Cherrybrook Rose (7 page)

Rose's mouth twisted, and then she lowered her eyes in submission. ‘No. I suppose not,' she muttered under her breath. ‘But—'

‘Listen to me, Rose.' Henry leant forward and placed his hand over hers. ‘This has nothing to do with the powder mills. This is to do with
you
and
your
future.' His voice was low, ragged with emotion as if it would break. ‘I'm . . . Not to beat about the bush, I'm not getting any younger, and one never knows what lies around the corner. Some men are able to work into their seventies, but you can't rely on that. If there were to come a day when I couldn't work any more, well . . . To be honest, I've made little provision for my own future, let alone yours.'

Rose raised her liquid eyes to his beloved face, tears trembling on her lashes as she considered the unthinkable picture he was etching on her mind. ‘Oh, Father, don't say such things,' she scarcely managed to whisper.

But Henry put up his hand. ‘No, I'm sorry, Rose, but they
must
be said. I want to see you settled.'

The flame immediately reignited in her breast. ‘Settled, perhaps. But not with that . . . that pompous, arrogant—'

She broke off, at a loss to describe the contempt she held for Mr Charles Chadwick, but Henry was not to be deterred. ‘Well, perhaps not to Mr Chadwick,' he conceded gently, ‘but think on it, Rose. Trapped out here in the middle of this wilderness—'

‘But I love the moor—'

‘I know you do. And so do I. But what opportunity do you have to meet suitable, eligible bachelors? A beautiful,' and his eyes softened, ‘vivacious, intelligent girl like you should have the pick of society, and—'

‘I don't want the pick of society! If I wanted anyone, which I don't, I love the people we live amongst, people like Joe—'

‘'T wouldn't work,' Henry stated flatly. ‘I
know
you, Rose. Better than you know yourself. You deserve . . . No, you
need
more than that. You're twenty-one, and most girls of your age would be long married by now!'

‘And Mr Chadwick must be at least forty, and I don't
want
to be married to anyone! I just want to stay here with you, Father!'

The tears were brimming over her lower eyelids now, and Henry came to put his arms around her. ‘Oh, my dear child, you'll never know what comfort and joy you have always brought to me!' he murmured into her hair. ‘But time must move on, and if you love me as much as you say, then you will listen to me in this. All I ask is that you at least try to get to know Mr Chadwick a little better. He is neither pompous nor arrogant as you said. He is simply accomplished and confident from the society into which he was born. The poor fellow is clearly quite bewildered by what he feels for you, and is determined not to lose you! And as for being forty, well, I should believe he is somewhat younger than that. I should have preferred someone more of your own age, I admit, but it means he can provide
security
for you. And . . . he's not exactly
ugly
, now, is he?'

He pulled back slightly in order to lift her chin to him. Her eyes met his, not seeing his face, but the image her mind was conjuring up of Charles Chadwick. He was reasonably tall and not the least overweight. Impeccably dressed, of course, closely shaven, and his chestnut-brown hair, which showed little sign of receding, was neatly cut. His eyes, too, were brown, not uniformly, but flecked with amber strands that made them gleam brightly. They were wide set and not unkind, and his shapely mouth was apt to turn upwards at the corners. No, she had to admit, he was not unattractive, and perhaps she had been more than hasty in her judgement of him.

She focused on Henry's hopeful face again, and a faint smile tugged at her lips. ‘All right,' she agreed with reluctance. ‘I'll ride out with him tomorrow. And then after that, we'll see. I'll try and look out for his good points, but I can't promise you anything.'

‘Well, neither of us can say fairer than that.' The lines on Henry's face moved into an expression of soft compassion. ‘I wouldn't want you to miss out on such an opportunity without giving it your full consideration. But by the same token, I wouldn't allow you to enter into a loveless marriage just for the sake of money.'

‘Well, then,' she replied, her eyes shining with crystal brilliance once more, ‘we shall just have to see how Mr Charles Chadwick shapes up. Won't we?'

