by Tania Crosse
He turned on her, eyes still glazed with pleasure, and propped himself up on one elbow to watch as she dressed herself again. ‘You really are magnificent, you know,’ he drawled languidly. ‘And I’m sorry for what I said in the heat of the moment just now. I really do love you. Too much, perhaps, if that’s possible. And I really do wish you’d come to London with me. I’m sure it would be good for you.’
Rose flashed him a withering look. ‘No.’ And then, as an afterthought, she added with frosty sarcasm, ‘Thank you.’
Charles raised both eyebrows, and released a sharp sigh through his nostrils. ‘As you wish. But . . . you could buy some presents for Christmas. Order yourself some new clothes from the dressmakers.’
‘I already have a wardrobe full of good clothes,’ she rounded on him as she fastened the riding skirt about her waist. ‘And now that my father is dead, I have no one to buy Christmas presents for.’
‘Not even me?’ Charles questioned wistfully. ‘And what about all these friends you are so fond of?’
She frowned at him, smarting under his sardonic words, as once again, he had dominated her. She finished cramming her hair into the finely crocheted snood, grabbed the hat and hatpin she had left ready on the dressing table – pausing for an instant to wonder if she shouldn’t jab the hatpin into whatever part of Charles’s anatomy she could get at, but thinking better of it – and then stormed out of the room, leaving the door to bang shut behind her.
‘Ned!’ she yelled imperiously as she hurtled across the stable yard, and almost collided with him as he emerged startle-eyed from mucking out Tansy’s loose box, as it was unusual for the mistress to raise her voice. She surprised him even further by demanding that he should bring Gospel’s saddle and bridle from the tack room, as she normally did so herself. An instant later, she was pressed up against Gospel’s strong, comforting shoulder, her arms about his neck and her cheek resting on his warm, hairy coat to hide her stinging tears. She felt drained, the bravado fled, and in its place, a wrenching misery. She should have stopped to clean herself, to wash away the humiliation Charles, her husband, had heaped upon her, but the only thing she had wanted was to get away from him. She felt used. Physically sick. Her body bruised and aching. She had married Charles for her father’s sake, had made herself believe she had loved him. She did not regret it. Henry’s last months at Fencott Place had been happy ones, and she would have had it no other way. But she had been married in June and now it was the beginning of December, and she had to face the rest of her life tied to a man she could not love. If Henry had survived another few years, it would have seemed far more worthwhile, but just now, as her body throbbed with soreness, it felt as if her sacrifice had been for nothing.
She pulled herself up short as Ned joined her in the box, and Gospel stamped with agitation at the unwelcome intruder. But within five minutes they were out on the moor, crisp and white with a hoar frost. Rose did not consider where they would go until Gospel stopped at a fork in the track, waiting for instructions from his beloved mistress. Rose scanned the horizon, allowing the infinite vastness of Dartmoor to bathe her soul. Her eyes were inevitably drawn to the gaunt buildings of the prison, dominated by the grim and daunting cell block number five, the first of the original constructions to be doubled in ground area and raised to a massive, inhuman, five-storey monster by gruelling convict labour, using stone blasted from the prison quarry. And although the inmates of the new, unheated cell block – already running with damp – shivered through the bitter winter nights, coughing and spluttering and half-starved on the basic prison diet while Rose existed in the lap of luxury, she knew exactly how they felt, incarcerated in a living hell for years on end . . .
It was three days before Charles left for London, three days when the very sight of him brought on nausea. Henry’s death had reduced Rose’s appetite to that of a sparrow, but now she somehow felt sick and hungry at the same time, and eating something light and refreshing, such as a raw carrot, seemed to settle her stomach. You be turning into a horse, like that animal o’ yourn, she could just hear Florrie teasing her. But Florrie wasn’t there, was she? Rose nearly gagged on her sadness. She felt so alone . . .
But not quite. She had not dared to sneak out while Charles was still there, though, to be honest, he had never physically prevented her from her lone rides. The truth was that, though she refused to admit it, since the day Charles had forced himself upon her and she had stampeded across the moor in a maddened temper, she hadn’t felt like going out. But his departure seemed to have given her a new lease of life, besides which there was one exciting event that she could now devote herself to wholeheartedly – and of which Charles, thank goodness, appeared ignorant.
