by Tania Crosse
Rose pulled a mocking face. ‘I don’t know yet. There’s several servants’ rooms in the attic. I’ll show you in a minute. Now this is the morning room, but we’ve builders coming tomorrow and they’re going to divide it into two for Father, so as he can have a bedroom and a dayroom. He’ll have a lovely view out over the moor. Then there’s the kitchen and scullery through there, the library – Charles will use that as a study for his business affairs – and the dining room and a drawing room.’
Molly put her lips together and whistled. ‘I think I’d lose myself in a place like this! You’ll need so much to fill it!’
‘Well, once we have some beds, Father and Florrie and I can move in! Charles has told me to buy everything we need, so I wondered if you’d come with me, Molly, to visit some furniture makers in Tavistock and help me choose?’
‘I’d be honoured!’ Molly’s face stretched incredulously. ‘But won’t Mr Chadwick want to choose hissel?’
‘’Tisn’t really practical. He’s trying to arrange his affairs in London so as he can have a complete fortnight down here for the wedding.’
‘And when is the big day?’ Molly marvelled.
‘First week in June.’
‘And doesn’t you miss him, with him being so far away?’
Rose felt her heart tear harshly. She did miss Charles. But did she miss him as much as she should?
‘Yes, of course,’ she told Molly, but as much to answer herself as her dear friend. ‘But there’s so many exciting things to do in such a short time that I really don’t get a chance to miss him too much. And he will be coming down for a few days soon. Staying at the Duchy Hotel, of course,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘’Twould be bad luck otherwise!’ Molly observed with a grin that Rose couldn’t quite comprehend.
‘Well, come on, Molly. There’s still so much for you to see!’
She led the way, proudly, but sharing her joy in the house with Molly and watching the wonderment on the younger girl’s face. There was something she would ask Molly, but not yet. She wanted Molly to get used to being at Fencott Place first, for she mustn’t frighten her away, and besides, she must ask Charles’s approval, though she was sure he would agree.
They spent more than an hour exploring every nook and cranny, making plans and mental lists, suggesting colours and designs, basking in a new-found fantasy world neither of them had ever dreamed of. Joe waited patiently for them, sitting up on the wagon, long legs dangling casually as he enjoyed his free Sunday afternoon. After all, he had nothing better to do, and just now he was finding it increasingly pleasant to be in the company of one young lady in particular, even if they had known each other since childhood.
At last, the two girls’ heads were so brimming with ideas that they were feeling dizzy, and they agreed they should leave before they exploded! Molly scampered down the sweeping staircase, leaving Rose to shut all the upstairs windows. Rose cast one final glance around the massive empty bedroom she would share with Charles Chadwick, and a shudder of uneasiness shot down her spine.
She descended the stairs slowly. Regally. And stopped in the hallway. Molly had left the double front door wide open, and out on the driveway, Joe had hopped down from the wagon and was holding both of Molly’s hands in his. They were standing so close, Joe’s fair curls clinging about his head in the sunshine, and Molly’s face lifted eagerly to his as if they would kiss.
A spasm of pain twitched at Rose’s lips. The couple outside appeared so natural, the fondness between them so fitting. And wasn’t that what Rose had once felt, that she wanted to marry someone she felt so at ease with? Someone more like Joe, for example?
And now she was to marry Charles Chadwick.
Ten
Rose stood, and trembled, on the threshold of Princetown chapel, her face so pale that her skin had taken on the patina of ivory to match the glorious silk gown that clung about her slender figure and cascaded down over the small bustle in a frothy effusion of ribbons and lace. The organist deftly slipped from the subdued background medley into the rousing wedding march that boomed within the echoing walls and resounded like thunder in Rose’s head. Her heart was crashing painfully in her chest and all she wanted was to pick up the hem of the splendid dress and flee. But a multitude of awestruck eyes had turned upon her, the entire community from the powder mills and many people from Princetown filling both sides of the church.
