No Other Love (12 page)

“I don’t want your money,” she said, and Dottie’s face fell in disappointment. Quickly Rose continued. “I’m helping the others for nothing and will gladly do the same for you. What if I said I would teach you to read and write and all you have to do is be nice to me.”

Dottie looked at her appraisingly. “How nice?”

Rose held her gaze and tried not to smile.

“At least as nice as George is,” she said. George hardly spoke to her, but when he did, he displayed no feeling whatsoever. That seemed fair.

Dottie sighed.

“Your way sounds more complicated, but I suppose it’s not a bad bargain. I can’t promise to like you though,” she said, and Rose could have sworn Dottie’s mouth quirked up at the corner, as if she were trying not to smile.

But though relations with the staff had become easier, things had become more trying in a different corner, for Mr. Byrne appeared at Cider Hill every day that Luke was gone. And just as Luke had warned, he was even more aggressive in his attentions. Rose was careful to stay around other servants as much as possible, but the strain of avoiding him was wearing on her.

She was dusting the drawing room one afternoon, her thoughts far away, when she felt the presence of someone beside her. Looking up she saw Byrne standing before her, grinning with pleasure.

“What a treat to catch you alone. One would think you’ve been trying to avoid me.”

Fury welled up in her, but it would serve no purpose to have him see it. Looking back down she continued her task. “I have a great deal of work to do, Mr. Byrne. And as you know, Mrs. Fletcher doesn’t take kindly to servants conversing with family.”

“You needn’t worry about my mother. I can handle her,” he said, moving closer. “Come, stop for a moment and look at me.”

“Please let me work.”

“What’s the matter? Am I not rich enough to tempt you? I’ll soon be wealthier than Luke, you can be sure of that. It’s thanks to me the railroad is being completed.”

“What do you mean, thanks to you?” she said, on full alert.

But Byrne wasn’t listening to her. He was growing more agitated, his thoughts turned inward as he spoke.

“Jonas had no right bringing Luke here. He should have had more faith in me.”

“Maybe he didn’t understand how much you’d helped,” she said, hoping he’d reveal more.

Byrne looked straight at her, his countenance tight with malice.

“Luke’s been gone for weeks, and still I feel his shadow over me.”

Without warning he took hold of Rose’s arm, yanking her to him so that she fell into his chest. He was smaller than Luke, but still far stronger than she, and though she struggled she was unable to break his hold or pull away.

Grabbing the hair at the back of her head, he pulled until she was forced to look at him. Before she realized what was happening, his lips were on hers, hard and cruel. His tongue tried to force her mouth open and she nearly gagged. Now she struggled in earnest, with no thought but to break free. She kicked him hard in the shin, hard enough that his lips left hers. He looked at her in shock and fury, his face contorting as if he were about to do real violence.

Only the sound of several people approaching stopped him from whatever vile act would have come next. Rose was thrust away just before the door opened.

Mrs. Fletcher stood in the doorway, two matrons just steps behind her. Fury darkened her eyes as she looked at Rose and her son, and Rose could only imagine the picture they made – their clothes in disarray, their faces flushed.

As horrified as Rose was at being caught in such a position, she was more relieved at getting away from Byrne. Picking up her dust cloth she made a few more swipes at a side table for show before hurrying out of the room. Let Byrne stay and answer to his mother’s wrath. Rose would feel it soon enough.

“Watch yourself, Rose,” Mrs. Craig cautioned the next morning. “The mistress is in a foul temper. Why don’t you do the ironing and keep out of her sight. I don't know what she has against you, but she seems to look for reasons to reprimand you.”

“Thank you for the warning. I'll make sure to stay out of her way.”

“Stay out of who's way?” asked Mrs. Fletcher, entering the kitchen.

Rose paled, but luckily Mrs. Craig answered for her.

“We were speaking of Mrs. Beech.”

“I see,” Mrs. Fletcher replied, unconvinced. “No, Rose,” she went on, as Rose made to leave. “I'd like a word with you.”

