Cherrybrook Rose (26 page)

‘Oh, Gospel, what am I to do?' she whispered brokenly. ‘I miss Father so much, and that . . . that husband of mine is . . . Oh, I just
can't
love him.'

Her body was suddenly overtaken with wrenching sobs and she dropped her head, resting her forehead against Gospel's shoulder. Bitterness and grief washed over her in a dousing torrent so that nothing else seemed to exist in the entire world but her own anguish. She did not hear the rustle in the straw behind her, not until the strong hand closed over her mouth, and her desperate tears came to a sudden, shuddering halt . . .

T
he breath caught in Rose's throat and every muscle in her body seemed paralysed. Only her heart thudded like a hammer, her terrified eyes staring blindly at Gospel's unperturbed flank. For five long, agonizing seconds, neither she nor the owner of the hand moved, and if it hadn't been for the pressure of the arm firmly about her, she might have thought she was dreaming.

‘I'm sorry to startle you, miss, but as God is my witness, I mean you no harm.'

The whispered, agitated words reached her as if from another world and might have been in a foreign language for all the sense her petrified, confused brain made of them. But as their meaning slowly filtered through to her, she began to take courage as her innate spirit was released from its stupor. She remained motionless, battling against her taut nerves and trying to rationalize the desperate thoughts that tumbled in her head. The voice that had spoken was that of a man, neither as young as Joe nor that of an older man, but somewhere in between. It was polite, cultured, not local – more like Charles in accent, in fact – and, dear God, it had
trembled
with fear as if its owner was as afraid as Rose was! Indeed, she was aware now that the hand over her mouth was shaking, and the man, whoever he was, was hesitant, uncertain of what to do next, and Rose waited, forcing her reeling mind to think clearly again.

‘If I let you go,' the voice quavered as if the words were choking in his gullet, ‘do you promise not to scream?'

Rose stiffened, and then nodded, the small sound she made in her throat muffled by his hand. She felt his fingers slacken, and instantly tighten again, as if he had thought better of it.

‘You do promise?' he repeated with a slight jerk of his arm. ‘Please God, I
beg
you not to scream. Not until you've heard what I have to say.'

There was something in his tone, some desperation, that she recognized, for hadn't she been there, was
still
there, herself?

‘I promise,' she managed to mumble through his fingers, and gradually, as the seconds ticked by, his hold reluctantly eased. She was swamped with relief and could easily have slithered to the floor, but some force she could not comprehend kept her upright. She could hear the breath vibrating tremulously in and out of the man's lungs, and once she was sure she was free of his grasp, she had to steel herself to turn round, inch by inch. Her eyes were beginning to adjust to the semi-darkness, and it registered oddly at the back of her mind that the animals seemed undisturbed by the stranger's presence, and Gospel was even munching calmly at his hay net.

Rose dared to look up into the intruder's face, the pulse pounding at her temples. The whites of his terror-stricken eyes glinted in the dim half-light, and she made out the pale shape of a bald head. No, not bald, as it fell into place with a sudden jolt, but cropped. Cropped to the scalp in a convict cut.

She hardly had time to gasp when he let out an astounded, ‘Good Lord! You!'

Rose instinctively recoiled, backing up against Gospel's side, and the felon went to step towards her, his hand outstretched – most curiously – as if he would take her arm almost in greeting. But he didn't get that far. As he transferred his weight on to his other leg, it seemed to give way beneath him and with a stifled cry he plunged past her, landing in the thick layer of straw on the loose-box floor.

Rose stood, astounded, numbed by the last few minutes, blinking down at the still figure by her feet. She could scream now, run into the house and raise the alarm. But she didn't. Her eyes had not had as much time as the escaped prisoner's had to adjust to the near darkness, but in that split second she had seen enough of him to spark her memory. It was him, the same fellow who had saved Jacob Cartwright's life, and had been unjustly beaten and kicked by the Civil Guards for his efforts. Who, she had subsequently learnt through Molly, had not only been set upon later by other inmates in retribution for the same incident, but had relentlessly protested that he was innocent of his alleged crime. No. Rose would not scream. Certainly not until she had given him the chance to explain himself.

