavy curtain at the rear of the shop, revealing more shelves, more antiquities, and a narrow staircase to the upper floors. “This way to your suite, my lady,” he said.

  She followed him up the stairs, glad that she hadn’t mentioned Sophia or the bookshop to him. He deserved some time with his friend before he left England.

  As for her, she took a bit of comfort from knowing that Sophia was close.

  She wouldn’t think about the rest of her family, at least not at the moment.

  For the next few days, she would focus on staying hidden, and hopefully, making peace with Mama…  and the past.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Broken: (1) Referring to a horse that is accustomed to a saddle and rider. (2) Damaged, often irreparably, as in The heartache and grief of her childhood had left her broken—but not without hope.

  Rose stood in the hallway of St. Bartholomew’s, just outside of a room with a dozen beds. The head nurse near the front entrance had told her and Charles that patients in advanced stages of incurable diseases were in the north wing of the first floor. Suddenly hot and clammy all at once, Rose loosened the tie at the neck of her cloak and fanned herself with her gloved hand.

  Charles wrinkled his forehead in concern. “Shall I take your cloak?”

  She shook her head and began to pace. “I’ve waited so long to see her, to speak with her. And now that I’m here, I don’t know what to say.”

  “Just tell her…  what’s in your heart.”

  She wrung her hands. “What if I don’t know what’s in my heart?” But that was not truly the problem either. The frightening thing was that she had no idea what was in Mama’s heart. “What if she refuses to see or speak with me?” Her lower lip trembled at the thought. All of this trouble could not have been for nothing.

  Charles smoothed his palms down her arms. “You read her letters. She sounded lonely. I don’t think she’ll turn you away.”

  “She might be too weak to speak…  she might not even be conscious.”

  He wrapped her in an embrace and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “Perhaps not, but the important thing is that you are here, with her.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I pray I’m not too late.”

  “As do I.” He held her shoulders, looked into her eyes, and coaxed a smile from her. “Ironically, while you are worried that she won’t know you’re here, I am worried that she’ll realize you’re with me—and disapprove of your betrothal to her former stable hand.”

  “We don’t require her approval,” Rose said. “Or anyone’s.” Though it would be nice if someone in her family was on their side.

  “Let’s go, then, so that you can finish what you set out to do.”

  “My past is a part of me,” she said, more to herself than to him. “But it’s not who I am.”

  “Precisely,” he said approvingly.

  “I’m ready.”

  Holding her head high, she entered the room in front of Charles, nodding to the nurses who scurried down the aisles while she scanned the beds for a petite blond woman with elegant bearing.

  One woman cried out—clearly in pain, out of her mind, or both. When Rose looked at her face and realized she was not Mama, relief coursed through her with guilt following closely on its heels.

  She walked faster, and near the far end of the room heard another voice call out. “Rose? Can it really be? Is that…  you?”

  A frail woman with disheveled hair and hollow cheeks sat up in her bed, a bony hand clasped over her mouth. Dear God. Mama.

  Somehow, Rose dragged her leaden feet to the bedside. “It is I.”

  “I can’t believe it. How did you know I was…  ?” Her thin voice trailed off into nothing.

  Rose took a deep breath. Her mother looked so different, so old. “There’s a rather long answer to that question, but suffice it to say that I wished to find you. I’m glad that I have; however, I’m sorry that you are ill and confined to this place.”

  Mama clutched the covers to her chest, concealing the stained gown she wore, and patted her hair as though it were a source of extreme embarrassment. “It was good of you to come.” She looked away. “But I confess part of me wishes that you had not.”

  Rose touched her fingertips to her throbbing temples and momentarily closed her eyes.

  She could turn around and walk out of the room, out of the hospital, and out of Mama’s life, forever. It would be the easiest thing for her, perhaps for them both.

  Then Charles’s steady, warm hand came to rest at the
small of her back, infusing her with strength and confidence. Opening her eyes, she said, “Well, I am here, and as long as I am, I think we should try to have a pleasant visit, don’t you?”

  Mama coughed into a handkerchief and nodded. “I suppose.”

  Rose linked her arm through Charles’s and pulled him forward. “Mama, do you remember Mr. Charles Holland?”

  She hesitated, as though she were trying to figure out what the stable hand was doing with her daughter, then smiled weakly. “Of course. It was kind of you to accompany Rose.”

  Rose breathed a small sigh of relief. Perhaps there was still a glimmer of hope for their mother-daughter relationship.

  “I’m certain you both have much to discuss,” said Charles. “I’ll bring a chair over,” he said, “and give the two of you some time to talk.”

  Rose stood there feeling awkward for a moment, then decided that the faster they both conquered that feeling, the better.

  “Owen and Olivia don’t know I’m here. They don’t even know that you’re here.”

  Mama nodded slowly. “I see. Perhaps that’s for the best.”

  “Yes, I think so—for now.”

  “I wanted to spare you all from my illness…  and the shame associated with my past actions.” She patted at her head again, pushing a matted lock of hair behind her ear. “But I won’t pretend I’m not delighted to see you. What a lovely woman you’ve become.”

  “Thank you.”

  Charles returned with the chair then, which he placed at an angle to the bed.

  When Rose sat, he leaned over her shoulder and whispered, “If you should need me, I’ll be just outside, in the hall. Take all the time you’d like.”

  Left alone, she and Mama sat in silence, as though they were each letting the import of the moment sink in.

  “Are you in great pain?” Rose asked.

  “Sometimes,” Mama admitted. “They give me laudanum when the coughing fits are too much to bear. But this week has been tolerable.”