Rose reminded herself that she was acting the part of Mrs. Fletcher's servant and so must play her role convincingly. One day she would tell this woman exactly what she thought of her, but until then she must make sure she kept her job. Pride could come later.

The older woman’s cold gaze pinned Rose where she stood, and for a moment she said nothing. Rose waited in silence for her to speak.

“I don’t know what I interrupted yesterday, but I won't have scandalous behavior in my house. I insist that you watch yourself with my son and stepson. Men will be men, and that means they can be tempted. But do not think for a moment you’ll better your situation by enticing one of them. You’ll remember that if you want to keep your place here.”

Rose’s blood ran cold, and she remained silent, unsure how to respond. But Mrs. Fletcher wasn’t finished.

“Nor will I put up with servants who put on airs. Don't play innocent with me,” she remarked at Rose's look of confusion. “It’s one thing to teach servants to read. But I’ve also heard you speak French and Latin. Under no circumstances may you do so again. Do I make myself clear?”

Rose forced herself to respond appropriately. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Very well then, you may go.”

Rose was shaking when she walked away from Mrs. Fletcher. She was lucky she hadn't been turned out directly. If servants were easier to come by so far from town, there was little doubt she would have been sent away this very day.

She’d have to be far more careful from now on. But that would only go so far, for how on earth would she stop Byrne from accosting her?

“Drat that Mr. Byrne,” Lydia said. She and Rose were in their beds, the candle between them not yet blown out. “He's a bad one for certain. He’s pestered others, but he’s never been this bad. Then again, Mr. Fletcher took a liking to you. Everyone knows Mr. Byrne’s envious and spiteful about anything his stepbrother has.”

“But Luke doesn’t have me. He’s merely kinder than he needs to be.”

Lydia looked at her, one eyebrow raised. “If you say so. But one thing’s for sure. Mr. Byrne is in dire straits. His groom told Charlie that something’s come over him lately. He was never a gentleman, mind you, but these last few months he’s begun drinking and carousing. Mrs. Fletcher is beside herself. You know how much stock she puts in the family’s standing.”

Rose took in this further confirmation of her suspicions. Something had caused Byrne’s behavior to change radically. If he’d murdered her father, as she thought he had, the timing of his decline made perfect sense.

Fortunately, whatever Mrs. Fletcher said to her son caused him to stay away from Cider Hill for the next week, allowing Rose some measure of peace. Now instead of jumping at the sound of Byrne’s footsteps, she listened for those that heralded Luke’s return. Maybe she would ask him about his stepbrother’s behavior, though she’d say nothing of Byrne’s violence toward her. Whatever Luke’s response would be to the news, it was sure to inflame matters.

And yet along with her anxious anticipation of Luke’s arrival rose an awareness of the dangerous line she’d been walking in continuing to let him drive her home each week. Mrs. Fletcher was watching her so carefully, anything between them was sure to be noticed. She couldn’t control what Byrne did, but what about the danger she was bringing on herself?

For days she turned the dilemma over in her mind, worrying it until she could hardly think straight. She had come all this way to find her father’s murderer. Why then could she not accept what must be done?

Because she loved Luke.

The truth of it came to her just as the sun disappeared from her window, ringing through her with a clarity bestowed by pain. All this time she’d wondered what made her go against all common sense to see him, but the answer was so simple, and so devastating.

Their weekly rides had come to mean so much to her. His warm voice, the way she felt around him. He eclipsed Will in every way. Yet there was no denying what she had to do. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she lay in bed, letting go of what she’d only just admitted wanting.

Chapter Seven

Rose had just finished inventorying the contents of the root cellar when Mrs. Craig poked her head down the ladder.

“Rose, I need you to go into the garden and cut enough flowers to freshen all the vases downstairs before the guests arrive.”

Grateful for the chance to wander in private, Rose snatched a basket from the kitchen and headed outside.

Screened from the house by a cluster of birch and maple trees, the flower garden spread nearly half an acre. Pathways wove between carefully tended daylilies, coneflowers and black-eyed Susans. The sun was just beginning to sink below the trees, casting long shadows across the beds

It was lush and bountiful, a balm to spirits brought low by both her painful realization about Luke, and the fact that she’d finally sent a letter to Will explaining she couldn’t marry him. He would be hurt and confused, and she knew of no way to ease his pain. Nothing could help that kind of hurt. She ought to know.

