‘Alice from the kitchen, and I’ll also be hiring a cook and housemaid.’ Isobel took Rose’s hands and looked into her face. ‘What’s troubling you, Rose? Is it the thought of leaving Wilmington or are you afraid of losing touch with John?’ Isobel and her young maid had always been close and she knew most of Rose’s hopes – if not all her fears.
She fixed on the excuse. ‘If I leave here he won’t know where to find me,’ she said quickly.
Isobel laughed and turned away. ‘You silly goose! Of course he’ll know where you are, and as he’s in London himself, I hear, you’ll be able to see him on your days off. It’s all settled, Rose, and I will not have any more argument.’
Rose bobbed a curtsy and left the room. Her mood was mixed. With John in London and a house full of servants, perhaps things would be all right. Yet she had the feeling the Captain, married or not, wouldn’t change his ways, and the prospect of trying to avoid him all the time was daunting.
*
Gilbert emerged from the dining room, having drunk rather too much port after an excellent dinner, and caught sight of Rose through the long window in the hall. She was standing beneath the lantern in the garden, talking to some yokel. A letter passed between them and he wondered if she had an admirer who sent her love notes or whether the spotty, callow youth she was talking to was the focus of her affections.
At any other time he would have left them to it and joined the ladies in the drawing room. After all, she was just a servant, hardly worth noticing at all, except for that fine figure and fiery temperament. But something in her demeanour as she read that letter tweaked his curiosity and he made his excuses to the Squire and slipped out of the side door.
*
Rose’s hand trembled as the meaning of the neatly written words hammered its way into her mind.
Rose, acushla,
The things I have to say to you will cause pain and I’m sorry I cannot be there to comfort you. But you are old enough now to follow your own path in life and will understand my reasons for leaving you in the care of strangers.
I can no longer live and work in Jevington, Rose. The dames are kind, but Joe is always sick with fever and Davey had made it impossible to remain here. He has taken to setting fires and I am afeared he will do real harm one day. But that is not the only reason for my leaving. I have never been happy in England, you know that. I have a deep yearning to be back amongst my own people in Ireland, and now your da is no longer by my side, I can return to my family.
You are wondering why you cannot make the journey with us. As a woman, I know how hard life will be for you, acushla, and my apparent coldness was only my way of preparing you for the future – a future that would not be possible in Ireland where work is scarce and a young girl cannot hope to have all the advantages you do with the Squire. There are things I have done in the past that have brought shame – and worse – on my family, and by moving away from Sussex, perhaps those dark deeds will fade. Keep strong, Rose, and remember your promise to Da and me to stay away from the Tanners – for there are strong forces against such a union, and the dukkerin must not be crossed.
*
Rose’s gaze swept over the spidery, blotched scrawl in horrified bewilderment and pain. She could see where Mam had shed tears as she wrote, but they couldn’t have been half as bitter as the ones that rolled down Rose’s cheek as the full impact of the words sank in.
‘But why?’ she sobbed. ‘How could you just leave me? Didn’t you love me at all?’ The letter crumpled in her fist as she picked up her heavy skirts and ran out into the welcome darkness. She had no idea where she was going or what she was doing. She knew only that she had to get away.
Darkness enveloped her as she plunged down the hill to the line of rhododendrons that ran along the southern boundary of the Manor grounds. She didn’t notice the whiplash of the branches as she tore through the thick, grasping bushes and fought her way out into the fields, or the sharp thorns and stinging nettles that snatched at her clothes and skin. The words of the letter pounded in her head as her boots pounded the newly sown field that glittered with late frost. For now she was truly alone. Truly abandoned amongst strangers who didn’t care what happened to her.
Clambering over the stile at the bottom of the field, Rose headed for the river. The reeds sighed and rustled in the wind, the occasional sleepy call of a guinea fowl drawing her ever closer. She came to a shuddering halt, the toes of her boots sinking into the soft mud at the water’s edge.
