Cherrybrook Rose

by Tania Crosse

  ‘Well, he can take his shine somewhere else, the insufferable, boorish—’

  ‘Handsome, polite, well-heeled gentleman!’ Molly finished for her. ‘You should be flattered, Rose! And thankful! I wish someone like that would show an interest in me,’ she ended ruefully.

  Rose bit her lip, the tang of remorse bitter in her mouth. Yes. To Molly, someone like Charles Chadwick would be manna from heaven. But no one of his ilk would ever look at her, pretty though she was, for anything more than a swift dalliance. Rose knew she should be grateful, for though her father made a decent living, they were still miles away from Mr Chadwick’s league, and if his intentions truly were honourable, he would be considered by the circles he moved among to be marrying beneath him.

  The thought clouded her brain, her forehead corrugated as she walked arm in arm with her friend, Gospel’s reins trailing from her other hand. Perhaps she should give Charles Chadwick another chance, and this time do her utmost to be civil and draw on her better nature.

  Five

  ‘Rose?’ Henry prompted gently over his plate of sausage, bacon and scrambled egg, for Florrie believed a man should go to work on a hearty breakfast.

  Rose was staring blankly at the cup of tea she had been stirring for the past five minutes, her own plate untouched. Her father’s voice startled her for they had been sitting in silence and she threw up her head with a jerk. ‘Sorry, Father?’

  ‘We were talking about Mr Chadwick, as I’m sure you remember. You must give the poor man an answer of some sort. You’ve kept him waiting long enough.’

  His words were soft, compassionate, and the groan in Rose’s heart deepened. Charles had returned to London after extending his visit to nearly a fortnight, almost every minute of which he had spent at Rose’s side. But it seemed he could not concentrate on his affairs in the capital, and after a couple of weeks he had been back again, wooing her with flowers and other gifts, and trips to the seaside, culminating in his asking Henry for her hand the night before business matters required his urgent return home. It was now mid-November, dreary, wet and miserable up on the moor, and despite numerous letters from Charles, Rose still had not given him an answer.

  Her eyes met Henry’s across the table, wide and honest and bright with anguish. ‘I don’t know,’ she moaned pitifully, her shoulders drooping. ‘I’ve been over and over it in my mind, but I just don’t know.’

  ‘Have you discussed it with Molly, for instance?’ Henry suggested mildly.

  ‘Molly! She thinks just because he’s handsome and has money, I should jump at the chance!’

  ‘But . . .’ Henry faltered, ‘you’re not Molly.’

  ‘No,’ Rose said stonily, her jaw set.

  ‘Then you must tell me exactly how you feel. I know I’m not your mother, God rest her soul, but I’ll have to do. The whole honest truth, mind.’

  He smiled encouragingly, and the frozen knot inside her chest melted a little. She sighed, a torn, painful exhalation of breath. ‘I know you would like to see me settled and secure,’ she began tentatively, and watched as Henry pressed the palms of his hands together and rested his joined fingers against his lips. ‘But if I married Mr Chadwick, I’d have to live in London, so far away from you, and I couldn’t bear that.’

  ‘Not necessarily. I’m sure Mr Chadwick could afford to keep at least a modest house down here, and I should want proof of his financial security before I gave my consent anyway. But . . . there is far more to consider than that,’ he said with an enigmatic lift of his eyebrows.

  Rose licked her lips. There was something solid inside her, as if someone had rammed a fist into her stomach, and try as she may, she couldn’t uncurl its iron fingers. ‘Mr Chadwick is . . . polite. A true gentleman. Very attentive, of course.’ She hesitated. Lowered her eyes. ‘Too attentive. I feel I’m being coerced into . . . into a relationship. He can be quite . . . forceful, I suppose, though in the most charming way. At least . . .’ She bowed her head, not wanting to offend her father’s feelings for the man he considered a suitable prospective spouse. ‘At least, he thinks he’s being charming. I just find him too . . . forthright. I’m sure he’d make an excellent husband, but I . . . I simply don’t love him.’

  Her mouth compressed into a harsh line and she swallowed before lifting her eyes to her father again. For several seconds, Henry sat motionless, then slowly he nodded his head. ‘And . . . do you know what love is?’

