A Bouquet of Thorns (22 page)

She was not disappointed. Ladies and gentlemen from Charles's social circle had crowded into what was, in fact, a tastefully converted high street shop, accepting fine champagne and fancy canapés – all supplied by Harrods, of course. Rose had already become acquainted with most of the guests, either at their wedding or during her previous stay in London, and moved easily among them in her role as hostess, refined and looking demurely beautiful, so Charles had told her approvingly before they had set out from home. She was dressed in mourning for Alice, of course, Charles having insisted that she visit whichever London fashion house could make her two more outfits within twenty-four hours. Black seemed to suit her, toning down the peachy hue of her skin, the result of spending so much time out riding, and setting off the graceful tilt of her head on her swanlike neck.

Charles glanced at her with a proud smile as he gave a short speech to polite applause. Afterwards, as she was circulating among the guests again, those who knew of their loss offered their condolences, which she accepted graciously, burying her grief with a sad smile. She was there to encourage people to consider purchasing a painting and to spread the word about the gallery, not to wallow in her own misery, which might result in the embarrassment of her breaking down in tears. It was quite a relief when most of the visitors eventually departed and Rose was able to turn her attention fully to the canvases on the walls.

‘Do you like that one, Mrs Chadwick?'

‘'Tis beautiful,' she said ruefully, and dragged her eyes to the thin, gaunt man with the nervously drooping shoulders who had come up beside her. ‘Where is it, Mr Tilling?'

‘Oh, nowhere in particular,' he answered bashfully. ‘Just a combination of ideas in my imagination.'

Rose turned her smile on him, dazzling despite its underlying sadness, and unwittingly robbing him of his breath. ‘Then, 'tis no wonder I don't recognize it, though it does remind me of Dartmoor.'

‘Then it's your to keep. As a thank you to your husband for his patronage,' he added with a shy dip of his head.

‘Oh, no, I couldn't possibly!' Her lavender eyes were so soft that the poor chap wilted at the knees. ‘You must agree a fair price with my husband. Have you sold many this afternoon?'

‘Half a dozen,' he replied with enthusiasm.

‘Congratulations!' she exclaimed, his face, flushed with success, lifting her own heart. ‘I'm so pleased for you! Show me which ones. Though I must say I should find it hard to choose, they're all so lovely and yet all so different. And yet . . . You paint
atmosphere
, Mr Tilling. This one is so dark and stormy, and yet that one over there, with the young woman and the two children in the garden, is so bright and happy, I can
feel
the sun and the lovely summer's afternoon. And this one . . .'

‘I . . . I should like to paint
you
, Mrs Chadwick.' His voice was low, apprehensive, as he stood behind her, his bowed head just above her shoulder almost as if he was whispering in her ear. ‘Not a straightforward portrait, but an atmospheric painting, as you put it. You are so . . . if you will allow me to say so . . . so beautiful, and . . . I have been observing you all afternoon, and I should love to capture your sadness, if you would permit me.'

Rose's heart seemed to flutter in her breast and a faint colour tinted her cheeks. ‘If you are to paint me, Mr Tilling, I should prefer a happier portrait, if you please, not one that would always remind me of my bereavement.'

She had said it not unkindly, and the young artist dipped his head. ‘Oh, but of course, Mrs Chadwick. I do understand.'

‘And also, I'm afraid that we are returning to Dartmoor in a few days' time, but perhaps we could arrange something for another time, if my husband agrees.'

‘I should be honoured.' And covertly seeking her finely gloved hand, he brought it to his lips.

Across the room, Charles's attention was distracted as he spoke with an elderly gentleman of his acquaintance, and for just a few seconds, he lost the thread of the conversation before recovering himself with a jerk of his head, but the gentleman made no attempt to hide his smile.

‘She's a lovely woman, your young wife, Charles. I'm allowed to say such things at my age. But if you insist on showing her off, you must accept that she will gather admirers. You're a lucky devil, you know!'

‘Yes, I know.'

But the words were grated between his teeth, and he strode briskly over to where Rose and Mr Tilling were discussing another of his creations. Seeing him approach, Rose twisted her head to look at him with an open smile.

