Dearest Rose
Contents
About the Book
‘
You are a remarkable woman and you deserve all the happiness, contentment and love in the world. I, for one, know that I have never met anyone quite like you
.’
When Rose Pritchard turns up on the doorstep of a Cumbrian B & B it is her last resort. She and her seven-year-old daughter Maddie have left everything behind. And they have come to the village of Millthwaite in search of the person who once offered Rose hope.
Almost immediately Rose wonders if she’s made a terrible mistake – if she’s chasing a dream – but she knows in her heart that she cannot go back. She’s been given a second chance – at life, and love – but will she have the courage to take it?
About the Author
Rowan Coleman worked in bookselling and then publishing for seven years, during which time she wrote her first novel,
Growing Up Twice
, published in 2002. She left to write her second novel,
After Ever After
, and now lives and writes in Hertfordshire with her family.
Also by Rowan Coleman
Growing Up Twice
After Ever After
River Deep
Woman Walks into a Bar
The Accidental Mother
The Baby Group
The Accidental Wife
The Accidental Family
The Happy Home for Broken Hearts
Lessons in Laughing Out Loud
For Stanley Edward and Aubrey John, born 10
th
April 2012
Acknowledgements
Firstly I want to say a special heartfelt thank you to the hundreds of women who were brave enough to share their stories of domestic abuse with me during the course of researching this book. I never imagined, when I asked for people to contact me with their stories, that I would receive such an overwhelming response, each experience as desperately painful and shocking as the last, and so sickeningly common that surely more must be done to stop the routine abuse of women in their own homes.
The publication of
Dearest Rose
marks the tenth anniversary of the publication of my first novel in 2002. A lot has happened in those ten years, including birth, divorce, marriage and (a lot) more birth, but one thing has always remained constant through all the ups and downs, and that is my writing. I’ve been exceptionally fortunate and grateful to have the support of a great many people at Random House as a whole over that time, both past and present, and now seems like a good time to thank them.
Special thanks to my editor, Georgina Hawtrey-Woore, who’s not only always a pleasure to work with, but whose friendship I really appreciate.
Thank you also, to my agent and friend Lizzy Kremer who has been at my side for every one of those years, is always in
my
corner, and sometimes is the only person in the world keeping me sane!
I’m so lucky to have become good friends with many other writers, in a community that is unfailingly supportive and I want to thank especially Katy Regan, Katie Fforde, Trisha Ashley, Caroline Smailes, Serena Mackesy, Cally Taylor, Elle Amberley, Keris Stainton, Tamsyn Murray and so many more who inspire, cheer and make me laugh on a daily basis.
Also my dear friends Jenny Matthews, Margi Harris, Catherine Ashley, Kirstie Seaman, Claire Winter, Rosie Woolley, Cathy Carter, Sarah Darby and yes, you again Katy Regan. I love you.
The world of social networking means I now get to meet and get to know readers from around the world, some of whom have become friends and all of whom have kept me motivated with their good wishes and appreciation, so thank you to all of you, you don’t know how much pleasure it gives me to get a message of support from Texas, or Thailand, or Twickenham on a Monday morning!
Finally thank you to my family, my husband Adam, whose belief in me and love means so much and my incredible, beautiful, talented, funny, adorable children, Lily, Fred, Stanley and Aubrey, and my stepson, Harry. You keep us busy and tired but life would be so boring without you.
Dearest Rose,
Our meeting, though brief, has stayed with me and I wanted to write and thank you for your hospitality when I came to see you a few days ago. You didn’t have to be so kind to a stranger turning up, unannounced, but you were and I am so grateful. Although you were not able to help me find the painting, everything you told me about your father was both fascinating and heartbreaking. Why is it, I wonder, that artists are so often capable of creating such beauty whilst doing such harm to themselves and others? I hope that one day you will perhaps be able to reconcile with him and find the answers to all of your questions.
I hope you will forgive me when I write that you are a remarkable woman and you deserve all the happiness, contentment and love in the world. I, for one, know that I have never met anyone quite like you.
Yours,
Frasier
Chapter One
‘DO YOU KNOW
what time it is?’ An irritated woman’s muffled voice was just about audible from the other side of the door.
‘I … I know, but this is a B & B, isn’t it?’ Rose asked, as her seven-year-old daughter, Maddie, snuggled into her neck, weighing heavily on her hip as she shivered against the cold. Despite it being the height of summer, fine needles of icy rain were driving down into the tops of their heads, and Rose had forgotten to bring Maddie a coat. There hadn’t been time to think about coats; there hadn’t been time to do anything but leave, grabbing a few damp and muddled items from the wash basket in the kitchen, and one oddly wrapped package, bundled up and secreted long ago, perhaps waiting for just this moment.
‘Doors are locked at nine p.m. sharp!’ the voice called back. ‘It’s in all the literature. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’ve got a good mind to call the police.’
Rose gasped in a ragged breath, determined not to cry. She’d made it this far without crying; she wasn’t going to let this disembodied voice break her when nothing else had.