On the fifteenth of December, Molly and Joe were to be married. Charles was not a churchgoer, and so had not heard the banns being read, and as he refused to associate with the people of the lower echelons, there had been no one to inform him of the news. In fact, his life at Fencott Place was fairly insular, and Rose supposed it was one reason for focusing his attentions on his wife with such zeal. He had visited the powder mills once, purely for business purposes and speaking only to the new manager; Mr Frean they both saw on occasion, and Charles had made the acquaintance of the Duchy of Cornwall’s agent at Prince Hall. But there were no social rounds as there were in London, and which, to be fair, Charles probably missed. In fact, if she stopped to think about it, Charles had sacrificed much to be with her on Dartmoor, and she bit her lip in remorse, since in her heart of hearts, she recognized that the problems with their marriage were not all one-sided.
No such qualms entered her mind now. For some reason she could not explain to herself, she decided to walk into Princetown rather than take Gospel from his warm stable. The ground was frozen solid beneath her feet, the still, bitterly cold air nipping at her nose and so raw she could almost taste it. The sky was an iron grey, pressing down on her with low, ominous clouds, but she was determined that her visit would bring some respite from the depression that was gnawing at her very core.
She found the sitting room in the new flat in happy chaos. Molly leapt to her feet with a cry of delight and hugged her friend tightly, while her retiring mother came forward with unusual confidence.
‘We’m so sorry ’bout your father,’ she said quietly.
Rose nodded, and knotted her lips against the lump that swelled so readily in her gullet. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered automatically, and then jerked her head towards two tea-chests in the middle of the floor. ‘You look busy.’
‘Yes.’ The woman’s eyes shone. ‘We’m packing some things to go over to Molly and Joe’s cottage at Cherrybrook.’
Rose smiled broadly, but somehow the usual vivid light was missing from her eyes. ‘Oh, I’m so pleased for you all. And you must be so excited, Molly.’
The younger girl grinned, the joy on her face making her look even prettier. ‘Well, you’m only just married yersel, Rosie, so you should know. ’Tis to be at the chapel, the wedding, but you knows that. And the breakfast, ’tis to be held at the Prince of Wales. Nort fancy, but one up on the Albert Inn, anyways! You will come, won’t you, Rosie? You and . . . and Mr Chadwick? I couldn’t bear it if you wasn’t there!’
Rose felt her heart thud in her chest. There was no way Charles would even contemplate attending such an affair, and no doubt he would do his best to prevent her from going, too. ‘You just try and stop me!’ she answered, tossing her head and praying Molly wouldn’t see the doubt that flickered across her features. ‘Now, what can I get you for a wedding present? There must be lots of things you need.’
‘Oh, Rosie, you doesn’t have to give us a present.’
But the idea sent a thrill of enthusiasm spilling into Rose’s troubled soul. ‘Oh, of course I do! You must make a list of everything and I’ll get it for you.’
‘Oh, but, Rose—’
‘No buts, Molly! What’s the point of being rich if you can’t spend some money on your best friend when sh
e’s getting married!’
A little voice inside her head grimaced that she earned her wealth in her marital bed, and that frittering away a few pounds of Charles’s money on Molly when she knew it would anger him was immensely satisfying. And so she spent the happiest day since Henry had died in the Cartwrights’ humble home, helping to make a list and silently vowing to buy the best-quality items and spend as much as she possibly could!
When it was time to leave, Rose kissed Molly goodbye, shivering on the doorstep as the arctic air licked about her slender form despite her warm coat. But there was one more thing she must do before she trod the path home. She crossed over the road, hesitating for a moment by the iron gates to gather up her courage, and entered the churchyard. The gloom at once closed about her aching heart again, the few hours of enjoyment she had spent with Molly dissipated to the four winds. She moved like a spectre, silent and alone, gliding to the slight mound in the grass with the simple wooden cross. No headstone as yet. You had to wait several months for the earth to settle, she had been told by the stonemason, a respectful fellow who had known Henry well. But the memorial she envisaged would be the finest ever made. Not too elaborate, but elegant and skilfully carved. Paid for from Charles’s pocket, of course. The bitterness tugged at her lips, the grief searing her throat until she could fight it no longer and tears began to trickle down from her eyes. She knelt, as still as a statue, her head bent as the misery tore at her chest. She wanted to howl, to scream her pain to the heavens so that somehow it might reach Henry and haul him back to the world of the living; that the bottomless pit of her agony might make him appear to her and let her know that in some other way, he still existed, for no daughter could ever have loved a father more deeply than she had. But she knew it would do no good. There was nothing on earth that could free her from the melancholy that held her in its cruel grasp. A good man, perhaps. A better man than Charles. One who understood, who saw her as a person with her own needs and feelings. But Charles was all she would ever have. And the torment of it was suffocating her.
