Cherrybrook Rose (25 page)

At least this stage of her pregnancy was calm and uneventful, the nausea long gone, and the final month which Mrs Cartwright had told her could be most uncomfortable – and she should know, having brought six children into the world – some time off as yet. Rose wondered amazedly how large she would become, for she already felt enormous. Dr Seaton, whose services Charles had engaged as being the most senior physician in Tavistock, was very pleased with her progress. To her utter relief, he had told Charles that from now on until at least six weeks after the birth – which was expected at the end of June – their marital relationship, as he delicately put it, should cease. There was the possibility that the lady's pleasure could stimulate the womb to go into labour, and the baby's life could be at risk from a premature birth. What pleasure she was supposed to take from Charles's assaults on her she couldn't imagine, but Charles had evidently taken the doctor's warning to heart, and for the child's sake had left her alone.

He had, indeed, treated her like a princess ever since she had announced her condition to him. He had insisted she should not ride Gospel again, but drive everywhere she needed in the wagonette, and she had agreed that this was a sensible precaution. He always wanted to know exactly where she was going – so that he would know both she and the baby were safe was his excuse – and so she had only seen Molly during the two trips Charles had made to London. The second time, a month ago now, Mrs Cartwright had been visiting her daughter, and Joe had managed to spend half an hour with them, so it had been a jolly company. But it seemed an eternity ago, and Rose was champing at the bit to see them again.

She clicked her tongue encouragingly and stretched out her hand, rubbing her thumb across her forefinger in a gesture of beckoning. Amber and Scraggles were lying side by side on the rug in front of the fire, toasting themselves indolently, but the scruffy mongrel at once trotted over to Rose's chair, wagging his unkempt tail nineteen to the dozen as she rubbed his ears. Amber was slower to heave herself to her feet, heavy with the unborn pups Scraggles had given her. Charles had despaired when they had realized what had happened, for God alone knew what the puppies would look like with such a father, and who would want them? Was he to be landed with a houseful of mangy curs under his feet at every minute? But Rose laughed and was delighted. The two dogs behaved like an old married couple, inseparable, Rose considered ruefully as she stroked Amber's golden nose that was resting now on her knee. The sort of relationship Rose herself craved, though Charles had been kindness itself since her announcement on Christmas Day. But that innate understanding, that unspoken intimacy of two fused souls, she knew now could never be theirs. Charles still could not comprehend that sometimes she needed to be alone, out on the freedom of the moors where her heart and her spirit belonged. And his attempts to keep her all to himself were slowly asphyxiating her.

She glanced up carelessly as he came into the room now from his study where he had been dealing with some business correspondence.

‘I've ordered some tea, my dearest,' he announced, smiling at her fondly. ‘It will be served directly, and I am sure you will . . . What the devil are those two creatures doing indoors?' he thundered, his expression hardening as he rounded the winged back of the chair that had hidden the two dogs from his view. ‘Ned reckons she could whelp any day, and I won't have her making a mess all over the carpets! And as for that flea-ridden monstrosity—'

‘Oh, Scraggles, what is he saying about you?' Rose crooned, ruffling the endearing animal's ears and raising a teasing eyebrow at her husband.

The annoyance around Charles's mouth slackened. ‘I'm sorry, Rose, my love, but you know it makes sense. As soon as Amber's clean again afterwards, she can come back inside. But as for the pups, well, I don't know what I shall do with them!'

Rose screwed her lips into a knot. What
he
would do with them? Amber was
her
dog, and she considered Scraggles was too, and so it followed that the puppies would also be hers. ‘I've already promised one to Molly, and another to her brothers and sisters if they're allowed,' she said stiffly, ‘so that's two less for you to worry about, and they're not even born yet. Right, come along, you two. Back to the stables.'

She put her hands on the arms of the chair, ready to lever herself upwards, although she had not yet reached the stage of her pregnancy when it was necessary. It was just that Charles's attitude wearied her, drained her of her natural effervescence. But before she had lifted herself from the seat, Charles had put out his hand, palm outwards in a forbidding gesture.

