A Bouquet of Thorns (16 page)

‘But p'raps 'tis 'is wife you wants,' the woman put in with a reassuring smile. ‘Our village wise-woman?'

‘Ah,' Rose answered with some relief, for she indeed welcomed the information. Richard Pencarrow was considered ‘the maister', the charges against him had evidently been dropped, and the husband of a caring and respected member of the community was unlikely to be a vicious brute. Altogether, Rose felt encouraged. ‘Well,' she prompted, ‘perhaps you'd be so kind as to direct me to the Hall?'

‘Yes. Rosebank Hall. Follow this road,' the man indicated, waving his arm. ‘And arter aboot a mile, thee turns up a track on to the moor. Just keep following. 'Tis a long way, mind, but thee cas'n miss it.'

‘And mind you goes in the back door. 'Tis always open.'

‘Oh, er, right,' Rose replied with surprise. ‘Thank you kindly.'

She flashed her lovely, natural smile, making the man's day, and turned Tansy along the way he had pointed out. As he had said, the track was easy to find, and as they gradually climbed out of the valley, Rose relaxed in the saddle and admired the view as a watery sun began to break over the higher ground. It was as if she was in a different world, one in which the pain in her heart ceased to exist. And when Rosebank Hall – a square building of some size although nowhere near as imposing as Fencott Place – came into view, Rose began to focus her thoughts and wonder about the said Mr and Mrs Pencarrow. A wise-woman would surely be of a certain age, and she prayed they would both be sympathetic to her cause.

Mrs Pencarrow was nothing like she had imagined. Crossing what was clearly a farmyard, Rose found somewhere to tether Tansy and then knocked tentatively on what appeared to be the back door. There was no answer, and when she tried the handle, it turned and she found herself in an inner hallway with a second door immediately opposite. This time, she rapped loudly, and started when a voice at once called out to her to enter.

She was in a farmhouse kitchen, but rather than the aroma of cooking, an overwhelming fragrance she recognized but could not immediately name permeated the air. And then she noticed the bunches of different herbs hung in rows from drying racks, and the mystery was solved. Jars lined the walls, filled with powders from green to brown, or liquids of all manner of colours. Not just a wise-woman then, but a herbalist. Rose was amazed.

‘Good morning, miss. Can I help you?'

Mrs Pencarrow's voice was quiet and gentle, and Rose's eyes widened even further, as its owner was not many years older than herself. A petite young woman, dressed in a simple blouse and skirt and with a riot of golden hair secured only with a ribbon, was coming towards her with an outstretched hand which Rose instinctively took in hers. The pretty face was smiling in welcome, the eyes the most striking, translucent amber Rose had ever seen.

‘Mrs Pencarrow?' she mumbled.

‘Why, yes. But do call me Beth. Now, what can I do for you? You're not from round here, are you?'

But before Rose could reply, a further door opened, and an attractive girl of about twelve years old bounded into the kitchen, an infant struggling in her arms. Rose might have been punched in the chest, and she felt the room spin around her.

‘
Elle s'est réveillée
,' the girl said casually as she handed the child into the waiting arms of Elizabeth Pencarrow. ‘
Tu veux que je fasse la vaisselle
?'

‘
Oui, s'il te plaît
. Oh, I'm sorry. This is my daughter, Chantal.'

‘Pleased to meet you, madame.' And bobbing a curtsy, the girl went over to the deep stone sink.

Rose had to swallow hard and make a conscious effort to take a grip on herself. A baby. Much older than Alice. But a baby. And its presence slashed at her heart, throwing her bereaved soul into turmoil. Elizabeth Pencarrow and the older girl might have been speaking in a foreign language, she thought, and then, as her mind cleared, Rose realized that they
had
been.

She shook her head, blinking hard as she battled to put her thoughts straight. ‘I'm sorry,' she muttered in bewilderment. ‘'Tis Mr Pencarrow I need to see. I have a message for him from . . . from someone he met in the Tavistock police cells.'

Elizabeth Pencarrow's smiling face became still, and the colour drained from her cheeks. She fumbled for one of the kitchen chairs and lowered herself into it, dandling the infant subconsciously on her knee. ‘Oh, dear,' she finally breathed. ‘'Tis an episode we thought were behind us.'

