A Bouquet of Thorns (24 page)

‘So, you means, he could be the real culprit?' Molly asked excitedly. ‘And he destroyed his clothes cuz they was stained with blood? And if he was caught—'

‘And if the elderly couple could also identify him . . . Oh, dear Lord, I daren't even think about it! But Adam says if all this evidence can be established in the new year, he'll go up to London and he'll push and push . . . Oh, he's a good man, Adam! But he says not to get my hopes up. That a royal pardon would still be incredibly difficult, and 'tis such a complicated process . . . Oh, I just don't know what to think!'

‘Well, you just keep hoping, Rosie,' Molly said forcefully, ‘and we'll all keep praying an' all. And I must thank you for coming all this way with the things for the babby. Proper kind, you are, Rosie, and you deserves some luck yoursel'.'

‘And is there anything else you need? You and Joe, you know you're like brother and sister to me, so you mustn't be afeared to ask. And you make sure you send for Dr Power when the baby starts and I'll foot the bill.'

‘Oh, Rosie, you cas'n—'

‘Oh, yes, I can! It gives me particular satisfaction to spend Charles's money where I know he wouldn't like it! But I really ought to be going. I told you 'twas just a flying visit.' She bent to kiss her dear friend on the cheek. ‘Now you look after yourself, and don't forget – if there's
anything
you need! And let me know the minute there's any news!'

But despite her cheerfulness, as she rode home from the powder mills, her stomach was clenched so tightly, she felt sick, and she was scarcely aware of the deluge of rain that lashed into her face. If Seth were working outside in this, it would hardly be doing his weakened chest any good. Molly's father, Jacob Cartwright, was keeping an eye on him, it was true, but it seemed that even though the legitimacy of his imprisonment was being questioned, he was treated no differently. In fact, because of his attempted escape, he was considered to be among the scum of the convicts.

The rain, though, had softened the ground, and Rose was able to let Honey have her head. The mare responded and broke into a gallop, and although with not quite the same zest as Gospel would have shown, she was clearly enjoying herself. When they reached home, unusually Rose left Ned to see to Honey while she herself stumbled indoors on unsteady legs. Florrie. She must tell Florrie, as she could not face the crucifying suspense alone.

It seemed that Charles took her more forcefully than usual that night. He had commented that she seemed quiet and that hardly a morsel had passed her lips at dinner; that it was about time she became pregnant again, and he was damned well going to make sure of it. Christmas was but a few days away, and he was determined there would be another Chadwick – a boy this time – in the nursery by the time the Yuletide celebrations came round again. And so Rose suffered his attentions that night, and all the following nights, in silence. She tried to refuse him once, but he slapped her face so hard, her ears rang.

Christmas was the most miserable affair she could imagine. Florrie, bless her, put on a jolly face to try and cheer her up. They exchanged presents, Charles showering Rose in expensive gifts that meant nothing to her, and they had a little fir tree in the drawing room with minute candles in special holders that were lit in the evening when they could keep a close eye on the tiny naked flames. Patsy and Daisy had spent some time making paper chains to hang around the house, and Rose had attempted to get in the festive mood by decorating the fireplace with glossy, red-berried holly. Cook excelled herself with the dinner and Rose drank more wine than she should have done, which only served to deepen her depression.

She sat by the fireside in the evening, trying to read a book as Charles was doing, but her head was swimming and she couldn't concentrate. Her mind lingered instead on memories of Christmases past when her father, Florrie, Joe and herself would go to the powder mills chapel in the morning, joyously greeting all the workers, and return to open presents and help Florrie prepare the meal and the table. Later they would play games, laughing uproariously, and only towards bedtime would a contented quiet begin to fall upon them. Now she sat in tense silence opposite her husband. This time last year, her grief over the recent loss of her dear father was still so raw, but she had realized on Christmas Day that she was pregnant and that had given her hope. Now, that little child was dead, Charles had sold her beloved Gospel, her marriage was disintegrating around her, and the man she had met who, God forgive her, meant more to her than her husband ever had, was suffering a cruel and unjustified imprisonment.