  Rose blinked hard and her pulse began to beat faster. ‘No. Not for another man. I’ve never felt what that is. But . . . I know what my love for you is, Father. ’Tis good and warm. And trusting. And . . .’ Her eyes suddenly sparked with a piercing sapphire light. ‘I know what my love for Gospel is! He . . . he lifts something deep inside of me. We share so much together, as if . . . as if we share the same spirit. Surely . . . if you really love someone, you must feel something like that? Like a fire inside you!’ And then her face closed down, as if someone had drawn the shutters over a window. ‘And I don’t feel like that about Mr Chadwick.’

  Henry contemplated her a moment longer, her impassioned speech pricking at the pain he usually managed to bury deep in his soul. ‘Then there’s no more to be said. I shall write to Mr Chadwick this evening and inform him of your refusal. You know, Rose, you’re so like your mother. And it makes me . . . so proud,’ he finished, gesturing at her with his outstretched hand. ‘Come here, my dearest child.’

  In a trice, she came up to his chair and bent to wrap her arms around his beloved neck. He patted her shoulder, his cheek pressed against hers, and his eyes closed as he endeavoured to shut out his distress. For how could he break it to her that, without Charles Chadwick’s money, Gospel would have to be sold . . .

  Rose padded up and down her bedroom, unconsciously chewing on the nail of her little finger. She should feel relieved, but she didn’t. She very definitely did not want to marry Mr Chadwick, but was it a wise decision? And was her father being his usual kind, understanding self, or was he really feeling deeply disappointed, despite his words?

  She rubbed her hand hard over her forehead. If she didn’t stop her restless tramping, she would wear a hole in the carpet, or so Florrie would have said. The shadow of a smile flickered on her pursed lips. Dear Florrie. At least she would always be there. And Joe, and Gospel and Amber, who at this moment was stretched out on the floor, nose on her paws but one ear cocked and her eyes dolefully following her mistress’s movements.

  Gospel. Well, of course, if anything could soothe her spirit it would be a crazed gallop across the moor. Perhaps over to Princetown to see Molly. Or to some lonely place, such as the twisted, stunted oaks of the eerie ancient Wistman’s Wood. Somewhere she had not taken Charles Chadwick!

  That was it. She pulled off her skirt and petticoats and wriggled into her tight riding breeches before donning the jacket and full skirt of her riding habit over the top. A small hat secured on the top of her springing curls with a long pin, a scarf wound around her neck for it was cold and penetratingly damp outside, gloves ready in her pocket, and her boots would be waiting by the back door after she had put her head around the kitchen door to tell Florrie where she would be going.

  The icy dankness stung her nostrils as she strode across the yard, Amber bouncing excitedly about her heels. Joe had turned Gospel into the field behind the buildings early in the morning, for the animal needed to kick up his heels and expend some of his boundless energy. Rose went in search of his bridle before leaping over the gate in her customary unladylike fashion, while Amber wormed her joyous way beneath the bottom-most bar.

  Gospel whinnied with pleasure when he heard Rose call, performing a standing jump from all four legs before thundering across the wet grass and snorting great wreaths of hot breath into the already saturated air as he came to a slithering halt before her. He nuzzled into her shoulder bringing a full smile to her face as she stroked his strong, sleek neck. When she had first bought him, he had been the devil’s own job to catch, fearing the w
orst from the martingale and strong bit. But now he knew that being caught usually meant a wild, exhilarating dash on the open moor with his gentle mistress on his back, and he was as eager for the adventure as she was.

  She slid the bridle over his head, slipping the bit carefully into his mouth, and fastening the chin strap, led him towards the yard to remove his blanket and saddle him before they streaked off in whatever direction she decided upon.

  Her fingers froze on the buckle of the girth strap . . .

  Her sharp ears had somehow caught that hiatus of unearthly silence that precedes the boom of an explosion by a split second, and then the thunderous crash that shattered her eardrums, reverberating through the valley before slowly rolling away on an ever fainter rumble. For several moments, not a muscle in Rose’s body moved, her breathing stilled and only her heart beating steadily while her brain absorbed what her heart did not want to believe. Her forehead pleated in an anguished frown and she slowly shook her head. But she had heard it, and as her pulse accelerated, pumping the frenzied life into her limbs, reality crept into her stunned mind, and with a hoarse cry, she abandoned Gospel and ran.