He groaned, recovering his senses; whether from the fall or a moment's unconsciousness, Rose wasn't sure, but it gave her the opportunity to focus both her thoughts and her vision. In the shadows, she began to distinguish what appeared as several dark, oozing patches on his yellow prison uniform. She knew at once what they were. She realized now it must have been a gunshot she had heard some hours earlier. The somewhat old-fashioned Sniders still carried by the Civil Guard were converted for use with cartridges containing thirteen balls of lead shot rather than bullets, but if they hit in the right place they could still maim or even kill, and this villain's shoulder was peppered with them.

‘You're hurt,' she said mechanically, her voice frozen and expressionless.

The man made no attempt even to sit up, but still lying half on his side, he reached down with both hands to his ankle, his face turned into the straw as he writhed in agony. ‘I think I've broken my ankle,' he seemed to grate through clenched teeth. ‘The surprise of seeing you again . . . made me forget for a second.' He appeared to pull himself together, then, and wriggled into a sitting position, still grasping his ankle. As he looked up at her, even in the dim light, she could see the contorted expression on his face. ‘It is you, isn't it? The girl, by the quarry tunnel. All that time ago. You . . . you do remember?'

Rose blinked at him. Yes, she remembered, and her own senses were at once unlocked from their stunned state of shock. ‘Yes, 'twas me,' she murmured. ‘But I meant your shoulder. You're bleeding.'

He scarcely turned his head. ‘I think I can put up with that. It's my ankle I'm really worried about. That's why I had to find somewhere to hide. Otherwise I'd have been halfway across the moor by now. But if it
is
broken, I'm done for. It could take weeks—'

‘Let me see.' Rose hardly knew how or why, but she dropped on her knees beside him, all fear dissipated but every nerve on edge, not for herself now, but unbelievably for
him
! She wished vehemently that the light was better, but there was enough to see that he wore no boots and that his coarse woollen socks were in tatters from his flight over the rough terrain.

‘I got rid of the boots as soon as I could,' he explained meekly.

Rose nodded. ‘The nails in the soles, you mean? In the shape of an arrow?'

‘They do leave a pretty distinctive footprint,' he grunted wryly. ‘But then my foot caught between two rocks as I was running. If I'd still been wearing the boots, it might have been all right. But I'm sure it's broken. I heard it snap and . . . God, it's bloody agony.' His head went back with a tortured gasp, his face twisted, and when he opened his eyes again, they bore into hers with desperate intensity. ‘You won't give me away, will you? Please, I beg you.'

His voice cracked, tugging at Rose's sympathy. But what did she know of him, a complete stranger? A convicted criminal, for heaven's sake, and one of the worst in the land, to merit being committed to Dartmoor Prison!

She lifted her chin. ‘And why should I trust you?' she demanded warily, though all the time, keeping her voice low.

He shook his head slowly. ‘I can't answer that. Except that I
swear
I'm innocent, and might even be able to prove it, given the chance. Not that it would do me any good. But I just couldn't stand another ten years locked up in that hell-hole for something I didn't do. Surely you can understand that? So, please, help me.' He paused, and in the gloom, she heard rather than saw him swallow hard. ‘You . . . you know what will happen to me if I'm caught?'

Rose's heart jerked in her chest, and she lowered her eyes as she nodded. The punishment cells, and then a flogging of up to thirty-six lashes with the cat o' nine tails. They said that the blood ran freely after the third stroke, and by the end of the punishment a man's skin hung from his back in ribbons. Barbaric enough for the likes of the felon who had attempted to split open Jacob Cartwright's head with a stone, but unthinkable for the man who had saved him.

‘I know I shouldn't ask it of you.' Rose realized he was speaking again. ‘It isn't fair on you, especially with you being . . .' He jabbed his head briefly towards her jutting stomach. ‘God knows, I'm sorry for frightening you like that, but I had no choice. You
are
all right? I mean, I didn't realize you were . . . From the back, you don't look—'

‘Yes, I'm fine,' she answered, taken aback by what appeared to be his genuine concern. ‘A little shaken, 'tis all. And the baby's still kicking.' Which was perfectly true as she felt a foot thrust up under her ribs.

‘Thank God,' he muttered under his breath.

‘And I'll not betray you.' For how could she live with herself if she was responsible for sending this man, who could well be telling the truth, to a certain flogging? ‘But I don't know if I'll help you. I need time to consider it.'