Charles had invited a mere handful of acquaintances from London to witness his marriage to this country bumpkin. Moreover, the church had been seriously damaged by fire several years previously, and being just a chapel-at-ease, lack of funds meant that it had only been partly restored. Signs of the fire were clearly visible, and Charles had protested that they should be married in Tavistock’s lovely parish church instead. But Rose was adamant that her friends would find it difficult to travel so far, and Charles had not been able to refuse her pleas, even if he was reluctant to allow his own guests to see him married in a burnt-out shell, as he put it. But if they had questioned his sanity over his choice of bride, the instant they gazed on her ethereal beauty, they too fell under her spell. Her shape beneath the closely fitting garment was magnificent, and as she lifted her chin, her eyes spangled sapphire with determination. She was resplendent, and there was no man present who could honestly claim he was not a little envious of Charles Chadwick that day.
Rose squared her shoulders and glanced up at the bursting pride on George Frean’s face. She smiled faintly, her cheeks frosted, as he walked her majestically down the aisle. He must have sensed her nervousness, as he patted her hand as it rested in the crook of his arm. Every nerve in her body quivered, but surely every bride had cold feet at the last moment? The question tore at her brain for one final time, and was then answered as her father, elegant and distinguished in a new suit, was wheeled forward in his spanking-new invalid chair to be at her side at the altar to give her away to her waiting bridegroom. Her father would want for nothing. He would live out his life, crippled but in luxury, and that was all Rose needed.
The thought set strength flowing through her veins. Henry was looking up at his beautiful daughter, smiling though she could see tears welling in his tired eyes. Rose shot him her most confident, reassuring smile, and then as her gaze fell upon the groom, the tense knot in her chest uncurled. Charles’s adoring eyes were riveted on her, his face not so much smiling as stunned, enraptured by her loveliness, his mouth slightly open and totally stilled as if she had taken the breath from him. He looked so handsome, his deep chestnut hair brushed until it shone, his figure trim in its grey morning suit, every inch of him overflowing with obvious devotion to his radiant bride. Rose dipped her head demurely, her long lashes resting for a moment on her pearly cheeks. Charles Chadwick loved her passionately, and if she did not return his feelings with quite such intensity, there was still enough love between them to make a happy marriage.
Her voice lodged in her throat as she made her vows. Beside her, Charles’s words were low and pronounced with reverence, and as he placed the ring on her finger, she noted with some sort of comforting content that his hands, too, were shaking. They moved to the vestry, Rose floating as if in a dream. Some light banter with the vicar as she signed her single name for the last time. The organ struck up once again as they walked back down the aisle arm in arm, the clamorous tones swelling the air with deafening sound, and when they stepped outside, the bells were pealing vigorously from their smoke-blackened tower. A sea of beaming faces then, guests shaking the groom’s hand, and who could not resist kissing the cheek of the heavenly bride? She could not help but smile broadly at so many well-wishers, her countenance a picture of elation. As they climbed into the ornate open carriage pulled by two superb dapple-grey horses, she turned to the crowd. Her violet-blue eyes searched out her father, but he was lost to her in the milling throng. Instead her gaze landed upon Molly’s grinning face, Joe beside her, waving his hat merrily at the bride, his other arm around the pretty girl
at his side. And Rose felt the thorn prick her heart at their happiness.
The wedding breakfast was held at the marital home. A string quartet played softly in the corner of the drawing room, and a sumptuous meal was set out in the dining room. Rose sat at the table, glowing modestly between her husband and her father. On Henry’s other side, Mrs Frean was warm elegance personified, with Mr Frean on her right. Rose was acquainted with no one else, as they were all friends of Charles’s from London, and she struggled to remember their names. All of them polite, and most of them not unfriendly, the meal passed quite pleasantly and Rose felt her uneasiness melt away. She could hold her own in the conversation, aware of Charles’s approval beside her, and she felt proud that she had pleased him. She only wished that Florrie and Molly and Joe had been present. She had invited them, but they had declined, preferring to enjoy the festivities in the vast hired marquee in the garden. Food was laid out on three trestle tables, cider on tap from enormous barrels at one end, and after the feast, a little band of two fiddlers, a piper and a drummer played their lively tunes, and soon the marquee was bursting with merriment. Raucous voices were raised in enjoyment as dancers cavorted up and down, weaved in hopping, jigging circles, or swung round in partners until cheeks were flushed in giddy delight.