A
sharp wind had driven away the grey, overnight rain to leave a colourless sun glowing in a clear, azure-blue sky. Globules of water twinkled on the wild grasses, the bog cotton and the cobwebs that were slung across them. Rose had secretly hoped the lashing deluge would continue all morning and deter the cosseted Londoner from their expedition, but she supposed it would only have delayed the evil moment. And if she were honest, she was curious as to how Charles Chadwick would stand up to the gruelling terrain she had planned for him! Whether or not he was a good horseman, she didn't know. But she was about to find out!

Gospel was restless after a day without exercise and the damp weather of the past week had softened the ground, and so Rose allowed him to canter leisurely up and down the hills to the prison settlement of Princetown. Mr Chadwick had wanted to call for
her
, but she had insisted he might become lost on the moor, though that was something of an excuse as he could follow the road easily enough. The truth of it was that she wanted time to soothe her agitated spirit. She had never before considered the question of marriage, and was still not enamoured of the idea. She had brooded all night on what her father had said, tossing sleeplessly until she had spent an hour with her forehead pressed against the cool surface of the windowpane as the rain beat furiously on the other side of the glass. In her heart, all she wanted was to continue the pleasant life she led now, but though she fought against it like a demon, she knew that Henry was right. Perhaps Charles Chadwick would prove more acceptable today, and if it was going to make her father happy, she should at least give the fellow a chance.

As she came into Princetown, she slowed Gospel to a trot, rising and falling smoothly in the saddle to the rhythm of his pace. She could feel, with surprise, butterflies fluttering in her stomach. Charles Chadwick was only a man like any other, so why should she be feeling like this?

There he was now, waiting outside the attractive moorstone facade of the Duchy Hotel. He was seated upon a large chestnut horse, not an elegant, highly strung creature like Gospel, but a pretty animal nevertheless, a reliable mount that the hotel felt confident in hiring out to one of its clients. Gospel clearly liked the look of his companion for the morning also, for he could be quite amicable towards his fellow species – it was only humans he distrusted – and he whickered in welcome as he was brought to a halt just a few feet away.

‘Good morning, Mr Chadwick.' Rose turned her vivid smile on the stunned businessman, the brilliant white of her perfect teeth and beautifully shaped mouth enslaving his heart even more deeply. His brown eyes stretched for a second before he gathered his composure and raised his bowler hat from his well-brushed hair.

‘Good morning, Miss Maddiford,' he replied, grinning now with what seemed relaxed amusement. ‘I see you ride
astride
. Most . . . unusual, shall we say, for a young lady.'

Rose's chin tilted obstinately. ‘
You
try riding Gospel side-saddle! Or on second thoughts, don't try riding him at all! He'll only throw you! The only other person he'll tolerate on his back is Joe.'

‘Ah, yes, your stable boy,' Charles remembered, his eyes sparkling. ‘And I meant no criticism, your riding astride. It simply . . . took me by surprise. But then, you are a very surprising person altogether.'

‘And is that supposed to be a compliment?' she bristled haughtily.

‘Absolutely!' He tossed his head with a short laugh, his face bright and expectant. ‘Now then, where are you going to take me on this fine morning? I can't believe how lovely it is after that rainstorm overnight!'

‘Oh, 'tis typical Dartmoor weather,' Rose shrugged. ‘It can change in minutes. 'Tis one of its charms, and why one must always take care. A mist so thick you can hardly see the ground can come up that quickly!'

‘Yes, I can imagine.' The chestnut had fallen into step beside Gospel as Rose turned him to retrace their way a few yards before taking a lane on the right which led almost immediately on to the moor. ‘So, where
are
we going?'

‘Well, I thought as I'd educate you in our local history. That is, if you're interested?' she added a little acidly.

‘Why, I should be fascinated!' Charles turned to her with a smile so warm it reached his eyes. It made him quite attractive, Rose thought, then realizing she was studying his face too intently, abruptly averted her gaze as the heat flooded her cheeks.

‘You know the gaol was originally a prisoner-of-war depot?' she went on briskly. ‘During the wars against Napoleon Bonaparte? 'Twas all the idea of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt,' she explained somewhat proudly. ‘He were a wealthy gentleman towards the end of the last century, Member of Parliament and friend of the Prince of Wales. He built himself a country house called Tor Royal. You'll see it through the trees in a minute,' she told him, waving her arm vaguely ahead of them, ‘where the road bends. 'Tis just a farm now, like any other. But he had great ideas about reclaiming the open moor and creating an agricultural community. Didn't work, of course, so they built the prisoner-of-war camp instead. There
are
parts of Dartmoor that are quite fertile, but up here, 'tis almost impossible. The prison farmlands, now parts of
that
are under cultivation, but of course, they've got all the free labour of the convicts to clear and drain the ground. Work them like donkeys, they do. 'Tis inhuman oft times.'

