A Bouquet of Thorns (25 page)

Rose padded her way down the stairs in her stockinged feet, knowing her riding boots, polished by Ned, would be waiting in the boot room by the back door. Patsy and Daisy were already up, setting the day in motion in the kitchen. Rose put a finger to her lips at their surprised faces.

‘I'm going for a ride,' she whispered. ‘I don't want to wake the master.'

‘There's tea in the pot, so you have a cup to warm you before you goes out in this snipey weather, ma'am,' Daisy suggested.

‘Yes, I will. And I'd like to take a couple of rolls with me.'

‘Today's bread won't be ready, ma'am, but yesterday's rolls are still quite fresh.'

‘That'll do nicely, thank you.'

Within five minutes, she was outside in a pinching, frosty morning. Dawn was just breaking and it was just light enough to see her way into the tack room to collect Honey's saddle and bridle and then into the docile animal's loose box. There was no sign of Ned, thank goodness, as she wouldn't put it past him to go and wake Charles, master or not, and tell him of her escapade. After all, he had sneaked off to the prison to inform them that the escaped convict was hiding in the stable yard, hadn't he?

Honey seemed pleased to see her and with a small feed, she was ready to be saddled. After all, the ground was rock hard with the heavy frost and they would only be going at walking pace. Besides, it was so early and promised to be such a beautiful sunrise that Rose wanted to enjoy the utter peace and tranquillity to the full. Honey's hooves on the yard cobbles didn't appear to disturb Ned and they were soon off and away over the moor.

They followed the road out past the little settlement at the Whiteworks tin mine and set out along the ancient track above the River Swincombe. They were travelling eastwards and the sun was just rising in front of them, a pale disc in a clear, colourless sky. The white, frost-encrusted grass crunched beneath Honey's hooves, and the mare breathed clouds of wreathing vapour into the glacial air with each gentle nod of her head as she walked steadily forward. They appeared to be the only moving creatures in the entire frozen landscape. Even the occasional group of hardy sheep or ponies stood huddled together and motionless. Rose's face stung with cold and she could smell it in her nostrils, but it was invigorating, filling her with buoyant optimism. Could the horse possibly be Gospel? Would she have enough money to buy him back? If need be, she would swap him for Honey, although she would be reluctant to lose the lovely animal that had brought her so much consolation. But God willing, she would be riding Gospel home and leading the gorgeous palomino alongside.

The sun was beginning its journey heavenwards, taking on a peach glow that it painted across the sky in streaks of coral. The amber light reflected on the pearly wastes of the moor, twinkling on the silvery hoar frost and the dancing waters of the river below. The air was bitingly cold but so still, and Rose could have believed that she and Honey were the only living things in the world.

They came to the lonely crossroads on the moorland track and turned right to cross the river by the ford and follow to the delightful hamlet of Hexworthy and the first signs of human life there. Over the bridge across the West Dart where they stopped for a few minutes for Honey to take a short drink from the river at the natural beach, then along past the tiny wayside mission chapel of St Raphael's before turning up across the fields and down to Dartmeet. They kept to the main road after that, Honey taking the steep hill slowly and steadily and eventually turning left to the little village of Ponsworthy. Rose reckoned it must be eight miles in all, not quite as far as Peter Tavy in the opposite direction but still quite a way, and she would have to allow Honey a good rest before they set off home.

It was mid morning when she found the address she had been given and, after tethering Honey to a tree, she rang the front door bell, her heart jangling with delirious anticipation. She could hardly contain herself, her mind flying to the stars at the thought that Gospel might be just yards away from her. Oh, come on, come
on
!

At last the door was opened and when she explained who she was, the maid went to fetch her master, who was glad to see Rose, and led her at once around the back of the house to some stables. Rose's head was ready to explode with joy. Oh, please,
please
let it be Gospel! Her heart vaulted into her throat as a great black head appeared over a loose box door. She knew at once.