In her own anguish, Rose recognized the friendly woman's distress. ‘Oh, no, 'tis nothing for you to worry about,' she said quickly. ‘'Tis just that your husband . . . well, he shared a cell with another man. And this other man, he was convicted and now he's serving his sentence at Dartmoor Prison. And he needs Mr Pencarrow's help.'

Elizabeth was absently stroking her baby's curling hair. ‘Yes. I remember . . . Richard did speak of someone. Someone he said didn't seem at all like a criminal. But he never knew what happened to him. Is he . . . is he your husband?'

She looked up, her eyes deep and pensive, bringing a frown to Rose's face. Seth her husband? The question somehow unnerved her.

‘I . . . er . . . no. I'm married to . . . to someone else,' she faltered. ‘But Seth . . .' She saw Elizabeth raise a surprised eyebrow at the use of a Christian name. ‘He escaped. He's innocent, you see, and in a moment of folly, he just . . . ran off into the mist. But he broke his ankle and took refuge in our stables. We live nearly two miles the other side of Princetown. Out on the moor, you see. I helped him, and we became friends. He told me everything that happened. He was convicted on, well, what I think they call circumstantial evidence. But I believe he was innocent,' she stated with firm conviction. ‘But he were caught and taken back to prison. Which is where he'll stay if someone doesn't help him. But I really don't know what to do, and Seth mentioned your husband . . .'

She gazed beseechingly into the woman's eyes, her forehead folded with consternation. Elizabeth slowly set the restless child on its feet and watched as the infant tottered across the floor. It seemed to Rose to take an eternity before she spoke again.

‘And what about your own husband?'

Rose drew in her bottom lip and swallowed. ‘My own husband believes that if you're convicted, then you must be guilty. He doesn't know I'm here. But I
beg
you, Mrs Pencarrow—'

‘Beth, please,' the other woman corrected. ‘And of course you must speak to Richard, though I'm not sure when he'll be back. He went out at the crack of dawn to check on the sheep up on the moor. There's been so much rain of late, and 'tis said there's liver-rot about. But you're more than welcome to wait if you have time. How did you get here? 'Tis a fair step.'

‘Oh, I rode,' Rose replied, filled with relief that Elizabeth was willing to listen to her, and then feeling remorse that, in her anxiety, she had forgotten about Tansy tethered outside.

‘Then put your horse in the stables and come back and have a cup of tea.'

‘Thank you so much. 'Tis most kind of you.'

Elizabeth turned her tranquil smile on her, and Rose hurried outside, already feeling happier. Elizabeth Pencarrow, stranger though she was, had instilled some confidence in her. She found the stables easily enough, putting Tansy in a stall beside an enormous, dozing cart horse, and finding a bucket of water for her. When she returned inside, Elizabeth was pouring out a freshly brewed cup of tea for each of them. The girl, Chantal, smiled openly at her. She was tall and dark as a gipsy, not remotely like Elizabeth, and Rose wondered how on earth Elizabeth could be her mother. Surely she wasn't old enough!

That serene smile Rose was already beginning to know lifted the corners of Elizabeth's mouth. ‘Chantal's my stepdaughter,' she explained easily as she saw Rose looking at the girl. ‘Richard was widowed in France. He's a fair bit older than me, you see.'

‘Ah.' Rose was becoming interested, her curiosity drawing her mind from the void that Alice's death had gouged out of her soul. ‘And 'twas French you were speaking, then, just now?'

‘Yes. When we first met, Chantal didn't speak any English, and I didn't speak a word of French. But we've learnt from each other. Oh, do sit down, Mrs . . . I'm sorry, I don't even know your name.'

‘Chadwick. Rose Chadwick.'

She sat down, relieved beyond measure that Elizabeth Pencarrow was such a homely, understanding woman despite her youth. But at that moment, the infant struggled to its feet and wobbled across the room in that uncertain way little ones have when learning to walk, chubby arms raised to shoulder level. Its sturdy legs stumbled to the nearest available landing point at the right height for its tiny hands, which happened to be Rose's thigh. The child gazed up at the stranger, mouth stretched wide with a proud grin revealing a set of little front teeth.

The knife twisted in Rose's side. ‘How old?' she managed to gulp.

‘Thirteen months. Her name's Hannah.'