Charles suddenly glanced up and snapped shut his book. ‘Well, my dear, I believe that is the Yuletide over for another year.' He picked up the candle-snuffer and began to extinguish the lights on the tree. ‘And I believe we could end the day as we started it.'

He held out his hand, his eyes gleaming, and Rose's heart plummeted.

‘Telegram for you, ma'am.'

Rose jerked with shock, her thoughts spinning. But it wouldn't be anything to do with Seth, would it? Adam wouldn't send a telegram direct to her at Fencott Place. But who else would want to contact her so urgently?

She ripped it open. Oh! She snatched in a breath of jubilation. A little girl. The day before – Boxing Day – Molly had been delivered safely of a little girl and mother and baby were doing well.

Rose was swept up on a tide of elation. Oh, what joy! A huge grin split her face, her heart so brimming over with happiness that she almost went in to see Charles in his study to break the news. But no. He wouldn't care, and if he felt peeved when he finally heard that he hadn't been told, then so much the better. It would serve him right.

Florrie had gone down with a nasty cold and had taken to her bed. Rose ran up the stairs to her room in the attic to deliver the glad tidings. Then she pulled on her riding habit, hurried out to the stables to order Ned to tack up Honey and, while he was doing so, she raided the pantry, bundling up two meat pies, some oranges and some dried figs and almost all of a batch of biscuits Cook had just baked for the master's morning coffee. All of which she managed to cram into the saddlebag.

A ferocious wind was hurtling across the moor, but the heavy rain of a few days earlier had at last ceased. Ha, ha! She had gone out without telling Charles where! It was a challenge, a triumph, and only Molly's good news could have given her the strength to do it.

Her euphoria seemed to have washed away all her morose thoughts, and hope blossomed in her heart. A safe delivery was never guaranteed, despite the skills of such dedicated physicians as Dr Power, and the birth of this new life had refreshed her spirit. Honey sensed her excitement and was frisky and straining on the bit, eager to stretch her muscles, and Rose let her go, streaking along the softer earth at the side of the track. Even so, Gospel would have outrun her, but Rose refused to let her pent-up resentment mar the day.

She arrived breathless from the exhilaration of the ride, but knocked gently on the front door in case Molly or the baby were asleep. She needn't have worried. Mrs Cartwright let her in, her face beaming with pride at the birth of her first grandchild.

‘Molly's just feeding 'er!' she announced brightly. ‘You go on up.'

‘And they're well?'

‘In fine fettle, my dear, thank you. I 'opes you didn't mind us sending a telegraph from Princetown. Saved us time, you sees.'

‘Of course not! Oh, would you like to unpack these while I go up? Just a few things I thought would help.'

‘Oh, 'tis very kind on you, Miss Rose.'

But Rose didn't hear as she shinned up the steep stairs. ‘Molly! Molly, 'tis only me!' she called.

‘Oh, Rose! Come on in!'

Rose stole reverently into the spartan room. Molly was sat up in the bed, her face serene and angelic, almost translucent in her enchantment as she gazed down at the tiny fragment of life sucking steadily at her breast. Rose caught her breath. She looked like a Madonna, she was so calm and fulfilled, her own pale ginger hair falling forward over the fair down on the baby's head. What else could it be, with Joe's thatch of straw-coloured curls? And eyes? They had to be cornflower blue or Molly's soft emerald, or an interesting mix of the two.

‘Oh, she's beautiful!' Rose whispered.

‘Isn't she?' Molly's face was intense with emotion. ‘You can hold her when she's finished feeding. She can get to know her favourite aunt.'

Rose laughed softly but then she asked anxiously, ‘And you're all right?'

‘'Tweren't exactly like shelling a pea, but I's fine. Dr Power were wonderful.'

‘Yes. He's a good man. And a good doctor. Oh, isn't she gorgeous?'

They stared down together at the infant, so tiny and innocent, their heads together in rapt wonder as the rosebud mouth worked instinctively, the soft gullet swallowing the life-giving sustenance from its mother. Rose felt the constriction in her throat and had to turn away.

‘Here,' she said, reaching into her purse. ‘Put this away for her.'

‘Rose, I cas'n—'

‘Of course you can.' She placed two silver half crowns on the table. ‘And now, look, she's finished, so it's my turn to hold her.'