She looked down at the mirror-bright surface that reflected the quarter moon, her breath a sob, her shoulders heaving. The agony was almost too much to bear. She had lost everything tonight. Why not just end it here? No one would miss her.
‘I wouldn’t do that, little girl. The water’s awful cold.’
Rose spun round, surprise and fear making her heart thud painfully against her ribs.
Gilbert was standing by the reeds, his arms folded, legs planted firmly on the frost-crusted grass at the riverside. His eyes and teeth gleamed in the moonlight as he smiled. ‘Whatever it is that’s upset you it can’t be bad enough for you to plunge yourself into that filthy water.’ He held out his hand. ‘Come, Rose.’
Her tears had dried, but the agony of her mother’s words bit deep. Rose looked down at the water lapping her boots then back at the man. She must not let him see how vulnerable and afraid she was. ‘I mean nothing to you but sport. Why should you care?’
The hand wavered. ‘If you are quite determined to throw yourself in that revolting mess of reeds and water, then I shall have no alternative but to jump in after you and play the hero. It’s nothing to me if you live or die, but this is an expensive piece of tailoring and it would be a shame to ruin it.’
His tone was cold, emphasising the chill within her. ‘I didn’t ask you to help. Go away!’
An eyebrow arched and the smile flashed again. ‘Temper, temper,’ he admonished. Then he moved with a swiftness that took her by surprise and before Rose knew it she was plucked from the river’s edge and deposited firmly on her back in the long grass.
She struggled to get to her feet but again he was too swift for her. As he sat astride her, his hands pinning her arms to the ground, she realised his intentions had always been dishonourable. It was suddenly important to live – to fight and overcome the night’s evil.
‘Get off!’ she screamed, lashing out with her feet, struggling with every ounce of strength she still had after that mad dash over the fields.
His smile was gone, hands determined now as he shredded her clothes and tore at her flesh. His weight took her breath, pinning her to the ground as his own breathing became ragged and his eyes gleamed, not with humour but with lust. ‘Not until I’ve had what I’ve come for, Rosie girl,’ he vowed.
Rose screamed and struggled as he kneed her legs apart and swiftly entered her. The pain was like a knife, taking the last of her breath, and as he pounded into her the hard earth and chalk dug and scraped at her back until she thought there could be no flesh left. Silent tears rolled down her face and into her hair as her struggles grew weaker and the moonlit sky was eclipsed by pain.
Finally it was over. Rose felt him climb off her, and as she huddled away from him she watched through swollen eyelids as he brushed the dirt from his hands and knees. He smoothed his hair and, after straightening his coat, looked down at her.
‘It will be my word against yours, Rose. Your messenger boy should take more care when he comes calling.’ Then he smiled and set off across the field in the direction of the Manor as if he’d been out for a stroll.
Rose sobbed as she gathered the remaining tatters of her clothes. She was cold. So cold it was as if the grave had embraced her. What he’d done had stained her petticoats with the bright red of shame, and as she tried to stem the flow, she felt hot tears of humiliation splash on her hands.
Gone was the wish to end it all, and in its place had come a rage against Captain Gilbert Fairbrother. One day she would find
a way to make him pay for what he had done.
7
Lady Clara Fairbrother was restless. She had noticed her son’s prolonged absence after dinner, the heightened colour in his face and the mud on his shoes on his subsequent return. He’d been up to something, she knew the signs. Yet she had to admire the consummate ease of her son’s comportment as he entertained Isobel and Charlotte with card tricks, even if there was rather too much of the actor in it to make her entirely comfortable.
The evening dragged interminably and she finally excused herself from the drawing room, pleading a headache and the need for an early night before the long journey in the morning. As she pulled the heavy drawing-room door closed behind her, she stood for a moment planning what she should do next. That Gilbert needed to be spoken to was imperative, but she knew better than to pounce while everyone else was still awake.
Clara glanced around the hall and made her way quietly into the morning room. She didn’t bother to light the candles, could see quite well by the light of the moon, and as she sat in a chair by the long French windows, she stared into the gardens. She would wait until the house was still before going to Gilbert’s rooms. It was better to sit in here than risk falling asleep on her bed.