But there was no going back, and no choice but to end it. She couldn’t conceive of marrying him when she was in love with Luke. And Will deserved better. He deserved a wife who adored him, who would not think always of another man.

Slowly she made her way deeper into the garden, bending over to cut flowers as she went. Her basket was nearly full when she stood up and saw she was no longer alone.

Even silhouetted by the sun, she recognized Luke’s large frame and loose-limbed gait. As he drew closer she saw his hands were thrust deep into his pockets, his head bent toward the ground. He looked lost in thought, a slight frown furrowing his brow. He was even more handsome, more powerful and compelling than she remembered.

Her heart beat frantically in her chest at the sight of him. Every day since her decision to halt their friendship she’d imagined seeing him for the first time, imagined what she would say. Yet now that he was before her she could scarcely breathe.

Everything in her wanted to be with him. Would she be able to turn him away?

***

Why had he accepted the invitation for dinner instead of going to his club? He was still exhausted from the ride home and didn’t feel at all inclined to make small talk with twenty people he hardly knew.

But it was hard to refuse when the invitation came from his father, and when there would be people who had an interest in the Western line – town officials and stockholders as well as business people. And, if he were honest with himself, he wanted to see Rose as soon as possible, even if he couldn’t speak to her.

The house was abuzz with preparations, servants hurrying about with table linens and polished silver, but Rose wasn’t among them. The commotion and heat drove him outside for some air, and without thinking he headed down the garden paths he knew so well.

Even without seeing her, Rose was all he thought about. Though he’d maintained his resolution to keep his hands off her, their carriage rides had forged an intimacy at least as dangerous as his lust. He’d made things harder on himself by getting to know her and learning how much he enjoyed her company.

He barely looked up as he strode along, deep in thought. Just knowing he’d see her tonight made him restless, and he needed to master his feelings before returning to the house.

He was turning down another path when something caught his attention, something bright at the edge of his vision.

Rose.

She was standing on the outer garden path near the edge of the woods, a basketful of flowers clutched in her hands. Her eyes were wide and she stood unmoving as he approached, as if unsure what she should do. Her head was uncovered, her hair vivid even in the darkening air.

Quickening his pace, he closed the distance between them. But she didn’t smile her usual smile. Instead she held herself stiffly and took a step away from him. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t this.

“Rose?”

“You’re home,” she said, her voice barely rising above a whisper.

“You don’t look pleased to see me.”

 “It’s not that. But I…I’ve been thinking about the way things are with us, our Monday drives …”

“Yes, what of them?” he asked warily.

“They’ve been lovely, but it’s too dangerous now. They must stop.”

He flinched as if he’d been slapped, but in fact the pain went far deeper. It was as if he were losing something essential he’d thought always to have. A rib or a lung. Surely something had been torn from him, for he could no longer breathe as before, and his chest felt hollowed out.

Her lovely face was pale and her voice trembled, but she spoke with conviction. He knew what she’d been risking these months, knew she was right to end it, and still he couldn’t stop himself from cajoling her.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt you for anything,” he said, desperate to change her mind, change her back to the woman who had so slowly and deliciously been opening up to him.

“You don’t want to but you will. You won’t be able to help it.”

Her words sliced through him. She was right of course. The way he felt for her, their time together could not have remained innocent for much longer. He’d been telling himself for weeks that their drives ought to end, had reminded himself over and over of her place in his father’s house. None of it had stopped him.

“So this is it?” he asked. Already she seemed unreachable, untouchable.

A fine tremor ran through her, as if they were standing out in the cold. Her eyes wide and somber, she nodded her head.

Weeks of restraint snapped at her silent confirmation.

Pulling her to him, his mouth found her soft lips as if it were his last moment on earth. For the space of three pounding heartbeats she resisted, and then the basket fell to the grass and her glorious body molded itself to his, her hands clutched in his shirt.