‘Charles, Mr Tilling would like to paint me,' she announced innocently. ‘What do you think of that?'

Charles's face appeared to close up like a clam. ‘And have every Tom, Dick and Harry gawping at you?' he hissed, taking her arm none too gently.

‘No! 'Twould be for ourselves, no one else,' she protested. ‘I thought as you'd be pleased.'

‘Well, I'm not! And is this how you repay my generosity, by making advances towards my wife?'

‘I do apologize, Mr Chadwick,' the startled artist stuttered. ‘I meant no offence.'

‘Oh, no, I'm sure you didn't,' Charles sneered. ‘And keep your grubby little paws to yourself, or you'll be looking for another patron. Now, madam.' This turning to Rose with a snarl. ‘You will keep to my side from now on.'

Mr Tilling's jaw swung agape and speechless as Charles drew Rose's hand on to his arm and held it there in a grip of iron, despite her efforts to release it. A white, angry line formed around her compressed lips, her eyes snapping violet with outrage as he all but dragged her into the middle of the floor.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, I must thank you all once again for coming, but my wife is feeling unwell and so I'm sure you will understand if we leave you to enjoy the remainder of the afternoon without us. Do feel free to discuss any purchases with Mr Tilling.'

A murmur of disquiet passed amongst the remaining guests, and in an instant, Charles had thrown Rose's cloak about her shoulders and was whisking her out into the street where a cab seemed to be waiting for them. Rose was bundled inside before she had a chance to open her mouth, and Charles sat down so close to her, she was squashed into the corner as if he were trying to imprison her.

‘How dare you behave like a trollop in front of my friends and colleagues!' he raged at her, his face a fearsome puce.

Rose was flabbergasted, but in her anguish she had no room for fear and she pursed her lips into a knot of disgust. ‘You were the one making a spectacle of yourself! I were simply being nice to everyone, just like you said. And if you choose to read anything into it, then you've only got your own jealous little mind to blame!'

Her head rocked on her neck with the force of his hand across her cheek. Her spine stiffened, her brain scarcely registering the stinging pain as she turned boldly back to him and allowed her eyes to travel over him with caustic disdain. ‘Very gentlemanly, I'm sure,' she said acidly but with utter calm.

Charles's face sagged beneath her haughty gaze. ‘I'm sorry, Rose, but it's just that I love you so much!'

‘And hitting me is your way of showing it?'

She shifted in the seat, turning her back on him and gazing out of the window in severe silence for the entire journey home through the London streets. Tears stung her eyes, but what was the point in crying? As if their relationship wasn't bad enough already, Charles had hit her, and there was no way she was going to allow him to offer her comfort. He had gone too far and she hated him more than ever. Dear Lord, she thought, would there ever be a way out?

‘L
ook out, you numbskull!'

The warder's cry jerked the prisoner in the escapee uniform from his reverie and, high up on the scaffolding, he turned to guide in the next massive granite block suspended from the crane and settle it in the bed of mortar. The warder rolled his eyes. Did the fellow want to be knocked off his perch and fall to his death? He was just another felon, but he was a good, strong worker, never risking punishment for uttering a belligerent word, and it would be hard to replace him. It surprised the warder that he had ever tried to escape, but when a man was ground down by the Silent Rule, the gruelling toil, the poor diet, cold and discomfort, you never could tell.

He didn't notice, though, that as soon as the task was done, the convict glanced back over towards the road, taking advantage of his panoramic viewpoint. He hadn't been daydreaming, but
watching
. He squinted into the distance, but even his keen eyesight couldn't be sure. Was it her? He was convinced it was a woman riding astride, so it had to be. Surely no one else . . .? But perhaps it was just wishful thinking. And the horse was a superb creature – at least it looked it from where he was standing – but it was the colour of ripe corn, not as black as night like Gospel had been.