Molly handed her over with a soft smile and Rose held the baby in practised arms, gently rubbing her back. So vulnerable, so helpless, and yet worth the moon and the stars. The milky fragrance of a newborn child.
Oh, Alice
. . .

‘We'd like,' Molly began hesitantly, ‘with your permission, we'd like to call her Henrietta. After your father. He were so good to Joe, and I were very fond of 'en, too.'

Rose's body became stilled as pride, peace and sorrow settled in her heart. ‘Yes. He'd have liked that. And 'tis a lovely name.'

‘Thank you, Rose. Rose . . .' Molly's words were low, sacred. ‘Does . . . does she . . .?'

Rose nodded, choked as two fat tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘We've always been the best of friends, Molly.' She scraped the sounds from her throat. ‘You . . . you be happy enough for both of us.'

And her heart broke at the compassion on Molly's face.

J
anuary passed, the moor hidden beneath a blanket of snow. Rose tried not to hope, and as the weeks dragged by, she began to despair that, despite all of Adam's efforts, the pardon was going to prove impossible, even with the testimonies of the new witnesses and particularly Chant's confession, by which they had all set so much store. The man it was now believed was the real villain must have somehow learnt of his impending arrest and had evaded capture, a sure sign of his guilt. And yet still Seth was subjected to the horrors of imprisonment.

Rose visited Molly and little Henrietta twice a week. Charles had protested when she had announced her intention to do so, but she had put her foot down and he had conceded. He might disapprove but he supposed it could do no harm. And it was
charitable
, after all.

‘A letter for you, Rose,' Molly told her as soon as she arrived one morning towards the end of February. ‘And from the writing, 'tis not from Captain Bradley.'

‘Oh?' Rose peeled off her gloves and, placing them on the table, unwound the scarf from her neck. Her heart gave a little bound, but her expectancy had been dampened so often that she had taught herself not to get excited. ‘And how are you today, Moll?'

The younger girl's shoulders lifted and then fell in an amused sigh. ‘Worn out!' she grinned. ‘Henrietta woke up again in the middle of the night, just when she'd started sleeping through. However my mother brought so many of us into the world, I doesn't know! Joe's very good, but he cas'n feed her, and he has to be up early for work, of course.'

Rose gave a sympathetic smile. ‘Yes, I was lucky with Alice,' she said, ignoring the spasm of pain at the thought of her own child. ‘I had Florrie
and
a wet nurse to see to her at night. I see Henrietta's asleep now, though,' she whispered, bending over the little crib.

‘Yes, the little tyke. So I'll make some tea while you read your letter.'

‘That'd be nice. Thank you.'

She picked up the envelope from the table and opened it leisurely. It was written in a big hand, as if by someone who wasn't used to a great deal of correspondence. Rose raised her eyebrows. ‘'Tis from the South Devon Foxhounds at Widecombe,' she told Molly. ‘They never replied to my original letter so I suppose . . . Oh! Oh, Molly!' She snatched in her breath, a thrill of joy rippling through her body. ‘Listen to this! “You are enquiring after a black thoroughbred cross of a difficult temperament. One of our hunt members bought such a horse in Bovey soon after Christmas from someone who was finding him too difficult to handle. He is still being difficult and the owner has asked if you would like to see if it is the horse you are looking for. He is strong and very fast. If it is him, the owner is willing to sell him back. The address is in Ponsworthy.” Oh, Molly, you don't think it could be Gospel, do you?'

Her heart was bouncing about in her chest like a rubber ball as she stared, open-mouthed, at Molly. The young mother's face flushed, her eyes wide and shining.

‘There be only one way to find out!' she gasped, and danced Rose around in a circle.

I was awake early and it looked such a lovely morning that I've decided to go on a long ride over Dartmeet way. I'll be away some time so don't worry about me.

Love, Rose.

She placed the note she had secretly written the night before on the bedside table next to Charles's softly snoring figure and crept into the dressing room, closing the door silently behind her. It was still dark and she had to light the lamp to see to put on her riding habit. Then she extinguished it to steal back into the bedroom and out on to the landing. She held her breath, turning to stone as Charles stirred, but he merely turned over and settled down again.