Cherrybrook Rose (21 page)

It went without saying that her going to London with Charles on his next visit had been his idea, though she had not been averse to it. She had been curious to see his house and experience the hustle and bustle of the capital and what it had to offer. But they had been there for nearly the whole of October, and she was longing to return home.

There was an endless round of social engagements, dinner parties and trips to the theatre. Charles seemed pleased with the way Rose conducted herself among his acquaintances, but the disapproval on his face if anyone paid her
too
much attention was alarming. They were returning one drizzly evening from a particularly enjoyable concert, the beautiful music still whirling in Rose's head and filling her with elation so that she had put to the back of her mind the carnal ritual Charles would demand of her despite the late hour.

As they climbed the steps to the front door, it was already being opened from the inside.

‘Oh, ma'am,' Dolly, the young parlourmaid announced, dipping her knee. ‘A telegram came for you, not five minutes since.'

Alarm ran through Rose's veins. A telegram. It could only be bad news. She picked up the envelope from the silver tray with shaking fingers and struggled to tear open the thin paper. The faint letters danced a jig before her wavering vision. Their meaning sank almost unheeded into her brain as her heart refused to believe it, and she handed the note to Charles for confirmation, praying desperately that her eyes had deceived her.

‘ROSE COME HOME STOP,' he read gravely. ‘HENRY VERY ILL STOP LOVE FLORRIE STOP.'

Charles looked up, and as Rose's legs seemed to give way beneath her, he caught her in his arms and she slumped against his shoulder. She was swamped by a nauseating dizziness and found herself pressed down into the chair that stood beside the hall table. When the hazy mist cleared from her eyes, Charles was crouched down before her, holding her hands and gazing anxiously into her face.

‘Oh, Rose, my dearest, I—'

‘I must go to him at once.'

She sprang to her feet, but swayed perilously and had to sit down again abruptly. Charles rubbed his hand over his jaw, his forehead creased in a deep frown.

‘There's no point setting out now, my love,' he told her gently. ‘I can't imagine there'll be any trains going all the way to Plymouth until the morning.'

‘Perhaps to Exeter—'

‘And find some lunatic mad enough to drive for miles across the moor in the middle of the night? No, Rose. It isn't practical. Especially as . . . oh, dammit, I can't come with you.'

‘What!' Rose's eyes opened wide with pained disbelief, but Charles's face lengthened in an anguished grimace.

‘If it was any other day, but tomorrow is the first board meeting of the South African mining company, and I
have
to be there. God knows if it was anything else . . . But you get packed. Dolly will help you. In fact, Dolly can travel with you. But just pack a small valise for yourself. I'll bring everything else the next day. So you do that, and I'll take a cab to the station and book all our tickets and find out the times of the trains so that I can telegraph Florrie and have Ned meet you from Tavistock. It's the best I can do.'

Rose looked up at him, her eyes liquid with moisture as she nodded. Whatever else Charles was, he could be relied upon to think rationally in a crisis, and it gave her strength.

‘All right. But I don't need Dolly to come with me,' she added as she smiled at the maid, who had turned a strange colour at the idea of travelling to what seemed to her the opposite end of the earth. ‘I can manage perfectly well, and to be honest – and no offence to you, Dolly – but I think I'd rather be on my own.'

For an instant, Charles looked horrified, but he recognized the stubborn determination on his wife's face, and with the telegram containing such bad news, he wasn't going to argue with her.

‘As you wish,' he agreed. ‘I'll book first class, of course, so you should be safe enough. And Rose, I really am sorry I can't come with you straight away.'

And that night, for the first time in their married life – apart from when they were apart or her monthlies prevented it – he did not force himself upon her.

The nine-hour train journey from Paddington to Tavistock seemed to last an eternity. As the railway skirted the southern edge of Dartmoor, Rose's eyes were drawn in the direction of the distant uplands, knowing that somewhere out there her beloved father lay seriously ill. But what was wrong with him? Had Florrie panicked and it was really only something quite trivial? Rose's tortured mind clung to that comforting thought, though her heart beat tremulously in time to the rhythmical clatter of the train. Each main station had been a busy cacophony of hissing steam, slowly chugging engines, scurry-ing feet, raised voices and piercing whistle-blowing, after which the line up to Tavistock seemed almost peaceful. The grey autumn day disappeared into the gathering dusk, and the breathtaking views over the moor were lost in the gloom. Rose was nearing home, but the expected elation was buried deep in her constricted chest. She felt cut off from the rest of the world, every nerve on edge. She hadn't eaten all day, the delicacies Charles's cook had packed in a little tin box for her quite untouched.