‘No, no, you rest yourself, my darling. I'll take them.'

‘Amber's basket is in Gospel's loose box,' Rose called at his back. ‘They all like being in together, but make sure you bolt the door properly, or Gospel will nudge it open!'

‘Yes, yes, I do know that animal's desire to escape. A bit like his mistress,' Charles added wryly as he ushered the two dogs out of the door.

Rose sat back with a sigh. Poor Gospel. He must be so restless, so frustrated, far more than she was for at least she had the child to slow her down. Normally, Gospel would have been out in the paddock, but being of part-thoroughbred stock, it might not be wise for him to be out in the penetrating damp of such a dense fog as this.

Charles returned five minutes later, holding the door open for the young housemaid who was struggling with the laden tea tray, for though servants were no more to Charles than that, he was not unkind towards them. Although it was only mid-afternoon, the light was fading and it was so depressingly murky that Charles instructed the girl to light the remaining lamps and then stoke up the already cheerful fire to an even more vigorous conflagration. Charles watched approvingly as the maid completed her duties before dipping her knee and backing out of the room.

‘Shall I pour, my dear?' This was said with the gleaming silver teapot already in Charles's hand, so Rose nodded absently, accepting both the fragile bone-china teacup and a matching plate upon which he had placed a selection of Cook's delicacies prepared immediately after their fine lunch. They took their tea in silence, since there was little they had to say to each other. Rose ate little, seeing as the kindly Dr Seaton had reminded her that she should eat not for two, but for one small adult, meaning herself, and one baby. Excessive weight would not be good for either mother or child, and in his opinion, if she felt hungry, she should eat extra fruit, vegetables, meat and fish rather than Cook's cakes and biscuits, however mouth-wateringly delicious.

Rose mulled over the elderly physician's visit the previous day. He was not one to beat about the bush, was Dr Seaton, no airs and graces and no being cowed by his wealthy patients. Rose had every confidence in him. Although Dr Power would have been equally competent, she was happy enough to have the more senior physician oversee the birth of the child she prayed would seal her marriage, if not into true love, then at least into a semblance of peace.

She glanced across at Charles now. They had so little in common, except perhaps that he was reading a book as he sipped his tea, and Rose, too, loved to read. The thought made her draw from the pocket in her skirt the letter she had received from Florrie that morning, the postman having delivered it before the fog had closed in, or else she might not have seen it until the weather had cleared again. Which may have made it seem more pleasurable, as the depressing weather had made Florrie's communication seem even more depressing itself, and Rose's eyes saddened as they scanned Florrie's bold and childlike writing for the second time.

My dear Rose

I hope you are well and that the baby is going on nicely. I never had no child of my own, as you knows. I had you instead, and that were enough for me. No one could be dearer to me than you, except perhaps your father who I always loved. Though he loved me in return, we was never more than fondest friends. I doesn't know if things might have been different if we had been more than that. All I knows is that I misses him so much and I casn find it in me to come back to the house with him not there. I hopes that time will heal, and that it will for you, too. You was a wonderful daughter to him, but you has your husband and the baby to think of. Tis a great comfort to me staying with my sister and her children, and God willing, I will feel able to come home to you soon. I am well, and so is the family here

Take care of yoursel, my little maid

All my love

Florrie

Rose moistened her lips pensively. Her heart had sunk like a rock when she had first read the letter that morning, as she was hoping desperately that it would contain news of Florrie's return. But Rose understood. Of course she did. Florrie had loved Henry in the same way that Rose had hoped, had believed, she could have loved Charles, and the cruel separation of Henry's death after so many shared years must have been as devastating for Florrie as it had been for herself. She stared into the fire, its dancing flames reflecting in the dark irises of her glistening eyes, seeing and yet not seeing, her mind wandering over her past life at Cherrybrook and her contentment which she had considered would be eternal, but which had been brought to such an abrupt end. It should not have been so terrible. Charles should have brought her comfort, but he never did. Rather she longed for when he was away in London. She looked across at him again now, engrossed in his book. Shut away in a different world. Somewhat as they seemed to live their lives.