Seth Warrington shook his head with a despondent sigh; the moment of elation was gone. He must be mistaken. What did it matter, anyway? He was condemned to another decade in this hellhole – not that he expected to survive that long. The desire to shuffle off this mortal coil had subsided but little since the torturing time he had spent in the bone shed. He had recovered slowly through the summer, toiling in the workshops until he had been passed fit enough to work on the building site. He hadn't minded too much at first. He enjoyed physical activity and had regained his muscled strength; he had a good head for heights and the views over Dartmoor were magnificent. But day after day, the long hours were killing. Every muscle ached, his shoulders in particular screaming at the constant strain of hauling in the weighty stones. But there was no respite. Eight hours of unremitting labour six days a week, and then a length of tarry oakum to unpick, cutting into the fingertips, before falling into the hard plank bed with its thin straw mattress. He would wake from a fitful, uncomfortable sleep more exhausted than he had gone to bed, only to have to face the same punishing regime all over again.

And now the winter was coming on fast. November was upon them, icy winds already blasting through the inadequate uniforms that were constantly drenched from the driving rain. Hung up to dry in a cold, damp, unheated cell while the occupant shivered his way through the night, the trousers and jackets were little better by morning. Up on the scaffolding was the most exposed place of all, and Seth had begun to cough. He could feel the wheezing inflammation rumbling in his lungs, the pain in his chest. God knew he couldn't go through that again. That he had survived before had been a miracle. He wasn't fool enough to believe he would pull through for a third time. Not that he cared, except that it would be an agonizing way to go. He just cursed himself for not having the courage to throw himself over the edge to the ground below.

He thought of her constantly. The vision of her beautiful, sensitive, caring face filled his head at every minute, giving him the strength to endure. He had never known anyone like her and yet, even had he not been shackled to his penal servitude, she could never have been his. She had her own cross to bear. He wanted to protect her, to lay down his life for her, and the anger of his helplessness ripped through his heart more deeply than the stiffened ends of the cat had scored his back.

He recalled the morning she had come into the stable with the news that her husband would be returning from London the following day. She was so miserable, and her anguish seared into his own heart. She was so unhappy in her marriage, but he had tried to encourage her until she had broken down in tears and he . . .

Oh, dear God, it had been the cruellest, most crucifying moment of his life. He had held her in his arms, feeling against him the mound of another man's child in her belly, comforting her, stroking her back, breathing in the sweet scent of her hair. Jesus Christ, if she could have seen inside him, seen the instant when he had almost lost control, his eyes screwed in torment as he fought to maintain his air of calm, of reassurance. She mustn't,
mustn't
know. And so he had forced himself to go on, talking to her, soothing her. At last, she had gazed up at him through her drying tears and he had thumbed them away. Smiling, while his own soul splintered.

What had happened to her? He knew from Dr Power that she had not been in trouble with the authorities, but had the husband she resented so much punished her for her involvement with an escaped convict? He prayed God not, and that the lie he had dreamt up as he lay writhing in agony at the sergeant's feet had prevented it. And yet she had still tried to help him. Quite what she had done, he didn't understand, but he had only received eleven of the thirty-six lashes that were supposed to have shredded the flesh on his back. The doctor had whispered something about her in his ear, and was it because of her that Principal Warder Cartwright had rescued him from the torment of the bone shed? He had tried to ask if she was all right, if she had come through the ordeal of childbirth safely, but Cartwright was his jailer, after all, and conversation was forbidden.

He should forget her, drive her out of his mind, but he couldn't. Thinking of her helped ease the cold, the hunger. The pain of an empty stomach gnawed at him constantly. He was tall, put to relentless labour and so needed sustenance, yet when the meagre portions of food arrived, it was so unpalatable that he could scarcely force it down. With dry bread and watery gruel for breakfast, five days a week dinner consisted of a pint of greasy soup with a few ounces of grizzly meat floating on the surface. Today, because it was Tuesday, a slab of suet pudding was all that would grace his plate. It always made him feel sick.

He yearned more than anything for vegetables. He knew from his army days how important they were for good health. A shudder ran through him every time his gums bled. Scurvy. He had a horror of losing his teeth, had nightmares about it. And the slightest knock caused a painful bruise. It was half the cause of the nausea, the exhaustion. And yet he wasn't alone. All eight hundred or so inmates simply had to soldier on. Only if the symptoms became pronounced would a visit to the MO be allowed. If they were lucky, it would lead to a few days in the hospital on the superior invalid diet, and then back to square one.