Cherrybrook Rose (10 page)

The life drained out of her and she dropped on to her knees, fighting against the welling tears in her eyes. ‘Father,' she whispered back, forcing a wan and deeply loving smile to her quivering lips. ‘Oh, Father, you'll be all right now,' she told him fervently, her voice soft and gentle as an angel.

‘Yes,' he breathed, and then coughed harshly so that she could smell the smoke from him. ‘And Peter?'

Rose's heart squeezed. Even as he was, he was anxious, as ever, about others, his men. Rose turned her questioning eyes to the doctor, ashamed that she had not given a thought to anyone else who had been in the mill at the time. Dr Power gave a solemn, almost imperceptible shake of his head, his eyes shutting briefly as he did so, and Rose felt the ice run through her veins. Peter Russell, his wife, their five children.

Her loving, tender gaze moved back to Henry's blackened, damaged face. ‘I . . . I don't know,' she lied, for how could she burden him with the knowledge? It could wait. For now.

‘I were . . . giving him the length of my tongue.' Henry's voice chafed in his burning throat. ‘There were grit on the floor. Some must have got into the trough.'

His words had become agitated, and as Rose stretched out a calming hand, she was aware of the doctor leaning over her with concern.

‘Hush now, Father,' she crooned through the sorrow that raked her gullet. ‘You must rest. Have a little sleep, and I'll be here when you wake up.'

‘Your daughter's right, Mr Maddiford,' Dr Power said firmly over her shoulder. ‘The morphine will make you sleep. Don't fight it.'

Henry's bloodshot eyes lifted to the doctor's face, then rested back on his beloved child before drooping closed, the tense lines in his skin slackening. Rose bent forward. The reverent kiss she placed on his cheek leaving an acrid taste on her lips. She got to her feet, Dr Power ushering her politely out of the door, and as she glanced back, Henry was already asleep.

‘A word, if you please, Miss Maddiford.'

Rose stood for a moment, his quiet tone taking some seconds to percolate through to her numbed brain. ‘Of course,' she muttered, and led the way down to the parlour, floating down the stairs as if in some strange, unreal dream.

‘Please, sit down,' he invited her, which seemed so odd in her own home.

She obeyed, perching uneasily on the edge of the armchair. The fire was out. One of their economies. She shivered, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. ‘He . . . he will get better, won't he?' she stammered, not quite sure how she articulated the words.

Dr Power's forehead twitched as he attempted to detach himself from the situation. He was used to dealing with hardened criminals, treating ailments or injuries resulting from the harsh conditions inflicted upon them, or – the part of his job he hated – deciding if a convict was fit enough to endure some vicious corporal punishment. So how could his heart not be touched by this beautiful, distraught young woman whose grief already ravaged her lovely face?

‘I'm afraid your father's condition is worse than it may appear,' he began compassionately. ‘He has other deep burns to the front of his body. In time, they should heal, but burns are very much prone to infection. What I am most concerned about, however, is that somehow in the blast his spine has been damaged. It could well be no more than severe bruising which has compacted the nerves of the spinal column, in which case in . . . a few months, perhaps, things may return to normal. But . . . at the moment – ' he faltered, his gaze fixed on her bowed head – ‘he feels nothing below the injury. He has already proved . . . incontinent. And . . . I fear I must warn you, Miss Maddiford, that if, as I suspect, the spine is permanently damaged, then . . . your father will never walk again.'

His voice had drifted about her, like a mist that would slowly dissipate as if it had never been. That would lift, and allow the sun to shine through and the world would be bright and happy again. But it wouldn't, would it? The cloud was there to stay. For ever.

She lifted her head, unaware of the tears that spangled in her eyes. ‘Thank you, Doctor, for your honesty,' she managed to tear the words from her throat.

‘I really am very sorry. I will do everything in my power to keep him comfortable, and God willing, he will make some recovery. Now, I do apologize, but I must return to my official duties. But I will be back again later. You know where I am if you need me in the meantime. Don't worry. I'll see myself out. And . . . well . . . Miss Maddiford . . .'