It was almost dark when she alighted at Tavistock station, and she was grateful even for Ned's company as she sat beside him on the driving seat of the wagonette. Her father
was
very sick, Ned told Rose, though he knew no more than that, and from his solemn expression and unusual silence, Rose knew it was true. Ned had lit the carriage lamps but they did little to illuminate their way, and as they ascended the steep hill up on to the moor, Rose was reminded of another time, less than a year before, when she had struggled along the very same road in a snowstorm. So much had happened since then. She had thought she had found the solution to their problems, and to some extent she had. But the happiness she had expected was proving as elusive as a moonbeam.

She didn't stop to remove her coat and hat, but flew straight into her father's room, her heart hammering with dread. Florrie had been dozing in the chair, and she did not have time to blink the startled confusion from her eyes before Rose threw herself on her knees beside the bed and took Henry's hand in hers. He appeared to be asleep, but when he heard her soft, quavering voice, his glazed eyes half opened in his grey face.

‘Ah, Rose, my darling girl,' he mumbled, his words so frail she could hardly hear him. ‘What a picture you are. Quite the lady. And happy. You are happy, aren't you, Rose?'

A mist dimmed the crystal violet of her eyes. ‘Yes, Father,' she managed to say as she swallowed down the strangling constriction in her throat.

‘Then I can die in peace,' he whispered, and his eyelids drooped closed again.

Something jerked, and then settled irrevocably in Rose's chest. ‘Don't say that, Father.'

But all she received in response was a serene smile.

Dr Power spread his hands. ‘I believe your father has suffered a pulmonary embolism,' he said grimly.

Rose lifted her eyes to him from the opposite side of the drawing-room fireplace where she shivered with cold, despite the roaring blaze. ‘Pulmonary . . . his lungs, you mean?' she asked quietly.

‘Yes. A clot on his left lung. You know his lungs were weakened by the smoke inhalation last year. And the clot may be the result of his inactivity, or he may have had a predisposition to it anyway.'

‘And . . . and his chances?' Her voice sounded strange to her own ears, disconnected. She had not slept for more than forty-eight hours, neither her last night in London nor the night she had spent in Florrie's chair by Henry's bedside. She was exhausted, her mind ready to shut down and accept the inevitable.

‘Not good, I'm afraid.' Dr Power's mouth twisted sadly. ‘The clot may disperse, but if it does, the fragments could lodge elsewhere, in the heart or the brain perhaps. In the meantime, your father's in a lot of pain from the clot. That's why I'm giving him morphine injections night and morning, and Mrs Bennett has laudanum to supplement it if necessary. But, if we can't reduce them, the drugs in themselves will be very dangerous.'

‘So, what you're saying is, one way or another, my father is dying.'

The doctor released his breath through pursed lips. ‘Almost certainly.'

Rose nodded, staring down at her tightly intertwined fingers. ‘Your frankness is appreciated, Dr Power. And . . . and how long does he have?'

He faltered, shaking his head slightly. ‘If we have to keep up with this high dose of morphine, a week, possibly less. But better to let him go without pain, don't you think? And when the time comes, he will drift asleep in peace and calm.'

‘And if he does improve?' Rose asked with a spark of hope.

‘I am a mere mortal, Mrs Chadwick, and cannot predict what miracles God may produce. I am so sorry, but in my opinion, you should prepare yourself for the worst.'

Rose felt her heart drag with sadness. ‘It hasn't been much of a life for him,' she croaked wearily, ‘not since the accident.'

‘You've done the best for him that anyone could. Take comfort from that. And I suggest you try and get some sleep. Mrs Bennett will sit with him, and there are servants to relieve her.'