The great sweep of lawn ran down to a high, thick hedge of rhododendrons, and she could just make out the narrow silver ribbon of the river on the southern boundary of the estate. It was peaceful here after the bustle of London but she was thankful to be leaving. There was only so much parochial pleasure one could take in a lifetime, and after numerous visits over the past months she was more than ready to return to the social whirl of a new season.
Her thoughts returned to her younger son. Gilbert was a fool, and although she had no idea of what he’d been up to this evening, Clara hoped it wouldn’t bring any unpleasant surprises. She bit her lip as she stared out of the window. It was a great pity the wedding couldn’t have been brought forward a few weeks – but there had been enough unseemly haste as it was, and she wanted no taint of scandal attached to the ceremony.
Something moved on the edge of her vision and Clara leaned forward, expecting to see a fox or badger in the grounds. There it was again. But that was no wild creature limping across the lawn. Her breath caught as she stood and reached for the window handle. Surely this could have nothing to do with Gilbert? And yet. And yet …
With her wrap forgotten, Clara stepped into the chill night. Her slippers were no defence against the frost on the paving or the dew on the grass, and her evening gown was too thin, but she was barely aware of the cold as she hurried to cut off the girl’s escape to the back of the house and the servants’ quarters.
Her voice was soft but commanding. ‘You there – stop.’
Rose clutched the tattered remains of her clothes to her in an effort to hide her shame. She was shivering and her eyes were dark shadows in her white face.
Clara took it all in with one swift glance. ‘Who did this to you?’ she demanded.
‘Captain Gilbert Fairbrother,’ the girl announced with clear, unmistakable rage.
‘Hush, girl. Do you want to raise the house?’ Clara grasped her arm and looked furtively back to the open doors of the morning room. All was still, and she could now see candlelight flickering in the bedrooms above.
‘If it means the Captain’s punished for what he did – yes.’ Rose glared at her through swollen lids, her mouth still stained with blood from where her lip had been gashed.
‘You lie,’ Clara said hurriedly. ‘My son has been in the house all evening. I shall swear to it.’
Rose’s look was one of pure hatred. ‘So you defend him?’
Clara nodded. ‘If it will avoid a scandal. Always.’ Her grasp on the slender arm eased and her voice was deliberately less commanding. The girl had to be mollified. Perhaps bargained with. ‘One word from you and I’ll have you dismissed. But if you keep quiet, I’ll see you recompensed.’ She eyed the livid bruises that covered the girl’s naked shoulders and arms. Gilbert was a fool to let his appetites run away with him.
‘How?’ Rose demanded, her voice still loud and clear in the still night. ‘You cannot return what was stolen from me tonight, Lady Clara.’
‘You would have lost it soon anyway,’ she said impatiently.
Rose was obviously making an effort to take command of the situation, but she shivered so violently Clara was concerned she might faint. There was no way she could deal with her in that condition. Ignoring Rose’s refusal of help, she put her arm around the girl’s waist, and one firm hand on her arm, and pulled her around the side of the Manor to a door leading into what she discovered was the Squire’s room where he conducted estate business. Clara breathed a sigh of relief as she lit a lamp and set it on the scrubbed table. There was no sign of the other servants, they wouldn’t be disturbed here.
‘Why do you defend him?’ Rose asked baldly.
‘Because he is my son and the scandal would break his father and ruin his brother,’ she replied. Clara was bathing the girl’s scratches with a piece of cotton and cold water from the garden tap. She had found an old coat of the Squire’s in the corner cupboard and now Rose sat quietly at the battered desk, wrapped in the coat, her bruises livid in the lamplight. The flesh of her back had been gouged raw by the earth where he’d flung her, and as Clara listened to what Gilbert had done, she too wondered how she could defend him. But defend him she must if her eldest son was to have a future in Parliament.
‘Then you are no better than him,’ said Rose coldly.
