A Rose Before Dying (27 page)

Rose glanced up, the spoon halfway to her
plump little mouth. Her eyes flicked over his face then back to the
bowl of soup. She took another spoonful before answering, “Right
powerful hard old besom.
Mean
. You can tell by the eyes, you
know.”

“What of her face?” He thought of the
description of Tunnes—a red-haired man who could appear to be a
beautiful woman.

“What of it? She were a black-browed old
witch, she were.”

“Then why did you go with her?”

“Them sweets. I’d have never have gone with
her if it weren’t for the toffee.”

Ah,
food
. That, at least, explained
why the child had allowed a stranger to kidnap her. For a street
urchin, Rose had been remarkably trusting. “Are you sure her brows
weren’t gingery?”

Slurp. She shook her head.

It was possible Mr. Tunnes had applied
blacking to his brows to darken them. He was an actor, after all,
and used to applying makeup. But the whole thing felt wrong. Mr.
Tunnes had joined a traveling troop for the summer. His last
appearance was at Folkestone, and while it was entirely possible
that he could still have engineered Rose’s disappearance, it seemed
increasingly unlikely.

He studied the child. She had finished her
soup and settled back against the pillow, her face flushed and rosy
with sleep. After rearranging their damp clothing on the screen in
front of the fire, he drained his mug and took a slice of the
cheese and bread the cook had sent up on their tray.

Rosewell certainly had its share of
near-tragedies. First Miss Baxter’s disappearance and then Rose.
The hair on the back of his neck curled under his collar, pricking
his skin like a wasp. His muscles tightened, preparing for a sting
as he rubbed away the itch.

Would Ariadne be next?

Although she was well away from Rosewell, she
was alone in a cottage with a crippled man and two women.

What protection would they be?

Ariadne’s initial giddiness over her escape
from Mr. Phillips slowly, grindingly turned to worry. The carriage
lurched toward Rye, but she couldn’t escape her anxiety. Everything
was lost. Rose, her house, the gardens, her father’s prized
business, and her seedlings. Perhaps what might have been her first
successful hybrid.

But even that possibility dimmed in view of
her fears for Rose.

Her hands twisted in her lap, and she stared
out the window, watching the undulating countryside.

Could she really let Henry Phillips take
everything?

The reality was, her father had already
signed over everything to his partner—even his daughter. She was as
much his property as the business. Only his forbearance had allowed
her these few months for grief, and now that time was over. She
hoped he’d meant it as a kindness and not some form of subtle
torture. For whatever reason, he’d kept his distance and watched as
the walls slowly closed around her.

No, that wasn’t fair. He’d tried to be kind,
she supposed.

She just couldn’t stand it.

The hot, airless atmosphere inside the
carriage settled around her. Her hand rubbed her cheek although the
bruise had already faded. The truth was, she couldn’t force herself
to like him. Certainly, she didn’t trust him…or his kindness.

And she did like Charles. More than that, if
she were truthful. She loved him and wanted to believe he’d rescue
her, but she feared her story would be more like that of Rapunzel
than Cinderella. The prince failed, and she was lost in the
wilderness for years. Ariadne’s story would probably end in an
equally unhappy way.

He was an earl. He would never offer a woman
like her anything except a temporary place in his bed, and if she
accepted, could she really give up her home and work—see it all go
to Phillips? Watch Rose go to a soulless orphanage?

If by some miracle the earl offered for her,
wouldn’t she still end up regretting her choice and resenting him
for all she’d lose?

Which left her with duty. Most women made do
with that. They had to. Few expected to be happy with their
husbands, and in the end, one just did one’s duty and found
contentment in that.

Duty was the reason most women gave up love.
They traded passion for homes and security, for hundreds of reasons
that almost made her call out to the coachman to turn around and
return to London.

She’d been selfish and irresponsible.

What if Rose had returned while Ariadne was
running away? She might have made a mistake in her identification
of the roses. The little girl may simply have gone in search of her
old friends. After all, Ariadne had deserted her for not four days
as promised, but for nearly a week.

However, to her dismay, Ariadne couldn’t find
the courage to return to London. Not with
him
waiting for
her. She could only pray the earl had found Rose and they were both
safe.

