A Bouquet of Thorns (11 page)

‘Florrie?'

The name seemed to speak itself, and the figure turned, slow and unbelieving, before stepping on dumbfounded legs to the bed. The older woman's face was pale with shocked delight, but then the colour flooded back into her cheeks as she grinned with joy.

‘Rose? Oh, my dearest! You'm back with us!'

A frown flickered over Rose's forehead. ‘Florrie, I . . . I don't remember,' she croaked. ‘What . . . what's happened?'

Florrie's face visibly dissolved and two fat tears trickled down her glowing cheeks. ‘'Tis proper poorly you've been, cheel. A fever of some sort.'

‘A fever?' Rose's frown deepened, and then panic shot through her as she suddenly remembered. She tried to sit up but it was as if she was pinned to the bed and she fell back with a groan. She had no need to speak, as Florrie had guessed at once the reason for her agitation.

‘You'm not to worry none. Little Alice is soldiering on upstairs in the nursery,' she said with a proud smile. ‘Pretty as a picture, and putting on weight. Which is what you must do. Thin as a stick, you be.'

The corners of Rose's mouth twitched upwards as relief swamped her lifeless limbs. ‘How . . . how long has it been?'

Florrie lowered her eyes. ‘Nearly two weeks since you slipped away from us. Oh, little maid! You've no idea how worried we've been. But here's me wittering on, when you must be gasping for a drink. I've some nice cool water here. I bring it fresh twice a day and somehow you've managed to take a little.'

She didn't add that in Dr Seaton's opinion it was what had just about kept her alive. Florrie flustered about her charge, helping to prop her up on extra pillows so that she could sip at the refreshing liquid. Rose felt so strange, unreal, as weak as a kitten and yet relaxed and serene. Something deep and troublesome was taunting the secret depths of her mind, but for now she was happy to ignore it.

‘Will you bring Alice to me, please, Florrie?' she asked eagerly.

But Florrie closed her lips firmly. ‘When the doctor says 'tis safe. He'll be here after lunch, as he is every day.'

‘Oh, dear, poor man. 'Tis such a long way. And . . . and what about Charles?'

The shadow flitted across Florrie's face so quickly that Rose was not aware of it. ‘Been at your side constantly. Just taking a well-deserved rest right now,' she added. For how could she tell Rose that since her tortured mind had called out Seth's name, Charles had not set foot in the room?

Charles finally put in an appearance later that afternoon. Florrie had bathed Rose's skeletal body, as she had done each day since the baby was born. She had then taken the most overwhelming joy in spoon-feeding her – since Rose was too weak even to feed herself – a bowl of bland chicken broth followed at an interval by a sweet egg custard, as Florrie's instincts told her that Rose's starved stomach must be coaxed back to normality with light nourishment, little and often.

A relieved and delighted Dr Seaton had pronounced the fever gone. In his opinion, the fever itself had been mild, as had the infection in her ‘down-belows' as Florrie put it, and which was now healing nicely. But the protracted labour had been exhausting, and the dread that the infant might not survive, together with the failure to feed the child herself, which was the only way she could protect it, had simply tipped her over into a state of limbo. And although he kept it to himself, Dr Seaton also believed that the traumatic event of the convict's recapture, though it could not have brought on her early labour, was bound to have upset her emotionally. Her mind and body needed time to heal, and so both had closed down while nature cured her. And now she was awake and refreshed, and though she would have to be careful not to overtire herself for some time, she should be up and about in a week or so. Her womb had contracted well, the bleeding very much lessened, and the sponginess of her stomach, the only part of her that had any flesh on it, he assured her would disappear once she was active again. He would examine her thoroughly in a month or so, but at the moment, he could see no reason why she should not bear further children in the future. In the meantime, little Alice was holding her own, though neither her heart nor her lungs were strong, and she would probably always have to be mindful of her health.