The child gurgled contentedly, and as she studied her wide, chestnut eyes, Rose could see in them amber flecks the same colour as her mother's. The minuscule face was framed with a cap of coppery curls, and all at once Rose's chin quivered and she felt two fat tears stroll down her cheeks.

‘Mrs Chadwick?'

Elizabeth's brow was pleated as she put out a hand, her head tipped in questioning as she sensed the stranger's despair, and Rose felt herself tumbling into the chasm of her pain again.

‘I . . . buried my own daughter yesterday,' she croaked. ‘She was . . . just eight weeks old . . .'

It was too much, this profound sensitivity and compassion of Elizabeth Pencarrow's, and Rose sank willingly into it, setting free the terrible, savage agony that was her grief. She shook with the tears that engulfed her, choking her, blinding her, as she was comforted not only by the arms of Peter Tavy's wise-woman, but also by her French stepdaughter. It was a moment of release, of cruel torment that was necessary to start the healing process, and when it began to subside, Rose felt freer, at ease, perhaps more so than at any time since her father's death. Elizabeth made her drink something that tasted quite disgusting before she was allowed to sip at her tea, but in this quiet and lonely farmhouse, amongst these total strangers, Rose began to feel some peace. She found herself relating the entire story of how she had come to marry Charles and how her own life had deteriorated since then.

Elizabeth was a good listener and brought her hands together in front of her lips as if in prayer. ‘Our first child was stillborn,' she murmured in a torn whisper. ‘So I know how you feel. But now we have Hannah. So there is always hope.'

Rose lifted her head, wiping her tears on the back of her hand. Elizabeth seemed so calm, so complete, and Rose could scarcely absorb what she had just said. ‘But . . . Oh, I'm so sorry. But I don't think I want any more children. Not with Charles, anyway.'

Elizabeth met her gaze, and then breathed out slowly. ‘That, I'm afraid I cannot help you with. I love Richard so much it hurts sometimes, so I cannot imagine being in your situation. But we will try and help if we can. With your convict. Though to be honest with you, I'm not sure there's anything we can do.'

Rose felt her heart drop like a stone as she nodded in reply. ‘Yes, I know,' she mumbled. ‘But I can't bear to think of . . .'

She got no further as they heard footsteps in the hallway, and as the door opened, the man who entered the kitchen was so tall he had to duck to avoid hitting his head on the lintel. He was broad-shouldered but slim of waist and hip, betraying a lean strength, and for a few seconds he was taken up with greeting his wife and children in a fond embrace, while a pair of black and white sheep dogs trotted at his heels. When he at last looked across at the unknown visitor, he lifted his head and his handsome face broke into a friendly smile. As Elizabeth had said, her husband was somewhat older than herself, in his mid to late thirties, Rose judged, but she instinctively knew he was someone she could trust.

‘Who have we here?' he said amiably. ‘Do you own that chestnut mare in the stable? What a lovely animal! I've given her a hay net, by the way.'

Rose's thanks were lost in the confusion of introductions and explanations, and the large kitchen suddenly seemed to overflow with the four adults, the unsteady baby and the two dogs, one of which was quite young and skittered playfully around everyone's feet. But as the chaos settled, Richard Pencarrow gratefully took from his wife the mug of tea she offered him, and lounged back against the wall next to the range, one foot raised on the fender, to drink it. His dark eyes narrowed as he observed Rose over the rim of the mug, and her stomach turned a somersault, for everything depended on his decision.

‘I've often wondered what happened to him,' Richard said at length, his voice low and thoughtful. ‘But it was hard enough picking up the pieces of my own life, let alone someone else's I'd only known for a few days, and that not exactly under the best of circumstances. But I feel guilty about it now. Serving twelve years at Princetown, you say? Poor devil.' He spoke the words with passion, and stared silently at the stone-flagged floor for some seconds before lifting his head again. ‘So, how do you come to know him?'

‘He escaped,' Rose answered at once, eager to grasp Richard's support while he seemed so sympathetic. ‘He hid in our stables because his ankle was broken. I helped him. But he was caught again.'

Richard's eyes flashed at her and his generous mouth closed into an angry line as his back stiffened and, pushing himself away from the wall, he crossed the room and pulled out a chair to sit down opposite her at the table. ‘You do . . .' he began hesitantly. ‘You do realize what will have happened to him?'