  Fled along the footpath to her father’s office. Flung open the door, expecting to see Henry pulling on his leather-soled shoes. He wasn’t there. From years of habit, she changed her own footwear in an instant, and was flying down the hill, the breath dry and rasping in her lungs.

  She stopped dead. Unlike the minor mishap a few months past, it was immediately apparent where the explosion had occurred. Away on the opposite hillside, number-one incorporating mill was engulfed in a curtain of black smoke . . .

  Rose was transfixed, her mind wrapped in fascinated, horrified curiosity. She wanted to run, but the leaden weight of her legs imprisoned her. And then she joined in the macabre, hushed convergence of leather-muted feet, speeding along the riverbank, past the various processing houses, across the bridge over the Cherrybrook and up the track on the far side. Those workers who could safely shut down their machinery had spilled out from their posts and were milling around breathlessly on the hillside, calling in restless agitation as they awaited instructions, or numbed into silence by the picture of destruction before them. The shroud of smoke was reluctantly drifting into the mist, revealing what little remained of the charred and broken roof timbers and the flapping remnants of the shredded tarpaulin that until a few minutes before had covered them. Splintered shards of the massive wooden machinery had been blown through the roof and window apertures in the blast, and lay scattered about the grass together with tatters of the heavy tanned hides that lined the floor of the mill.

  Rose’s heart caught in her throat and her limbs trembled. She turned her head in disbelief, yet her eyes still clung to the scene of devastation. She tore her gaze away, searching for her father among the crowd and expecting at any moment to hear his reassuring, authoritative voice as he calmly took control of the appalling situation.

  It started as a tiny kernel deep in her breast, slowly unfurling until its fingers spread like strangling tentacles through her being, crushing the life, and the hope, from her very existence.

  ‘Have you seen my father?’ Her lips quavered as her eyes blindly quizzed every shaking head that swung before her. ‘Have you seen my father?!?’ she screamed now, frantically running from face to face, spinning, tripping, blundering over the rough grass, the sea of anxious expressions foaming into one blurred, surging wave. And as she turned to join her gaze to theirs as they stared at the smouldering building, her body drained and motionless, she knew . . .

  ‘No!’ A savage wail echoed from her heaving lungs as her limbs found their strength again and she dashed forward, howling dementedly, only to be restrained in the iron circle of Fred Ashman’s arms. He struggled to hold fast to her writhing, flailing body until the agony emptied out of her and she suddenly went as limp and lifeless as a rag doll . . .

  The world gathered itself around her, cruel and tormenting. She wanted to slip back into the warmth and peace of unconsciousness, to snuggle beneath the safe and comforting blanket that had smothered her mind, but she knew even in her semi-conscious state that she had to face the hostile cold of reality.

  She forced open her eyes, but the effort made her forehead swoop in a fierce frown. She was in the kitchen, slumped in Florrie’s chair by the range, carried there she imagined by some strong and compassionate arms. Florrie herself was seated at the table, her head bowed over an untouched mug of tea, her eyes red and swollen, and the usually merry lines on her face set into a grim, appalling mask.

  It was the sight of her that made Rose remember.

  Her spine stiffened and she sat bolt upright in the chair, her heart taking a huge leap and knocking against her ribcage. The last thing she remembered . . .

  ‘Father!’ she shrieked in her head, but her lips only mouthed the word, her eyes bright pinpoints of terror.

  Florrie looked up, her plump cheeks wobbling. ‘Upstairs, my lamb,’ she murmured, her voice the croak of an old, old woman.

  Rose’s head swam as she sprang from the chair and raced up the stairs two at a time, her feet, still in their leather-soled shoes, making no sound on the carpeted treads. The cold brass of the doorknob was a shock in her hand, and her whole body froze. Was she ready? To see what was in the room? Her father, his arms crossed over his chest. Perhaps with Florrie’s snowy sheet already laid over his head.

  She trembled. Her hand hardly able to open the door. The blood pumping fearfully, angrily, through her veins. How dare they – whoever they were, God, perhaps? – take her dearest, beloved father from her like this . . .

  There was a dark-suited man in the room, standing with his back to her as he sorted something on the bedside cabinet. He turned when he heard her to smile gravely over his shoulder, nodding down at the bed before continuing with what he was doing. Dr Power, of course, from Princetown. Prison surgeon, but also physician to local people who sought his help, and so known to everyone.