The sedate meal in the house was over, and Charles stood up, offering Rose his arm. She linked her hand through the crook of his elbow, her fingers tingling with excitement as her shining eyes met his. Yes, she was very happy. She began to relax as they led Charles’s guests out into the grounds which had been hastily knocked into shape by the elderly part-time gardener and his boy, who, along with a live-in housekeeper-cum-cook and a housemaid, Charles had instructed Rose to employ, since Florrie was now to devote her entire time to Henry. To Rose’s amusement, Charles was playing lord of the manor to the workers who doffed their caps at him, for he was clearly unused to mixing with the working classes on a social basis.
‘Congratulations, Miss Rose!’ Noah Roach waved gaily as he went back inside the marquee, evidently taking full advantage of the free alcohol.
Rose shook her head with a light chuckle, and lifted her jubilant face to her husband. ‘Oh, Charles, would you mind very much if I spent a little time with all the people in the marquee? I’ve known them all so long . . .’
Charles’s eyes softened as he gazed at her. ‘How can I refuse you anything, my darling?’ he breathed. ‘But don’t be too long.’
‘Please excuse me,’ she said aloud, turning to the ladies and gentlemen who accompanied them. ‘I must just thank our other guests for coming.’ And with a quick, affectionate kiss on Charles’s cheek, the naturalness of which surprised even herself, she skipped off towards the marquee.
The distinctive odour of canvas wreathed inside her nostrils, and all at once she was hailed by the people she had lived among for so many years. A cry went up, toasting her name and wishing her well before the music started up again with a jolly reel. The merrymakers at once returned to prancing up and down to the jocund rhythms, and Rose’s head spun with the jovial faces that flashed across her vision.
‘Oh, Rose!’ Molly’s eyes were as brilliant as stars as she tugged on Rose’s sleeve. ‘This is such fun! And you look wonderful!’
‘And would your husband mind if I asked you to dance?’
Joe’s face was split in a carefree grin, and Rose responded with a whoop of glee. In an instant, she was swirling dizzily amongst the revellers, her head thrown back with the joy of the dance, holding on to Joe’s bony shoulder while he supported her round the waist. He whisked her all the way round the circle before the music came to a noisy halt, and she scampered breathlessly to Charles’s side as he came in through the flapping canvas entrance.
‘Shall we join in?’ she panted playfully.
‘I don’t think so,’ Charles smiled down at her like an indulgent father.
Rose looked up at him, her eyes still sparkling, as he led her from the marquee and she waved back over her shoulder.
‘Really, Rose,’ he bent to whisper in her ear, ‘could you not show a little more decorum? Thank goodness my visitors couldn’t see you.’
Rose’s eyes snapped. ‘Just because I’m married to you, doesn’t mean I’m going to turn into some upper-class prig and turn my back on my friends, you know!’
Charles tossed his head with a short laugh. ‘I should hope not! But do remember that acquaintances can be most useful in business, and we ought not to offend. You’ve had your jig, so could you possibly behave now? At least until my guests have departed, which won’t be long. Please, Rose!’ he begged, fingering a curling ebony tendril that had loosened from the pearl combs and flower blossoms that were intricately worked into her hair.
She pulled a mocking grimace. ‘All right. But only if you promise to dance with me afterwards until your feet hurt!’
‘I promise!’ He grinned like a schoolboy. ‘And woe betide any man who tries to take you from me!’
He kept to his word, though his constrained stance was not suited to the chaotic mayhem of the country dances. By the time the last workers and their families had left for their little cottages on the moor, and the hired caterers had packed everything into the carts that had trundled away down the drive, the bride and groom were quite exhausted. Darkness was falling, the quiet of the moorland dusk a welcome relief after the hectic revelries of the day.
‘I think as I should like to retire now,’ Henry announced as they all sat out on the terrace, enjoying the evening air.
‘Of course, Mr Henry.’ Florrie at once jumped to attention, relishing in her promotion to nurse and companion.
‘Oh, goodnight, Father!’ Rose leapt to her feet and bent to hug Henry tightly. ‘Hasn’t it been a wonderful day?’