Outside the carriage window, the day
gradually dimmed into night. They stopped several times for food
and to change horses, reminding her of her first trip to Rye. She
longed for the reassurance of Charles’s presence. Then, shortly
after dark, the rain started, tapping with increasing ferocity on
the roof of the carriage. She could barely look the driver in his
bedraggled face for shame at forcing him to drive through the
storm. During the last few stops, she lamely reassured him that
they would reach Marsh Rose Cottage soon, blushing at the
falsehoods before she hid in the darkest corner of the vehicle.

But they did, finally, arrive an hour before
dawn.

“Miss Wellfleet!” Mrs. Bewforest said in
surprise as she opened the front door. A long plait of braided,
gray-blond hair hung over one broad shoulder from beneath the edge
of a no-nonsense linen nightcap. “What are you doing here?” She
flipped her braid over her shoulder and drew her inside, chattering
all the while. “You look fair worn to a thread.” She glanced over
Ariadne’s shoulder to the coachman, wearily unhitching the horses.
“You, there! You come into the kitchen as soon as you’re
done—there’ll be something hot awaitin’ you.”

Her brusque kindness eased Ariadne’s anxiety,
at least concerning the much-abused driver. “Thank you, Mrs.
Bewforest. I’m so relieved to see you.”

“You’ll be happier to see your bed, I’ll be
bound.”

“I won’t deny it. I can’t remember ever being
so tired in my life.”

“Well, you have a bite and then it’s off to
bed with you.”

“How is Sir Edward?”

“That old devil?” Mrs. Bewforest broke into
deep laughter. “Now that it appears he’ll live, he’s as
foul-tempered as a wet badger.”

“And Miss Baxter?”

An odd look passed over her heavy face before
she controlled her expression. “She’s resting.”

“She’s worse, isn’t she?” Ariadne brushed
past her, heading for the stairs.

Mrs. Bewforest stopped her. “Let her sleep,
Miss. She’s had a hard day and harder night. There’s no use
disturbing her when she’s just managed to fall asleep.”

“What did the doctor say? He’s been to see
her, hasn’t he?” Ariadne gripped the woman’s strong forearm. She
couldn’t bear it. She just couldn’t.

“He comes every afternoon, bless him. Let her
rest. It’s in God’s hands. It won’t do either of you any good if
you exhaust yourself.” She looked up as the coachman entered. “And
look at you—both of you! I’ll scramble some eggs, and you’ll eat or
my name ain’t Betty Bewforest.”

Bullied and overruled, they both took seats
at the kitchen table and waited obediently while Mrs. Bewforest
made them a quick breakfast. Ariadne ate in a trance and then
stumbled off to bed, her mind in a fog.

She woke to the hushed sound of voices. After
rinsing her face and pulling on a wrapper, she went to Miss
Baxter’s room. Dr. Humphrey was there with his black bag gaping
open in its usual place at the foot of the bed.

Miss Baxter was propped up in bed, her gray
hair in damp braids over her shoulders. A dry cough wracked her
thin frame, and Ariadne ran to the side of the bed. Dr. Humphrey
stopped her before she could put an arm around the older woman.

“How is she?” Ariadne asked.

“Leave her be for the moment, Miss
Wellfleet,” he said. “She’s having a slight difficulty
breathing—”

“She can’t breathe?”

“Yes, yes, of course she can breathe. This is
to be expected.”

“Then she’s getting better?”

He busied himself placing the stethoscope and
other items into his bag. “She’s putting up a good fight.”

“You don’t think she’s getting better?” Her
heart plummeted to her feet. “She’s not going to recover, is
she?”

“There’s no way to know at this point, Miss
Wellfleet. All we can do is watch and wait. I’ve given Mrs.
Bewforest directions that will help ease the coughing, but…” He
shook his head. “We must be patient and pray.”

She gripped the bedpost and studied her
cousin’s face. Miss Baxter’s skin was waxy and gray despite the
unnatural flush on her cheeks from her bout of coughing. Her eyes
were sunken and hollow. For the first time, Ariadne realized how
old and fragile she appeared.

A kettle filled with herbs steamed on the
fire, filling the overheated room. She longed to fling open the
windows to get a breath of fresh, salt-laden air.

“Isn’t there anything we can do?”

The doctor shook his head.

“What of Sir Edward?” Ariadne struggled to
control her fears. “Mrs. Bewforest says he’s doing well.”