  The bud of hope blossomed, and then shrank, in Rose’s breast as she drew her gaze to the bed. Only her father’s face was visible above the neatly arranged bedclothes. It was still streaked with black grime, settling in lines in the folds of his skin, though someone, probably Florrie, had evidently tried to wipe away the worst without causing him too much distress. One side of his forehead, spreading down across the temple though thankfully missing his eye, was a raw mass of black and red seething bubbles that stretched into his matted, bloodied hair, but other than that, he lay perfectly still, like a corpse, but for the shallow, rasping breathing of his lungs.

  Rose stood. And stared. As the horror washed over her in a pulsing torrent. But . . . somehow Henry must have been aware of her presence and his eyes half opened. ‘Rose,’ he choked, and his taut face relaxed.

  The life drained out of her and she dropped on to her knees, fighting against the welling tears in her eyes. ‘Father,’ she whispered back, forcing a wan and deeply loving smile to her quivering lips. ‘Oh, Father, you’ll be all right now,’ she told him fervently, her voice soft and gentle as an angel.

  ‘Yes,’ he breathed, and then coughed harshly so that she could smell the smoke from him. ‘And Peter?’

  Rose’s heart squeezed. Even as he was, he was anxious, as ever, about others, his men. Rose turned her questioning eyes to the doctor, ashamed that she had not given a thought to anyone else who had been in the mill at the time. Dr Power gave a solemn, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes shutting briefly as he did so, and Rose felt the ice run through her veins. Peter Russell, his wife, their five children.

  Her loving, tender gaze moved back to Henry’s blackened, damaged face. ‘I . . . I don’t know,’ she lied, for how could she burden him with the knowledge? It could wait. For now.

  ‘I were . . . giving him the length of my tongue.’ Henry’s voice chafed in his burning throat. ‘There were grit on the floor. Some must have got into the trough.’

  His words had become agitate
d, and as Rose stretched out a calming hand, she was aware of the doctor leaning over her with concern.

  ‘Hush now, Father,’ she crooned through the sorrow that raked her gullet. ‘You must rest. Have a little sleep, and I’ll be here when you wake up.’

  ‘Your daughter’s right, Mr Maddiford,’ Dr Power said firmly over her shoulder. ‘The morphine will make you sleep. Don’t fight it.’

  Henry’s bloodshot eyes lifted to the doctor’s face, then rested back on his beloved child before drooping closed, the tense lines in his skin slackening. Rose bent forward. The reverent kiss she placed on his cheek leaving an acrid taste on her lips. She got to her feet, Dr Power ushering her politely out of the door, and as she glanced back, Henry was already asleep.

  ‘A word, if you please, Miss Maddiford.’

  Rose stood for a moment, his quiet tone taking some seconds to percolate through to her numbed brain. ‘Of course,’ she muttered, and led the way down to the parlour, floating down the stairs as if in some strange, unreal dream.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he invited her, which seemed so odd in her own home.

  She obeyed, perching uneasily on the edge of the armchair. The fire was out. One of their economies. She shivered, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. ‘He . . . he will get better, won’t he?’ she stammered, not quite sure how she articulated the words.

  Dr Power’s forehead twitched as he attempted to detach himself from the situation. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, treating ailments or injuries resulting from the harsh conditions inflicted upon them, or – the part of his job he hated – deciding if a convict was fit enough to endure some vicious corporal punishment. So how could his heart not be touched by this beautiful, distraught young woman whose grief already ravaged her lovely face?

  ‘I’m afraid your father’s condition is worse than it may appear,’ he began compassionately. ‘He has other deep burns to the front of his body. In time, they should heal, but burns are very much prone to infection. What I am most concerned about, however, is that somehow in the blast his spine has been damaged. It could well be no more than severe bruising which has compacted the nerves of the spinal column, in which case in . . . a few months, perhaps, things may return to normal. But . . . at the moment – ’ he faltered, his gaze fixed on her bowed head – ‘he feels nothing below the injury. He has already proved . . . incontinent. And . . . I fear I must warn you, Miss Maddiford, that if, as I suspect, the spine is permanently damaged, then . . . your father will never walk again.’