Rose was sitting up in bed now, bright and alert after a short nap, her minuscule daughter in her arms. It was a warm and sunny afternoon, and she had unwrapped the shawl to examine the tiny arms and legs, still so very fragile and covered in folds of loose, wrinkled skin. The child moved very little, and when she did, it was with the characteristic, uncontrolled jerks of a young infant. But when Rose placed her little finger across the miniature palm, Alice's hand closed about it, filling her mother's heart with unutterable joy. The grip was not strong, and there was still a faint blueness about the child's heart-shaped jaw, but when she opened her eyes – already the same violet-blue as her mother's – they bore with such intensity into Rose's face that they almost spoke to her.

‘Rose, my dear,' Charles greeted her with as much emotion as if she had merely been out to the shops. But, entranced by the magical spell of her daughter, Rose did not notice.

‘Oh, Charles!' Rose glanced up at him with a captivated smile. ‘Isn't she lovely? Florrie says I looked like that when I were a baby.'

‘You've had us worried,' Charles answered flatly.

‘Yes, I know. And I'm so sorry.' There was something tugging at the back of her mind, something that she instinctively felt wasn't quite right. But she couldn't think what it was, so perhaps she was mistaken . . . She turned back to her husband, her smile broadening. ‘But I feel so much better now. And isn't Alice adorable? You don't mind my naming her after my mother, do you? Why don't you sit here on the bed and have a hold of her? Only just for a few minutes, mind, because I'm so jealous that I missed the first two weeks of her life and I want to make up for it.'

She had spoken quickly, hardly drawing breath between the words that pattered from her mouth, beaming up at Charles before returning her mesmerized gaze to the precious bundle cradled in her arms, totally besotted by the tiny creature she had brought into the world. Charles's nose twitched and he took a step backwards.

‘No. You hold her while you can. I'm really far too busy.'

Rose tipped her head at him questioningly. ‘Can you not spare just one minute?' And then her lips pouted in that mutinous way he had come to know so well. ‘I'm sorry she's a girl,' Rose went on tersely. ‘I know 'twas a boy you wanted, and I promise I'll give you a son one day. But please, don't love Alice any the less because of it. 'Tis not her fault.'

‘Really, Rose, I don't have time for babies no matter what their gender,' Charles snapped irritably. ‘You know how time-consuming it is running my affairs from two hundred and fifty miles away. Besides, children are a woman's domain. I'm just looking forward to when I can sleep in my own bed again. And how long will that woman and her howling brat have to stay here? It may be up in the nursery, but I can hear it all night long!'

Rose flashed her eyes at him, ready to retort that the wet nurse was keeping their own child alive, but it was true that he did look tired and a little gaunt, so she bit her lip instead. ‘Some time yet, I'm afraid. So, please, Charles, try to be patient. And . . . I know you don't approve, but I should love Molly to visit. I can't wait to introduce her to little Alice.'

Charles's face stiffened and he stretched his neck out of his starched collar. ‘If you must. But only when Dr Seaton confirms that both you and the child are well enough.'

‘Oh, thank you, Charles,' she said passionately, but when she lifted her head, it was to see his back as he left the room, and she pulled a derisory grimace at it. She had the impression he had only agreed because she had promised to produce a son. One day. But perhaps it was a promise she could not keep. And, of course . . . Her mind reared up at the thought of what had to happen in order to produce another child: the nightly ritual in their marital bed. But just now, that seemed a lifetime away as she turned her attention back to the infant who had fallen asleep in her mother's arms.

The days passed in a blissful haze, gradually establishing a routine of rest, a little exercise within the confines of the spacious room, and bonding with her daughter. She kept Alice with her for much of the day, even insisting, much to Charles's disgust, that the wet nurse come down from the nursery to feed her, chatting to the woman who was a good, homely sort and who, in turn, soon warmed to the young mistress she temporarily served. It was only at night and during Rose's daytime rest periods that Alice was taken back up to the nursery by a doting Florrie, who in her own mind, considered herself the child's grandmother. Rose grew stronger by the day, waiting impatiently for Dr Seaton to give his permission for visitors. A peaceful euphoria had taken over her spirit, her days filled with the blithe rapture of her baby, and when the occasional uneasy shadow passed over her soul, she shook her head with a scornful snort, since Alice, so far, was doing well and becoming more active as she gained a little strength.