“Yes. He’s in pain—half the time he refuses
to take the anodyne I prescribed—but he’ll recover well enough. No
sign of putrefaction.”

“That’s something, I suppose,” she murmured,
rubbing her arms.

He gave her a reproving glance. “It is
excellent progress for a man his age.”

“Oh, certainly. It’s a relief to hear some
good news.”

“Indeed.” He took his leave abruptly enough
for her to fear she’d annoyed him. Perhaps she hadn’t been properly
grateful for the care he was lavishing upon his patients; however,
she couldn’t bring herself to care if the doctor disliked her.

After his departure, she dressed and hurried
down to Sir Edward’s room, wondering why she felt as if events were
conspiring against them all. Everything they did seemed only to
make matters worse.

She found Sir Edward much the way she’d left
him, sitting up in bed with a thunderous expression on his face.
When he caught sight of her hovering in the doorway, he exploded
like a pot left too long on the fire.

“What are you doing back?”

Nonplused, she stared at him, not sure what
to say.

“Well? What’s the matter? If I recall, you
had plenty to say the last time you were here. Couldn’t keep your
mouth shut, in fact.”

“I beg your pardon, but I believe you did
most of the talking. Or yelling. In fact, outside of the docks, I
don’t believe I’ve ever heard such unprovoked nonsense before.”

“And since when did you frequent the docks,
Miss Wellfleet?”

“Why never,” she replied sweetly as she
clasped her hands around her waist and leaned against the
doorframe. “I’m simply reporting what I’ve heard.”

“Minx!” He chuckled and waved her forward.
“Don’t hang about the door. What brings you back?”

“I missed you.”

“Ha! Now there’s a load of rubbish
appropriate for those docks of yours.” His glance drifted past her
to the door. The creases around his mouth deepened. “I suppose
you’ve been to see Miss Baxter? How is the old sapskull?”

“She’s resting.”

He stared at her as if suspecting a lie, but
he let it pass without comment. His eyes flickered toward the hall.
Something suspiciously like happiness brightened them. “Is my
nephew with you?”

She shook her head. “No. But he—well—I hope
he’ll be here soon.”

“You came alone?” The bruised, anxious look
returned to his eyes, reminding her of her own desperate thoughts
during the journey.

“Yes.”

“Has something else happened?”

Almost blurting out her worries, she pressed
her lips shut with her fingertips. After swallowing, she said,
“It’s Rose—she’s missing.”

“Rose? Who is Rose?”

“My…my daughter.” Her chin rose. “I adopted
her.”

“Adopted! You adopted a child? Have you gone
entirely mad? What business does a spinster have with a child?”

“What business do you men have to push and
pry and order us around as if we’ve no mind of our own? I’m not a
chattel to be bought and sold to the highest bidder!”

“What?
What
!” The bed shook as Sir
Edward struggled to get up. “What’s set your back up? Is it that
damn nephew of mine?”

“No! I’m sorry.”

“A little late for that! Something’s amiss.”
The effort of swinging his crippled limb out from under the light
sheet left him sweating. He grunted in pain, and his face grew gray
with the effort.

Alarmed, she ran over to the bed and pushed
at his shoulder to force him back into bed. It was like trying to
shove a bull back into its stall. “What are you doing?”

“Damn it, I’m not helpless!” He resisted all
efforts to help him. “Take your hands off me, woman!”

“Please get back into bed! What are you
trying to do?”

“There’s obviously something going on here. I
won’t be treated like an imbecile!”

“Then don’t act like one!”

“If anyone’s an idiot, it’s that doctor. He
said I was to get out of bed and get some exercise. Now seems like
as good a time as any.” He eyed her grimly. “I’m getting up.”

She stood in his way. “The earl is managing,
and you need to rest.”

“Managing what? For the last time, tell me
what is going on!”

She pulled a straight-backed chair closer and
sat down. When he held out his hand she took it, grateful for his
warm clasp. “Two roses and a note were delivered to Rosewell—” Her
voice failed her. His grip tightened and when his eyes met hers,
she was surprised by the compassion in their depths. “And I had
taken in a little girl—an orphan—and she’s missing.” Hot tears
burned her face. “And I’ve—I’ve lost Rosewell.”