‘Good heavens, do I detect some sympathy for the felons?' Charles asked, the surprise echoing in his voice.

‘Oh, yes.' She glanced across at him with an adamant jerk of her head. ‘Well, sometimes, certainly. Of course, some of them deserve it, I agree. For violent crimes, say. And I agree with the next man that crime of any sort merits punishment and imprisonment. But here, sometimes, 'tis downright cruel the way they're treated.'

‘And do you never fear being attacked by an escaped convict, a lovely young woman like yourself?'

‘What, when I'm out on Gospel? Goodness, no! 'Twould go badly with anyone who tried to accost me
then
! Besides, 'tis not often any prisoner gets away. They shoot them if they try running off, you see!'

She was looking at him now, her brow furrowed with the force of what she was saying. Charles chuckled loudly, his mouth stretched with merriment.

‘Well, I'm not quite sure I agree with your sentiments, but I'm pleased to be assured of your safety! Gospel is certainly a formidable animal! Oh, is that, what did you call it, something or other Royal?'

‘Tor Royal? Yes, that's right. 'Tis fairly modest for the man who founded Princetown. Anyway, when the camp closed down after the war, he built a tramway from here down to Plymouth, mainly to serve the quarries on the moor and to keep the village alive. Only horse-drawn, mind. The part of it that came right into Princetown shut down about six years or so ago. I remember it. The village didn't flourish again until the prison re-opened for convicts in 1850. Transportation were coming to an end, and they needed something to take its place. Poor Sir Thomas never knew, though. He died long afore. But enough of the history lesson. We're heading out to the Whiteworks tin mine now. So what do you think of the open moor?'

Charles rose up in the saddle to obtain a better view, and scanned the horizon appreciatively. ‘It's certainly breathtaking,' he nodded with enthusiasm. ‘So vast and . . . I don't know . . . open.'

The muscles of his heart seemed to contract as a translucent aura glowed from Rose's face. ‘Yes. 'Tis its endlessness, its . . . its enormity, I suppose. It makes you feel part of the earth, and yet part of the sky at the same time. As if you, too, can go on for ever. 'Tis very comforting, and yet so exciting. Do you not agree, Mr Chadwick?'

‘I do indeed! But perhaps you might address me as Charles, at least when we're alone together?'

The resentment immediately prickled down Rose's spine. ‘And how often do you believe that might be, Mr Chadwick?' she asked icily. ‘I am merely obeying my father and showing a visitor some of the delights of Dartmoor! We're not actually going to the tin mine, by the way, but over to that stone cross over there,' she said flatly, the joy gone from her voice. ‘There's lots of them on the moor, we're not sure exactly why. Possibly medieval waymarkers. And then I'll show you something even more mysterious.'

And with that, she dug her heels into Gospel's flanks and gave the animal his head. Gospel needed no more encouragement and catapulted into a headlong gallop, flying over the uneven ground with ease. The ancient cross disappeared past them in a blur, and then up and away they raced, skimming over the thick tussocks of tall coarse grass that peppered that part of the moor and forced Gospel to arch his neck as he lifted his fine legs to clear them. The sharp air whipped against Rose's flushed cheeks in their mad dash, cooling her indignation, so that by the time they finally gained the vantage point she was aiming for and they skidded to a stop, her piqued spirit had been calmed. She turned in the saddle to glance back at her companion. The chestnut mare was having difficulty picking her way over the rough terrain she was unaccustomed to, but Charles appeared quite comfortable and kept his seat perfectly. Rose's mouth twisted. Why didn't he fall off! That would have wiped the smugness from his face! Irritated, she turned her attention to the rugged vista before her while she waited for him to catch up, Gospel pawing impatiently at the ground and shaking his head so that the snaffle bit jangled in his mouth.