The hope shrivelled and died inside her, dashed to smithereens. But perhaps she was mistaken. Refusing to believe what she knew to be true, she opened the door and went inside. Just in case. Willing it to be him. But she knew it wasn't. Yes, he was so similar, but it simply wasn't him.

Tears raked her throat as she came back out, shaking her head.

‘Oh, I'm so sorry, my dear,' the gentleman said with sympathy. ‘The one you're looking for obviously means a lot to you.'

‘Yes, he does,' she croaked. ‘And I really thought . . .'

Her voice drifted away in a thin trail and the man nodded. ‘You must be frozen. Put your own horse in the next box and then come inside for some refreshment.'

She spent an hour inside by a roaring fire consuming hot chocolate and oatmeal biscuits and talking to the man and his wife. They were both so kind that she found it hard not to cry, and they promised to let her know if they ever came across any other horse that could be Gospel.

‘I'm sorry for my own sake, too. Even I find that fellow hard to handle. I'll have to sell him on at the next sale, but I'll keep my eyes open for you as well.'

Rose thanked them sincerely for their hospitality and rode home, struggling to hold her shattered soul together. Tears froze on her cheeks as grief seeped into every nook and cranny of her being. Oh, what a fool she had been ever to have thought that she could find Gospel again. It seemed that Fate wanted to destroy her life in every way, taking from her everyone and everything she held so dear. At least she still had Florrie and Molly, Honey and the dogs, she tried to tell herself. But it was no good, and as she neared home and the ugly scene she knew would take place between herself and Charles, resentment brewed up inside her.

She was so lost in her misery that at first she didn't noticed the figure on the bright chestnut horse as Honey carefully took the steep incline back down to Dartmeet. It was only as they approached the bridge that she realized it was Charles waiting for her on Tansy, and her aching heart began to patter nervously in her breast.

‘Charles, what are you doing here?' she asked tonelessly as she drew level with him.

‘Thank God I've found you, Rose!'

‘Why? Is something amiss?'

‘Only that I was so worried when you weren't home by lunch time that I came to look for you.'

His voice was dry, his lips tight as if he was controlling his temper. Rose had expected a violent tirade, so she decided she should try to avoid a bitter confrontation if at all possible.

‘Oh, I'm sorry, Charles. But 'twas so beautiful out on the moor that I hadn't realized how long I'd been and I forgot to take the little pocket watch you gave me. Did you come along the road?'

Charles seemed a little taken aback by her deferential attitude and nodded in reply. ‘Yes, of course.'

‘Well, let me take you the back way.' She smiled blithely. ‘'Tis so much nicer and much shorter. Come on. Let's enjoy the ride together.'

She led the way, and Charles appeared to gain a better humour as he was able to bring Tansy alongside her. Rose felt she was treading on eggshells, but the intermittent conversation that passed between them was quite civil and by the time they reached Fencott Place, she felt the danger was over. Charles said no more about her escapade, but she decided she must be more cautious in future. But
what
future? Though it was tearing her heart into tatters, she was beginning to accept that, despite all her enquiries, she would never see Gospel again. Could she possibly put it behind her, her grief over the animal and her resentment towards Charles for selling him? It was a question she couldn't answer. But she was going to have to take a hold on her emotions if her life was going to be worth living.

Charles followed her up to the bedroom that night and sat on the edge of the bed, unlacing his shoes. Rose was removing her necklace at the dressing table and glanced across at Charles through narrowed eyes. She would have to make the best of her life with him. That was what Seth had said to her, wasn't it? And with his words echoing in her head, she would make an effort.

‘Charles?' she said quietly.

He looked up casually. ‘Yes, my dear?'

‘I was just wondering – how is Mr Tilling and the gallery? Is he doing well?'

Charles shrugged his shoulders as he swapped over his feet. ‘I've no idea.'

‘Really? Oh, then I shall write to him and enquire.'

‘You will do no such thing!'

The voice was a sudden, angry snarl and Rose whipped her head round, her eyes startled. ‘Why?' she stammered. ‘I don't understand.'