‘It certainly has, my dearest child.’ In her own exhilaration, Rose did not notice the catch in his voice, nor see the moisture collecting in his eyes. And when he drew away, he shook hands with Charles, who seemed glued to her side. ‘Congratulations,’ Henry said stiffly. ‘You will . . . take care of my daughter, won’t you?’
‘Naturally.’
Rose frowned. Was there some tension between the two men? But then Florrie had clamped her arms about her, rotund cheeks wobbling as she openly wept. Rose pulled back, laughing lightly.
‘Oh, Florrie, I’m so happy!’ she told her, and the older woman sniffed.
‘Goodnight, then, Rosie.’
‘Yes, goodnight! Sleep well!’ Rose watched as Florrie pushed her father up the specially built ramp into the house, followed by Amber contentedly waving her tail, and then she put her hand in Charles’s. ‘Shall we take a turn about the garden afore we go to bed? ’Tis such a beautiful night! And I must see Gospel! He’ll think I’m neglecting him.’
‘You and that horse!’ Charles chuckled, dropping a kiss on to her hair, which had become somewhat awry during the dancing. They threaded their arms about each other’s waists, Rose leaning her head on Charles’s shoulder as they picked their way across the silvery, moonlit grass, Rose enjoying the sense of protection, of closeness, that was so new to her. Gospel came trotting up in the adjacent field as soon as he smelled her familiar scent. As she stroked his soft, velvety muzzle, crooning into his ear, Charles’s lips on the back of her neck sent a shiver of emotion down her spine. She finally gave Gospel one last kiss on his hairy nose, and ambled back with Charles towards the warmly lit house, pausing for a moment to gaze up at the satin indigo sky, peppered with pinprick stars. The Dartmoor weather had been kind for their special day, and now offered them a still, romantic night. The balmy air entwined itself about them, and as Charles held her closely to him, his mouth came down on hers, not kind and caressing as it had always been before, but harsh and urgent. Rose tightened. It sent a strange sensation shooting down to her stomach, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
‘Time for bed, I think, my love,’ Charles said, releasing her. ‘You go up. I’ll just have a cigar out here, and then I’ll lock up.’
Rose nodded with a faint smile, grateful to escape the uncomfortable moment. Charles had instantly returned to his normal self, and she felt at ease again. Perhaps she had imagined, or misinterpreted, his forceful ardour, for after all, they had all consumed a great deal of alcohol during the day and weren’t quite themselves. She went in through the half-glazed double doors to the drawing room, then through the spacious hallway and up the elegant stairway to the master bedroom. Her light footsteps echoed through the silent house, for there was not a sound from her father’s quarters, and Florrie and the two female servants had been given leave to retire to their spartan but adequate rooms in the attic.
In the little dressing room, Rose contemplated her reflection in the looking-glass one last time before stepping out of the beautiful gown. Would she ever wear it again? So many brides could only be married in their Sunday best, or if they could afford it, a new outfit of a style that could be utilized again afterwards. But Rose’s gown was so exquisite it would only be suitable for a society ball, or some such event. Charles wanted her to go to London with him sometimes, and perhaps she would have an opportunity to use the lovely garment again then. She sighed as she reluctantly placed it on a hanger. She was so lucky! And though nowhere else could possibly hold the same place in her heart as her beloved Dartmoor, she was looking forward to visiting the capital with Charles, and playing the perfect wife as a thank you for all his generosity.
She climbed between the sheets, leaving the lamp turned low so that Charles could see his way when he came up. She had been sleeping in the big bed for the past two months, and shook her head with a musing smile. It would be strange to have someone, a man, lying beside her. But that was what you did when you were married, wasn’t it, share a bed? And she had to stifle a giggle as she wondered if Charles snored!
She snuggled down and was almost asleep, images of the magical day swirling in her head, when Charles padded into the room. She was vaguely aware of his shadow passing from the bathroom to the dressing room, emerging again in a pristine nightshirt. Rose was curled on her side, but turned on to her back and stretched like a kitten as Charles came and sat on the bed next to her. She smiled languidly at him, her dark curls flowing about her in a curtain of silk, as she waited for his goodnight kiss. She watched his eyes moving about her face, two cinnamon-flecked orbs alight with wonderment.