by Val Wood
Rosalie looked up at him. ‘Do I have to beg? If you don’t love me, then say so and I’ll never see you again!’
He put his arms round her waist and kissed the top of her head. ‘Never seeing you again would be too much to bear. And I do love you.’
‘Well then?’ Tears gathered and spilled. ‘Take me with you.’
‘And live on your allowance?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes. It isn’t much, but it’s yours.’
‘I’ll be a kept man!’ he joked. Then he stroked her face. ‘I’ve written to your father.’
‘What?’
He nodded. ‘I wrote asking for his permission to call on you, pay court to you and marry you.’
She started to laugh, and then to weep. ‘You brute! Making me beg!’
‘I needed to be sure,’ he whispered in her ear.
‘And what did Papa say? Not that it matters, because I’ve already decided that I’ll run away if he objects.’
‘Run away? From me?’
‘With you!’ She wiped her eyes. ‘But what did he say?’
They started to walk on again up towards the summit. ‘A rather strange short letter, but he said that I could call on you. He said he was re-evaluating his circumstances and that he’d write to you shortly with his answer.’
She shook her head. ‘He hasn’t. When did he write to you?’
‘Oh,’ he said vaguely, ‘two weeks ago?’
‘He was always negligent over writing letters,’ she said, ‘but I wonder what he meant by re-evaluating his circumstances?’
Sonny didn’t reply, but turned her round so that they were looking over Nab Farm, nestling halfway down the hill. It seemed so calm and peaceful, no one could have guessed at the dramatic, critical, happy and significant scenes that had been played behind those sturdy, resilient walls.
They kept their secret to themselves although Polly kept probing and Rosalie kept deflecting, until two days later a letter came from Rosalie’s father. She and Sonny went outside in the sunshine and sat on a seat under a window.
My dearest daughter [she read],
Forgive me for not having written to you for a considerable time, but my circumstances have been such that my thoughts I regret to say have been with my own problems, and I was unaware that you were contemplating a suitor.
I will tell you first of the decisions I have made for my own life and then of my thoughts on the proposal regarding yours.
To my dismay, Mrs Sherwood has declared that she will not marry me after all; that being the wife of another soldier is not something she wishes to embark upon and she has now left Aldershot to live with her mother. I have therefore decided that I will concentrate all my energy into my military life, and accordingly will travel abroad to wherever I am needed to fight for my country.
There will therefore, alas, be no permanent home for you here. Which brings me to the proposal I have received from Mr Sebastian Blake, who says he met me at Luke’s wedding, although I cannot recall him, and that he wishes to pay court to you with a view to marriage.
In view of my changed circumstances I can only say that if you feel fondly towards him, and if he can offer you more affection as a husband than I, regrettably, have done as a father, you should accept him.
I understand that he is a man of independent means and that you will be comfortably established, which is what I wish for you more than anything, although his chosen career is not one that I can comprehend.
I shall shortly be leaving the country with my regiment, but you know that you can always rely on your uncle to give you sound advice. He was always wiser in matters of the heart than I ever was.
I remain always, my dear Rosalie, your affectionate father,
Mark Kingston.
He had put in a postscript:
I called to see Benjamin on a brief visit to Hull. My intention was to call on you at Nab Farm and bring Mrs Sherwood to meet you; regrettably it was during our visit that she had a change of heart and I therefore escorted her back to Aldershot. I stayed one night at the house and left behind a small gift I had bought for you. In my haste I forgot to pack it or post it. If you should return to the house before it is sold, you will find it there. Just a small token of my affection. I recall that you once were fond of blue.
Papa.
Rosalie put down the letter. She felt full of remorse. ‘I misjudged him,’ she said bleakly. ‘How could I have done so? He means well. Poor Papa!’
She turned to Sonny and smiled. She had her father’s blessing, at least. ‘I wonder why he thought you were a man of independent means.’
‘Erm, well, perhaps because of what I told him.’
Rosalie frowned. ‘Which was?’
‘Because of a legacy—’
She gasped. ‘But it’s only fifty pounds a year.’
‘What is?’ Polly and Howard came down the steps towards them. ‘What’s onny fifty pounds?’ Polly repeated.
‘My legacy,’ Rosalie explained.
‘Sounds like a lot o’ money to me,’ Polly said sagely.
‘No,’ Sonny said. ‘Not your legacy, Rosalie. Mine.’
They all turned to look at him and he shrugged his shoulders. ‘I, erm, I forgot to tell you, Rosalie,’ he said. ‘Well, I didn’t forget. I would have told you eventually. My aunt, who has been more than a mother to me throughout most of my life, died suddenly whilst I was in Italy. I came back earlier than planned to attend her funeral.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Howard murmured. ‘I know how fond you were of her.’
Sonny nodded. ‘I’d been to see her before I left and she seemed to be very well.’ His voice broke slightly as he spoke. ‘She approved of what I was doing, and I told her about Rosalie. After the funeral I was summoned by her lawyer for the reading of the will.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘My mother was there – my birth mother. She didn’t know me, nor did she acknowledge me, and she’d come not to mourn her sister but in the hope that there’d be an inheritance for her. There wasn’t.’ He grinned. ‘It was left to me.’ He put his arm round Rosalie’s shoulder. ‘So I’m sorry, Rosalie, but if you marry me – and I hope that you will – you won’t be a poor girl after all, but a moderately rich one.’
‘Oh, no,’ Rosalie said in mock despair, but with mounting happiness. ‘I was hoping to struggle. I thought that I could take advice from Polly.’
Polly came and gave her a hug. ‘Not me,’ she said, and going back to Howard stood on tiptoes and planted a loving kiss on his cheek. ‘I’m as rich as Midas. I know nowt about poverty.’
‘And will you still be able to paint, Sonny?’ Howard asked his friend. ‘I thought artists couldn’t create unless they were living hand to mouth surrounded by the aura of penury!’
Sonny laughed and his gaze swept from Howard and Polly to Rosalie, who was sitting so close. ‘Of course I will. I’ll be the greatest painter ever! Didn’t I say that I’d be taking my inspiration, my Muse, with me? If she will come?’ he added softly, and bent to kiss her as she murmured, ‘I will.’
Also by Val Wood
THE HUNGRY TIDE ANNIE
CHILDREN OF THE TIDE
THE ROMANY GIRL EMILY
GOING HOME
ROSA’S ISLAND
THE DOORSTEP GIRLS
FAR FROM HOME
THE KITCHEN MAID
THE SONGBIRD
NOBODY’S CHILD
FALLEN ANGELS
THE LONG WALK HOME
For more information on Val Wood and her books, see her website at www.valeriewood.co.uk
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