The muscles around Charles's mouth were taut. ‘I have nothing more to do with Mr Tilling now, since I withdrew my patronage.'

‘What?' Rose's heart thumped in her chest as all her good intentions dried to dust. ‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, what could he expect after his insult upon you?'

‘Insult? He simply wanted—'

‘Rose! I cannot have my wife posing for some lecherous young artist! I could see the look in his eye—'

‘And you read something into it that wasn't there!' Rose fumed, her eyes snapping at him. ‘He was polite and respectful and—'

‘Oh, yes, my innocent, trusting girl!' he sneered. ‘Just as I supposed that damned convict—'

‘How
dare
you!' she screeched back, rising to the bait. ‘There were nothing like that between us, any more than there was between Mr Tilling and me! What sort of person do you think I am, Charles? I'm totally faithful to you, so why do you doubt me? Why do you want to
possess
me like . . . like . . .?'

A slow smirk spread across Charles's face. ‘Oh, I do love you when you're angry. And if you're so faithful, why don't you prove it to me?'

She frowned as she went to step into the dressing room. ‘What do you mean?'

He grasped her arm, pulling her back into the room. ‘Don't get changed in there. Take your clothes off here. Slowly. In front of the fire. I'll stoke it up so you won't be cold.'

Rose swallowed hard, almost choking. Charles usually took her quickly in bed, getting at her in whatever way he could. It was bad enough, but he obviously wanted more than that tonight. Her punishment for her lone ride. Her mouth thinned to a fine line as fury and revulsion swamped her mind in a savage wave but then ebbed away on a tortured breath. What was the point in resisting? Charles believed he
owned
her. And it would never be any different.

She undressed, reluctantly, bitterly, her fingers shaking on the buttons and ribbons, shivering, her stomach sickened. She stood before him, naked and trembling, while he looked her up and down, licking his lips as he pulled off his trousers without taking his eyes from her slender body.

‘Lie down,' he ordered.

Her soul died inside her. She knew from experience it would be worse if she resisted. He sprang down on top of her, pinning her arms out to the sides so that she couldn't move, and proceeded to bite and suck at her breasts until they were marked and bruised. Then he jammed himself into her, cursing as she cried out in pain, drooling and with sweat dripping from his face as he brutally thrust again and again.

‘There,' he groaned as he withdrew and let her fall back on the carpet. ‘And if I ever have reason to believe you've been unfaithful, you'll have that and more every night of your life!'

Rose glared back at him, her eyes glinting with malevolence. What worse could he do to her? She must fight back, or die.

R
ose was as good as gold. Or at least Charles believed her to be. With the coming of spring and the lengthening days, she yearned for the peace and serenity she had found at Rosebank Hall. It would have lightened her heart and she knew she would have been welcomed with open arms by Elizabeth Pencarrow and the family, but she dared not take the risk unless strictly necessary. Instead, knowing she could now get there and back in daylight had only made a black depression settle over her, not helped by the fact that there was no word from Adam. She knew only from Elizabeth's letters via Molly that he remained in London, and had abandoned his own family and his business as he pursued justice for one man. But Rose's hope had tired.

Jacob had told her that Seth had survived the winter one way or another, not exactly in the best of health, but he had never had to be readmitted to the prison infirmary either. He continued to work on the building in between spells of breaking stones to be used on local roads. Above all, he had been spared the bone shed, but Rose was beginning to be convinced that his fate was as sealed as hers.

Her only consolation was visiting Molly and watching Henrietta grow bigger and stronger, pretty as a picture and such a happy little being. But the joyful time spent with her friend and the child had a sting in its tail. Henrietta was already older than Alice was when she died, and the pain stabbed into Rose's side. And as she rode home, the prison dominated the horizon and she could only think of Seth, half starved, exhausted, and forced to work like a slave.

‘Found 'en like this in his cell,' explained one of the two warders who between them were dragging the barely conscious felon into the hospital. ‘Complainin' of a headache the last few days, he were, but we thought nort of it till we found 'en this morning like.'

‘Get him on the bed and I'll take a look.'