He squeezed her shoulder as he passed, for really they both knew there were no words. She listened to his footsteps in the hall, the front door closing softly. Silence then. Just the clock ticking steadily, incessantly, on the mantelpiece.

Just an hour or so ago, she had been deliberating the wisdom of her refusal of Charles Chadwick's proposal. That all seemed so . . . so unimportant now. So unimportant and of no signifi-cance whatsoever . . .

And she buried her head in her hands and wept till her aching soul could weep no more . . .

R
ose stood, staring blindly at the empty fireplace in the parlour, her mind hallucinating with visions of the flames which once upon a time would have crackled merrily in the grate. The moor lay frozen beneath the searingly cold blanket of February snow, and Rose subconsciously drew the shawl more tightly about her narrow shoulders, for exhaustion had clouded her brain to her own physical discomfort. Between them, she and Florrie had nursed her father, day and night, for three months. There was no time for long, carefree gallops on Gospel's lively back, or cosy chats with Molly by the Cartwrights' hearthside. What flesh had once adorned Rose's slender figure had fallen from her bones, and the skin was drawn taut across her cheeks.

She scarcely turned her head at the polite knock on the door.

‘Come in,' she answered, her voice dull and lifeless.

Dr Power entered the room, his head bowed apologetically. He sighed, his heart heavy. ‘No change, I'm afraid, Miss Maddiford.' He hesitated, the sight of the forlorn young woman tearing at his soul, but it must be said. ‘I fear we must face up to the situation. Barring any unforeseen recovery, which, I may say, would constitute some sort of miracle, I believe your father will remain paralysed.'

Rose nodded her head without looking at him. Yes. She didn't need the physician to tell her. She knew already. The purple swelling on Henry's spine had long since disappeared, but he had still neither moved nor felt any sensation below the mid-point of his back, the only progress he had made being his regaining control of his bodily functions. His lungs remained weakened by smoke inhalation, and the thick scar tissue twisted the side of his forehead, but his upper body remained strong. He could feed and wash himself, and move himself about in the bed, even issuing directives and to some extent taking up his responsibilities once more as manager, but never again would he stride amongst his men and the various buildings of the factory they worked in.

‘Thank you, Dr Power,' Rose murmured wearily. ‘I know you've done all you can. 'Tis much appreciated.'

The doctor drew an awkward breath through pursed lips as he reached into the breast pocket of his coat. ‘I only wish,' he said gravely, ‘that the outcome had been a better one. And that I didn't have to present you with my bill. I have kept it as low as possible.'

The memory of a smile strained at Rose's mouth as she took the envelope from his hand. ‘Mr Frean has kindly said he'll pay for my father's treatment.'

‘Ah.' Dr Power nodded, for there was nothing more to say on the matter. ‘And . . . to be honest, there is little reason for me to visit again. You and Mrs Bennett are making an excellent job of caring for your father. As we've said before, the most important thing is for you to exercise his legs several times a day to keep the blood flowing and reduce the strain on his heart. Of course, if you've any concerns, do send for me at once.'

‘Yes, I will. And . . . thank you again, Doctor.'

‘Any time, Miss Maddiford. I'll see myself out.'

She was alone again, her gaze resting unseeing on the envelope in her hand as her eyes filled with unshed tears. So, that was it. Her dearest, hardworking, active father cut down and crippled for life. More than that. Condemned to his bed for the rest of his days. Her face pulled into a determined grimace as she squared her shoulders. There was nothing more the good doctor could do. But
she
wouldn't give in! She would not sit back and let Henry waste away! The fight began to creep back into her veins. If her father's condition was never to improve, then there must be ways and means by which his existence could be returned to as near to normality as was humanly possible. The tiny seed of hope had been planted at the back of her mind. She would leave it there to germinate, to be pondered upon so that the right decisions could be made. Right now, there were other matters she needed to attend to. They were running low on coal, and the pantry was nearly empty. Time for a trip into Princetown. She wouldn't take Gospel, for she could carry little on his back, but she would borrow Henry's dog cart and Polly, the gentle cob that pulled it. And even that put another burgeoning idea into her head . . .