She tipped her head back, lifting her tear-ravaged face to the leaden sky, and the first snowflakes kissed her frozen cheeks.
Fifteen
Saturday week arrived and Charles had yet to return. Rose’s heart lifted. The wedding was set for noon and there was nothing to stop her from going. Surely there could be no better medicine for her broken spirit than to witness her best friend getting wed to the lad who had been like a brother to her, a marriage that truly would be made in heaven. The ceremony was perfect, and Rose managed to ignore the barbed pang in her side at the memory of both her own wedding back in the summer, and her father’s funeral in the same church not so many weeks before. She shivered as a draught of air brushed her side. Was it Henry? For wild horses would not have kept him from the wedding of his semi-adopted son.
The celebration was a jolly affair. Two fiddlers played lively jigs and reels, and though there was little enough room, the tables were cleared away for dancing. And when, in the middle of the afternoon, Rose knew she must leave so that she would arrive home before dark, she reluctantly said her farewells, and her soul felt refreshed.
‘The master be home,’ Cook told her in a low, wary tone as she went into the kitchen to order a pot of tea. ‘Wanted to know where you was, so I teld him. I hope that were all right, ma’am.’
Rose drew in a slow, satisfied breath. She had been to Molly and Joe’s wedding. Charles hadn’t been there to stop her, and she cared little for what happened next. She had left her wet, slush-coated boots by the door and hurried upstairs to slip into a pair of soft kid shoes. She changed her clothes, too, the hem of her skirts and petticoats being stained with damp. She chose what she knew was one of Charles’s favourite dresses, suitable for dining in company on a winter’s evening, with long sleeves for warmth, but a scooping neckline to reveal quite enticingly the creamy skin over her collarbones and below the well of her throat. Her hair was already entwined upon her head, and she simply tidied a wayward curl before tripping downstairs again. She paused at the drawing-room door to square her shoulders before she breezed in with a brilliant smile.
‘Charles!’
She made herself run across the room to him. He looked up, scowling thunderously, but before he could utter a word, she bent to press her mouth against his, embracing him with all the passion of a young girl.
‘Why didn’t you come straight in here to greet me?’ he said tersely as she straightened up. ‘Cook’s had time to bring you in some tea.’
Rose glanced across at the tray on the table, and her weary heart sank. Were they to argue already? She didn’t have time to answer before Charles barked at her again.
‘I hear you’ve been to Molly Cartwright’s wedding,’ he growled stiffly. ‘You deliberately kept it from me, didn’t you, knowing I’d disapprove?’
Rose merely shrugged. ‘You weren’t here to tell. What time did you get back, anyway? Would you like some tea? I’ll fetch another cup.’
She turned towards the door, but he caught her by the wrist. She yelped, for the bruises were still fading from where he had held both her hands above her head in the bedroom when they had quarrelled last. It was a squeal more of surprise, though, than discomfort, and she flicked up her head, the fine line of her jaw lifted stubbornly.
‘If I wanted to go to my best friend’s wedding to Joe who is virtually my brother, I didn’t need your permission!’ she hissed at him, her eyes flashing dangerously.
‘Oh, yes, you did!’ Charles spat, his lips white with anger. ‘My wife, hobnobbing with that rabble! I won’t have it!’
The bile scorched in Rose’s gullet, and it was all she could do to stop herself flying at him with hungry fingernails. Instead, she glared at him steadily, her cheeks colourless with strained composure.
‘Nobody possesses me,’ she grated levelly. ‘If I wish to associate, as you put it, with good, honest, God-fearing folk, you won’t stop me.’