‘Of course. I understand.'

‘You'll be safe here overnight. Hide yourself in the straw round the corner.' She pointed to the dog-leg of the loose box, which was in complete darkness. ‘Ned – that's our groom – he'll check on Gospel again later. But he'll only stick his head in. He and Gospel don't get on, you see. In fact, the only person who can manage Gospel apart from me is Joe.'

‘Joe?' he questioned in alarm.

‘Oh, he doesn't work here. We only have Ned. But . . . I'm really surprised Gospel didn't make a terrible noise and try to kick the stable down when you came in. He always does with anyone else. Has he not bitten you yet?'

He glanced at her sideways, and then with her eyes accustomed to the mere glimmer of light that entered through the stable door, she saw him smile. ‘He's a magnificent animal. I could see he was spirited, so I just talked to him, and he let me in.'

Rose was about to express her astonishment, but the stranger – for somehow she could not think of him as the escaped convict – must have shifted slightly and threw up his head with a gasp of agony. His hands went down to his ankle again and he drew a trembling breath through his gritted teeth. Without a second thought, Rose leaned forward and gently peeled the remains of the sodden sock – as one could never go far on Dartmoor without getting one's feet wet, especially when running for one's life – while he held his foot as rigid as possible. She sucked in her cheeks. Though she had no experience of such things, it was quite obvious the bone was broken. The ankle had swollen up like a football – or at least like one of the inflated pig's bladders that boys kicked about the streets of Princetown – and even in the shadows Rose could see it was turning a horrible shade of purple. She reached out her hand and met the fellow's eyes. He turned his head away, biting on his knuckles, and she heard the guttural choking sound he made as she stroked her fingers lightly over the swelling. Dear Lord, she could actually
feel
the break about three inches above the protruding mount of the ankle bone on the outer side of his foot.

‘You need a doctor,' she murmured at once, quite horrified.

‘No. It's too risky.'

She stared into his stricken face, pursing her lips. ‘My own physician, from Tavistock. He's a good man. He should be calling tomorrow. Perhaps I can persuade him—'

‘I need to do something about it
now
. It'll be a Pott's fracture. The tibia's probably broken as well, further down on the inside. Or the ligament will have torn. Either way, it's pretty serious. Would you mind . . . Could you see if you can feel a pulse below the break? Look, just here. I can feel it myself, but that can be unreliable. I might just be feeling the pulse in my own fingers. That's stronger, you see.'

Rose, quite frankly, was so amazed at his anatomical knowledge that she obeyed at once. She all but rejoiced when she felt the rhythmical vibration beneath her touch. ‘Yes, I can definitely feel it,' she told him.

He released a heart-wrenching sigh. ‘Thank God.' He dropped his head forward for a moment, then turned to look at her, his lip caught between his teeth. ‘This doctor. Could he . . . could he be trusted?'

Rose hesitated. ‘I can't say for sure, but I should think so. But 'tis a chance I think you've
got
to take.'

She heard him breathe in, and then exhale heavily. ‘You're right. No matter what happens, I don't want to end up losing my foot.'

‘Should we try and strap it up for now?'

‘It might help. If you can find something to do it with.'

‘Yes,' she answered, her mind racing. ‘And I'll bring some dry clothes. Yours are wet through.'

‘Oh, I'm used to that,' he snorted bitterly. ‘But they are somewhat of a giveaway. And . . . do you think you could smuggle me out a glass of water?'

‘I'll try. But I don't know how long I'll be. I'll have to be careful. My husband . . . I'm sure he'd turn you over to the authorities at once.'

She rose awkwardly to her feet, and as she hesitated for a moment, she felt his grip on her hand. ‘Thank you.'

She barely acknowledged him, since her sharp wits were preoccupied, planning, scheming. ‘Hide yourself round the corner,' was all she mumbled, and then she was back across the yard, taking the lamp with her as everything must appear normal. She went inside and, though her heart was pounding, she made her way with what she hoped was a casual air to the two rooms Henry had occupied and which had not been touched since his death, but which Charles was planning to convert back into a morning room. Rose need not have worried. Cook and Patsy, the maid, were busy in the kitchen preparing dinner, and Charles was probably still in the drawing room despairing of his self-willed wife.