‘But 'tis my place to—'

‘Not to the detriment of your own health. Now I believe your husband will be arriving this evening?'

Rose realized she had hardly given Charles a thought. ‘Yes,' she answered absently. ‘He had a business meeting of the utmost importance yesterday, and so could not accompany me, and I was not prepared to wait.'

‘Of course. And he will be of great strength to you.'

‘Yes,' she replied, though something inside her died.

‘Rose, my darling, you must eat.'

Charles was gazing at her with pleading eyes, but she turned her head from the tray with her hand over her mouth. ‘Please, Charles, take it away. Just the thought of food makes me feel sick.'

‘All right.' He released a heartfelt sigh. ‘But you will drink the tea. Or would you prefer something cold and refreshing? Cook's lemonade, or some ginger beer? I'll ride into Princetown to buy some if there's none in the pantry.'

But Rose looked up at him with a wan smile. ‘The tea will be fine, thank you. But maybe some lemonade later on. Perhaps I can rouse Father enough to drink some, too.'

‘Yes, my dear. Perhaps.'

He patted her shoulder, and her hand closed over his. The last few days, he had been the man she had believed she had married, kind, considerate, affectionate but without demanding his conjugal rights. Not that she had been to bed since she had returned home, a fact that worried both the doctor and Charles. And now he padded silently out of the room with the tray, sensing that she would prefer to be alone in her vigil.

The tea was hot and sweet, soothing her agitated mind. The autumn sunlight penetrating the room in hesitant shafts gradually faded into noiseless twilight, and she was aware of Florrie coming in to draw the curtains. Amber trotted in behind her and came to rest her golden muzzle on Rose's knee, staring up at her with doleful brown eyes. Rose blinked awake and fondled the soft fur at the dog's ears, and not to be outdone, Scraggles scampered across with his head on one side in that amusing way he had, so that one pointed ear flopped over comically, and Rose stroked his scruffy head with a faint smile. She hardly dared to look at Henry, and when she did, his chest was rising and falling regularly but in shallow, slightly wheezy breaths.

Florrie straightened up from poking the moribund fire into life and adding more coal. ‘He seems peaceful enough, poor lamb,' she whispered.

Rose nodded her head, but a painful lump squeezed her gullet. ‘What shall I do without him, Florrie?' she could hardly mouth.

‘What shall we all do without him?' Florrie's fat, wet cheeks wobbled.

She drew up the other chair and sat by Rose's side. They exchanged not another word. They had no need of it, both lost in a private world of sadness that admitted no intruders. The fire hissed in the grate, the clock ticked on the mantelpiece, echoing in the hushed room, and the dogs slept together on the hearth rug, Scraggles making tiny squeaking sounds as he dreamt of chasing some fleet rabbit.

Charles came in with the promised lemonade. They all stirred, including the dogs. Even Henry groaned in the bed, his eyes opening in a confused daze. Rose sprang to his side, her eyes spangled with unshed tears.

‘Father?'

‘Ah, my dearest Rose.' The agitation flowed from his face as his vision focused on his beloved daughter, and in its place a supreme calm seemed to smooth out the lines in his skin.

‘We were just having some of Cook's lemonade. Would you like some?'

For a moment, she thought she would break at the normality of the question, but Henry managed a weak smile. ‘'Twon't be as good as Florrie's, but yes, I should like some. If you can sit me up . . .'

Florrie, leaning over Rose's shoulder, went to assist him as Rose already had the heavy glass jug in her hands, and as Florrie's strong arms went about him, there was a look passed between them that Rose had never noticed before, and it filled her with a cruel joy. Had there been more between her father and their housekeeper than she had ever realized? Some sort of understanding that had brought them happiness all those years? It tore at Rose's heart, for she hoped so, but it would mean parting would be so much the worse.

Charles had gone to the other side of the bed to help, and Henry turned his tired eyes on his son-in-law. ‘You will look after them, won't you?'

Charles nodded gravely. ‘Of course.' There was no more said, and Rose poured some of the refreshing liquid into the feeding jug and held the spout to Henry's lips. But he had only taken a sip before he indicated he wanted no more, and Rose replaced the little jug on the bedside table.