It was Daisy who broke the spell. Daisy, the new maid, was as effervescent and garrulous as Patsy was quiet and reserved, nattering away nineteen to the dozen as she cleaned the room or saw to the fire, for though it was early July, high up on the western side of the moor, the evenings and early mornings could be chillsome even on pleasant days. That summer, the sun had only rarely appeared from behind iron-grey clouds, and today was no exception as Daisy coaxed the coal into a dancing conflagration.

‘They say a prisoner fell to 'is death yesterday,' she announced cheerfully as she replaced the poker on its brass stand. ‘You knows how they'm building they prison blocks up to the sky wi' convict labour. Well, he must've felled off. Still, there be plenty more to take 'is place.'

A cold, black dread slashed at Rose's heart, and somewhere deep in the sepulchre of her soul, the horror was reawakened. Her mind had somehow succeeded in shutting itself down to some hidden, lurking fear, and now the great looming monster reared its ugly head. Yes, that was it, the nameless torture that had been gnawing away inside her.

Seth.

The anguish washed over her in a drowning wave and she had to fight to draw breath, though Daisy lifted a surprised eyebrow as her mistress sighed an impassioned, ‘Poor man,' almost inaudibly, and then appeared to stare blindly at the foot of the bed.

‘Oh, well, there's me done,' the young maid announced with her usual merry grin, undaunted by Rose's sudden quiet. ‘Be there ort else I can get 'ee, ma'am?'

‘Er . . . no. No, thank you,' came the muttered reply, and Daisy waltzed contentedly out of the room.

Oh, no. Oh, no. The words wrung themselves helplessly, pathetically, from Rose's stunned mind. It mustn't be him. It mustn't. There were upwards of eight hundred men in the gaol, so why should . . .? But she didn't even know if he was still alive. He had been so ill when they had dragged him from the stables, treating him with such brutality . . . Seth, who had spoken, for want of a better word, to Gospel and instantly won over the difficult animal's trust, who had shared her enchantment of the newborn puppies, who had laughed softly with her – and who had been subjected to the most cruel injustice. How could she possibly have forgotten?

And, oh, dear God, Gospel! It wasn't a hideous dream, was it? Gospel wasn't safe out in the stable, being cared for by Ned, as her traumatized brain had allowed her to believe. Charles really had sold him. And now she didn't know where he was. She felt shot through with fury, anger at what might have happened to both Seth and Gospel, but also with a deeper, crippling guilt because her own anguish had blanked them from her mind.

She had been sitting up, cross-legged, in the bed, and now she pushed her fists into the mattress in front of her, rocking herself back and forth on her straightened arms, her teeth gritted as she battled to stop herself from howling aloud. It was just as when her father had died. For the Rose Maddiford who would always fight back with the ferocity of a tigress had finally been defeated. There was nothing she could do now. And even in those few minutes of realization, the frustration of it, the black mist of anger, was driving her insane.

Florrie knew there was something wrong the instant she came back into the room. There was Rose,
her
Rose, looking almost demented, her eyes savage and haunted as she tossed her head from side to side.

‘Rose, my—'

‘Oh, Florrie!' she cried distractedly, reaching out to grasp the older woman's arms as she came towards her. ‘Florrie, you must find out for me!'

‘Find out what?' Florrie frowned, but her round cheeks flushed, as in her heart she already knew.

‘I don't know how I'll ever know the truth about Gospel, but you can find out for me about Seth,' Rose answered, her face taut with anguish. ‘Go to Dr Power.
Now!
'

Florrie's expression closed down. Not that she didn't have the greatest sympathy with the lad's story, even though she had been miles away at her sister's at the time and hadn't met him. But part of her blamed him for Rose's illness, and she had prayed that Rose's apparent loss of memory over the events would continue. But now it seemed they had returned to wreak havoc with her little maid's mind yet again.

‘Of course, my lamb,' she soothed. ‘But not now. Dr Power will be at work in the prison, and I wouldn't be able to speak with him. But this evening, I'll go while the master's having his dinner.'

‘Oh, Florrie . . .' Rose's face crumpled, and as Florrie held her in her plump, comforting arms, she wept inconsolably while Florrie's heart blackened with worry.