Ellen Williams puffed up her flat chest, and her mouth worked into a partly livid, partly gloating sneer, for the young hussy was getting her comeuppance, though at Ellen's cost. Of course, she knew about the tragedy of the girl's father and she was sorry for that, but it was about time the flibbertigibbet was taken down a peg or two.

‘I'm afraid I can't serve you, Miss Maddiford,' she announced through tight lips.

Rose's neck stiffened and she blinked at the sharp-featured woman in astonishment. Had she heard right? She was aware of the chatter of the two other customers behind her coming to an abrupt halt, and her brow puckered into a frown. ‘I'm sorry?' she questioned in bemusement.

‘I'm afraid I can't serve you,' Ellen repeated with satisfaction, ‘not until your account be settled. The cheque you gave me from your father has been returned by the bank.'

‘What!' Rose's eyes narrowed with indignation, for she had always sensed that the shopkeeper resented her, but somewhere deep inside, a cold fear began to slither into her blood.

‘Here. Take it, if you doesn't believe me.' Ellen flicked efficiently through the wooden till, and waved the cheque, with its ugly red bank stamp, in front of Rose's nose.

A wave of disbelief, of horror, washed from Rose's throat down to her stomach and her shaking hand took the cheque that Ellen was dangling distastefully between her finger and thumb as if it was something evil she had picked up on the street. The writing, her father's signature, danced before Rose's eyes. She really couldn't believe . . .

‘Thank you,' she mumbled incoherently, shame burning in her cheeks as she made for the door, the eyes of the other customers boring into her back. Outside, the biting cold stung into her body like a million piercing arrows. She was trembling as if her very core had been frozen, tears of humiliation turning to frost on her eyelashes. Surely there must be some sort of mistake? And yet the proof of it lay crumpled at the bottom of her pocket. She shook her head. An error. It must be! Some new clerk at the bank. Yes, that must be it.

So . . . what should she do? Well, if Miss Williams refused to serve her, there were two other grocers in the village. Her father didn't have accounts with them, but she had some coins in her purse, not many, but enough to buy some tea, flour and yeast, and a couple of pounds of potatoes. They could manage on that for a few days. Until the matter was resolved. With some chops and a joint from the butcher's, for she had settled that account with a cheque from her father on the same day as . . . Oh, good God! Would it be the same there?

She left Polly between the shafts of the dog cart tethered to the rail with the horse-blanket thrown over her back, for she could not leave the animal standing still without protection in these temperatures. Her feet crunched in the snow as she made her way to the other shops, the butcher's first, her hand quivering as she opened the door and a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.

Mr Roebuck looked up with his usual kindly smile. ‘Ah, Miss Rose, how be your father?'

His sympathetic tone restored her confidence. Oh, yes, definitely a mistake at the grocer's. ‘No better, I'm afraid. But thank you for asking. Now, I'd like a hand and spring of pork, if you please,' she asked cautiously, for though it was an awkwardly shaped joint and therefore cheaper, there was usually plenty of meat to be found on it.

Mr Roebuck cleared his throat and glancing round the shop as if someone might be listening – though there were no other customers – leaned confidentially towards her. ‘I'm sorry, Miss Rose,' he whispered, ‘but the bank wouldn't accept your father's cheque. It puts me in a difficult position, you sees. I can maybies let you have a couple of strips of belly, and a pound of tripe for that dog o' yourn, but only if you pays me now. In cash. I cas'n let you have ort more than that till your account be settled.'

Rose gazed at him, slack-jawed, and she was sure her heart missed a beat. This could not be happening! But it most defin-itely was!

She forced her most winning smile to her lips. ‘Oh, Mr Roebuck, I do apologize. I believe there's been some error at the bank. I'll have to go into Tavistock to sort it out. And I'm afraid I have little money with me, so I won't buy anything today. But I'll be back in a day or two.'

‘As you wish, Miss Rose. And . . . I really am proper sorry.'

‘Don't worry about it!' she beamed cheerfully in an effort to disguise the tremor in her voice. ‘I do understand.'

‘My regards to your father, then!' the poor man called as she left the shop.