‘Oh, yes, I will. And may I remind you, madam, that in your wedding vows not so long ago, you promised to obey me.’
‘And in all things reasonable I do. Which is more than can be said of you when it comes to honouring me! You treat me like some whore in bed.’
‘Rose! I won’t have such a filthy word coming from your mouth!’
He raised his hand, ready to strike her. A rush of fear tingled through her body, and she instinctively wrenched herself away from him. He lost his grip on her wrist, and with the force of her own movement, her feet went from under her. Her head narrowly missed the table as she went down, but her collarbone cracked against it instead. Pain stung across her shoulder, and her vision clouded with black spots as she lay crumpled on the floor, fighting the chasm of unconsciousness that threatened to swallow her. She sensed rather than saw Charles drop on his knees beside her, and she shuddered when he took her in his arms.
‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry!’ his voice shook in her ear. ‘I wouldn’t have hit you, really I wouldn’t!’
She shuddered as she felt him lift her into the air and carry her over to the chaise-longue. Her head swam giddily and when her eyes wandered into focus, Charles’s face was looming over her, a mortified picture of concern.
‘You don’t think . . . It isn’t broken, is it?’ His lips trembled.
If she hadn’t been in such agony, she would have made a verbal attack on him, but as it was, she shot him an acid glance as she tried to look down at the site of the injury. It was too close to her neck to see, so instead she gingerly fingered her collarbone, exposed by the low neckline of her dress. It had already swollen into a tender lump the size of an egg, and she tentatively moved her shoulder in a small circle. It hurt, but over all, the pain was subsiding.
‘No, I don’t believe ’tis broken.’ She found her voice at last, though it was small and shaking. ‘So you won’t have to explain to the doctor how it happened,’ she added with caustic contempt.
Charles’s eyes opened wide in hi
s flushed face. ‘It . . . it wasn’t my fault,’ he protested.
Rose glared at him, her eyes glowing like hot coals, and suddenly the resentment, the abhorrence, rose in her like a bore tide. She felt the contents of her stomach lifting to her throat, and with one hand clamped over her mouth while the other arm was held tightly across her chest to protect her injured shoulder, she fled the room and raced upstairs to the bathroom where she retched her heart into the pretty china washbowl.
Rose slowly blinked open her eyes. There had still been some light in the sky when, after a sumptuous Christmas dinner, she had come over so tired that she felt she must have a lie-down. Now, after a short sleep, the room was in total darkness, and she had to fumble with the matches to light the oil lamp on the bedside table. She lay for a few minutes, her gaze meandering over the lovely room. Charles certainly provided well for her, and she was grateful, but . . . She exhaled in a profound, weary sigh. If only Charles had continued to be the same man after their wedding as he had been before, she perhaps could have loved him. But he wanted her entirely to himself, to possess her in every way, and it was ruining their marriage.
She sat up, wincing slightly as her bruised collarbone was still a little sore, and shivering as Patsy, the housemaid, had not yet lit the fire. Rose had merely snuggled beneath her thick woollen shawl as she lay on the bed, and now she pulled it tightly about her shoulders. Goodness, she had eaten too much, but Cook had excelled herself and Rose’s appetite, which had been so poor since Henry’s death, had seemed stimulated. Her dress was strained, and the ties around her waist which held the small bustle at the back felt uncomfortably tight. It had been like that for a few weeks now, which was odd really considering how little she had been eating of late. But then her monthly must be due, as her breasts were swollen and tender. She hadn’t had the ‘curse’ as Molly called it since . . . since when?
She frowned. And a little flutter quivered through her body as she cast her mind back. Since her dearest father had passed away, her life had been one appalling black blur. She could scarcely remember the weeks she had spent in London, and the dark days since then had been lost in a mournful haze, all her strength expended in trying to claw her way out of her grief. She simply hadn’t considered . . . But now the force of it hit her hard in the chest, stunning her. She had been ‘on’ when they had arrived in London at the beginning of October. She only remembered because she had been worried about the long journey and the frequency with which she might be able to find a public convenience. But she couldn’t remember anything since. With everything that had happened, her bereaved mind had hardly taken note of . . .