Clara dropped the bloody cotton in the water and dried her hands. ‘What is it you want, Rose?’ She eyed the girl calmly. She had learned through bitter experience that there was always a price – no matter how lowly the victim.
‘I want him to pay for what he’s done. I want revenge.’
‘It is not Gilbert who will pay,’ said Clara calmly. ‘It is his father who holds the purse strings. But I will see what I can do.’
Rose stood up, the coat drooping over her hands and falling to her knees, and Clara realised with a jolt that under the bruises and cuts she was beautiful in her anger, and could understand why Gilbert had taken such a fancy to her.
‘It’s not your money I’m after,’ she hissed. ‘You can’t buy me.’
Clara’s hands fluttered to the diamonds at her throat. ‘Then what do you want?’
Rose touched the cut on her lip and hitched up the sleeves of the fustian coat. ‘I want you to find me a post as a lady’s maid. I can’t stay here – and I certainly can’t go to London with Miss Isobel. Not now. How could I ever look her in the eye knowing what I do about him?’
Clara sat down. It would indeed be a way out of the predicament. With Rose out of the house, Isobel and her family would never get to hear of tonight’s disastrous events and Gilbert would have no chance of a repeat performance. ‘But Miss Isobel is planning to bring you to London herself once she and Gilbert are settled in their apartments. How will you explain your change of heart?’
‘I’ll think of something,’ said Rose firmly. ‘But I will not go to London with the mistress to be used by your son.’ The rise and fall of her chest couldn’t mask the rage she was fighting to control, and although Clara was in no mood to prolong this intimacy with the girl, she felt a certain admiration for her courage.
‘I take your point.’ She stood up. ‘But it will be some time before I can arrange suitable employment. You will have to remain here until you are sent for. Gilbert and I will be leaving early in the morning so there will be no need for your paths to cross again. If you keep tonight a secret then I promise I will have you out of here before the wedding.’
She took a step towards the girl, daunted by the cold distaste in her eyes but determined to take charge of the situation. ‘One word from you and I will do nothing. Lady Amelia will have no recourse but to dismiss you without a reference and you will end up in the workhouse. I will see to that personally.’
Rose nodded. ‘Keep your si
de of the bargain, and I’ll keep mine.’
*
Five weeks passed before Rose was summoned to the Squire’s room. Her cuts and bruises on the night Gilbert attacked her had been explained away as an accidental fall on the cobbles, and apart from a suspicious glance or two from Cook there had been no further discussion of the matter.
Now she stood in the doorway and bobbed a curtsy, brilliant sunshine at her back, the gloom of the Squire’s room like a dark cavern ahead of her. ‘You sent for me, sir?’
‘Come in, Rose. Sit yourself down,’ boomed the Squire. He dropped his feet from the cluttered desk and stood up.
Rose perched on the edge of a horsehair chair, nervously wondering why he should want to see her here. It was customary for Mrs Patterson to deal with the household staff, and she knew this must be something very serious indeed. She hoped Lady Clara had not broken her promise to remain silent.
‘I explained to Mrs Patterson about the dress, sir,’ she said quickly. ‘Old one was just too tight and it split until it was indecent when I had me fall. There was nothing left for it but to get another.’
The Squire frowned and chewed on his clay pipe. ‘Dress? What should I know about such things, girl?’ He lit a spill from the fire and put it to the tobacco. When he had a nice fug going, he leaned back in his chair and picked up a letter from his desk.
‘I received this today, Rose. It is from a Lady Fitzallan of Grosvenor Square.’
Now it was Rose’s turn to frown. She had never heard of the woman. ‘Yes, sir?’ she prompted.
‘Lady Fitzallan is an acquaintance of Lady Fairbrother’s and has written to me asking for a reference as to your good character.’ The gimlet eyes peered at her over the thick vellum. ‘I was not aware you wished to leave us, Rose.’
So, she thought, Lady Clara had kept her word. She could feel the heat in her face as she returned his scrutiny. ‘It is for the best, sir. With Mam and the boys gone to Ireland, I feel I should leave Wilmington and seek my own fortune.’
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