‘I know, but, please, I’ve come a long way and I’ve got a little girl with me. We just need a place to stay. I would have booked ahead, but I didn’t know I was coming.’
There was some more muttering, a man’s voice too, Rose thought, drawing Maddie even nearer into her body, trying to suppress the child’s shivers with her embrace. As she did so she tightened her arm on her other, less precious package, which was tucked underneath it: a smallish rectangular object that Rose had hurriedly wrapped in a blanket.
‘A child?’ The woman’s voice came again.
‘Yes, she’s only seven.’
With a mixture of fear and trepidation Rose waited as she heard bolts being drawn back and locks being released. Finally the heavy-looking, thickly painted, wooden door drew back to let a slant of yellow light cut through the rain, making the drops dazzle and glitter. A woman of indeterminate age peered through the gap at the sodden pair, and then after a moment took a step back and opened the door wider.
‘This is really most irregular,’ she told Rose, as she hurried into the hallway. ‘Knocking on the front door at all hours of the day and night. I’ve got my other guests to think of.’
‘There
are
no other guests.’ The owner of the male voice, a well-built bearded man in his late fifties, sporting a vest and jogging bottoms, smiled at Rose. ‘Don’t you fret about it, love. It’s no bother. I’m Brian and this is my wife, Jenny. Jenny, you take them up, give them towels, and I’ll bring you both up a nice warm drink. Hot chocolate do you, little one?’
Maddie drove her face deeper into Rose’s chest, her frozen fingers clinging on for all they were worth. Maddie was not a child who settled easily into strange surroundings, particularly when the circumstances that had brought them here had already been so traumatic.
‘That really is so kind,’ Rose said gratefully. ‘We’d love a hot chocolate, wouldn’t we, Maddie?’
‘Like I said, no bother,’ Brian smiled. ‘Now, got any luggage you want me to bring in for you?’
‘I … don’t. No. There’s no luggage.’ Rose smiled weakly, lifting one elbow awkwardly to reveal her oddly wrapped package. ‘Just us and this.’
Jenny raised a sceptical brow, which clearly saw nothing good could come of her latest and only guest. ‘I usually ask for cash up front, twenty-five a night. Presumably you’ve got cash?’
‘Yes, I …’ Rose attempted to reach into her pocket while still cradling Maddie and the package.
‘For God’s sakes, woman,’ Brian said, shaking his head, ‘let the lass be. We’ll sort the payment in the morning. Right, now …?’ He looked at her questioningly.
‘Oh, I’m Rose, Rose Pritchard, and this is Maddie.’
‘Right then, well, Rose here needs to get little Maddie into bed!’
‘For all you know she might be an axe murderer,’ Jenny muttered not entirely under her breath.
‘Well, if she is, I’ll wager she’s too tired to chop us up tonight. Now stop going on and get up them stairs.’
It was only as Rose followed Jenny’s considerable behind up the narrow stairs that she realised her landlady was wearing a rather risqué pink negligee, which floated above her on the steep incline like a jellyfish, showing flashes of her ample dimpled thighs. Dimly it occurred to Rose that perhaps Jenny and Brian were the axe murderers, but she was so tired, her body exhausted by the hours of driving and her mind reeling from everything that had happened, that if they were, she didn’t think she could
be
bothered to run away twice in one day. After all, it had taken her most of her life to find the courage to make this first escape. Millthwaite, without any particular renown or importance, lost deep in the heart of Cumbria, was a village very few people had heard of. Except it was here, in a place that could perhaps most accurately be described as the middle of nowhere, that Rose was hoping against hope to find her second chance.
Jenny opened the door on a room at the top of the house, flicking on the light. It was a neat, clean little room, with narrow twin beds set about a foot apart, covered with pink candlewick bedspreads. The small rose pattern on the wallpaper was repeated on the curtains and on the swags that hung over them, a style that had been fashionable about thirty years earlier.
‘I’ve put you in here because it’s got its own loo,’ Jenny said as Rose sat down on a bed, still holding Maddie tightly as she laid her package down beside her. ‘There’s clean towels there, and I’ll put the immersion on, I suppose, if you want a shower.’
‘Really, all I want to do is sleep,’ Rose said, closing her eyes for a moment.
‘And you’ve got no luggage but that thing?’ Jenny asked her, standing in the doorway, her nightie floating around her with a life of its own. ‘Where have you come from again?’
‘Broadstairs, in Kent,’ Rose said, easing Maddie onto the bed, and taking one of the folded towels from the pillow to rub her wet hair. Rolling onto her tummy, Maddie refused to show her face to the strange woman, or even the strange room.
‘All that way and not even an overnight bag?’ Jenny asked her, her curiosity almost as naked as her considerable cleavage.
‘No,’ Rose said, hoping she was making it clear that she would not be drawn on the subject.
‘Well, then, as you’ve ruined my and Brian’s special night, anyway, I’ll go and find you something to wear …’
‘Oh, please, don’t go to any trouble,’ Rose called after Jenny, but she had already left, leaving the door open so that Rose could get the full effect of her righteous stomp down the stairs.