She sighed, and went to pour herself another cup of tea, but when she felt the pot it was stone cold and she couldn't be bothered to order some fresh. She didn't really want it anyway. Instead, she went to use the fancy lavatory Charles had recently had installed, a system by which the frequent rainfall kept a massive rooftop tank constantly full of water, which in turn filled the cistern that washed the contents of the decorated pan down into a cesspit beyond the lawn. When this was becoming full, Charles had made an arrangement that it would be collected by a local farmer as fertilizer, suiting them both well. Rose, though, was more interested in the intriguing luxury of a flushing lavatory – just like the one in Charles's London home, but which was apparently quite common in wealthier homes in the capital with its water supply and sophisticated sewer system – and so she welcomed the visits her progressing pregnancy necessitated. Now she washed her hands and went back to the drawing room, reached her feet out to the fire as she lounged in the comfortable chair, and closed her eyes.

She had dozed, the clock showed her, for nearly an hour, Charles still reading, apparently not having moved an inch. Rose stretched languidly, then yawned aloud, which lifted Charles's disapproving head for a moment. Rose's eyes swept about the room. The tea tray had disappeared. The fire still crackled merrily, and Rose was grateful that she was warm and cosy when it was so raw outside. On the mantelpiece were displayed some elegant china ornaments, heavy velvet curtains hung at the windows and the furniture was of fine quality, everything she had carefully chosen meeting with Charles's approval. She admired the room once again, pondering how quickly one became used to such finery. That, to be honest, it meant nothing compared to the true happiness that eluded her. And just now she had nothing to
do
. She was bored. Cooped up like a hen. And she drummed her fingers fretfully on the arm of the chair.

‘Oh, Rose, can't you find something to do?' Charles asked with mild irritation. ‘Read a book, or . . . or do some sewing?'

‘I would if you'd let me make something sensible, like baby clothes,' she answered tartly, though she had done just that in secret. ‘Needlepoint just seems such a waste of time.'

‘I've told you before, making clothes is not a fit occupation for a lady. You can employ a seamstress for that.'

Rose ground her teeth in frustration, her lips pushed forward mutinously. A heartfelt sigh exploded from her agitated lungs, and before she knew it herself, she was on her feet. ‘I simply must get out!' her lips declared, and she found herself glaring at Charles's startled disapprobation.

‘Don't be so ridiculous!' he reproached her scornfully. ‘You'd be lost in a minute in this fog.'

‘No, I wouldn't,' she scowled. ‘
You
would, but I know the moor like the back of my hand. But as it happens, I'm only planning on going out to the stables, and I'm sure even you can't object to that!' she sneered triumphantly, gloating at the defeated expression on Charles's face.

A few moments later, she let herself out through the back door, pulling her thick shawl tightly about her shoulders. The fog had ushered in an early evening, so Rose had lit one of the storm lanterns from the boot room. She shivered as she stepped across the stable yard. The dense moisture hung in the air in cold droplets that clung to her long lashes and seemed to penetrate to her very bones. It was just like winter again, the line of loose boxes veiled in a misty blur, and Rose hung the lamp on the special hook on the doorpost outside Gospel's stable. The place was deserted, Ned having finished his duties for the day and taken himself off to his quarters above the tack room at the far side of the yard. All he would have left to do was to check the horses before he went to bed, and turn the keys in the padlocks to the stable doors for the night, so Rose slipped into Gospel's loose box unseen.

Scraggles came at once to lick her hand as she turned to bolt the bottom half of the stable door, leaving the top open to allow the uncertain glow from the lamp to enter the pitch darkness inside. The prancing mongrel was a hairy shadow in the gloom, but Amber's golden coat was more distinct as she lay in her basket, not even lifting her head. It was to Gospel's tall, lustrous silhouette, though, that Rose took herself, lacing her arms about his sleek but powerful neck and burying her face against his warm flesh. The animal turned his head, whickering softly in his throat as he nudged his velvety muzzle against her arm. It was too much for Rose, and in the murky silence of the stable, tears began to roll down her cheeks.