Cherrybrook Rose (11 page)

She stood outside on the frozen ground, unaware of the gnawing cold that pinched at her toes and turned her flushed cheeks to ice. For some seconds, the shock numbed her brain, rendering her incapable of thought. She breathed in deeply through flared nostrils, and the pain of the glacial air in her lungs seemed to bring her to her senses. Flour and potatoes were all she could think of. She had enough in her purse for those. At least they wouldn't starve. But even they were useless without coal for the range to cook them on! She closed her eyes, forcing herself to think back. Henry hadn't given her a cheque for the coal merchants, had he? So perhaps they hadn't sent a bill yet. But it had been a long time, three months since the explosion. She took all the post up to her father unopened. He dealt with it, gave her back any papers to put away in his bureau in the dining room, which she did without question, and without looking at them, for they were her father's. But what if . . .?

She strode determinedly into Mr Richards's establishment. They must have coal! There was only enough to last a week in these arctic temperatures, two if they were blessed with a sudden thaw and were careful in their consumption. But they already were, the kitchen range and the grate in Henry's bedroom being the only fires that were lit, both she and Florrie shivering in their beds at night. It was warmer in Joe's room over the stables, she often thought ruefully.

The groceries first, for the shop served a dual purpose. With the weighty items safely stowed in her basket, she stepped up to the wooden kiosk that served as the coal-merchants' office, and tapped nervously on the window. Mr Richards glanced up at her over the horn-rimmed spectacles that were balanced on the end of his bulbous nose.

‘Yes?' he asked gruffly, for he was not known for his friendliness.

‘Please could you deliver us some coal, Mr Richards?' Rose said politely.

She watched through the small square of glass as he thumbed through a ledger and finally opened it at a particular page that seemed to warrant his scrutiny. He sniffed, wriggling his nose, before turning his small eyes on her. ‘Your last bill's not been paid yet,' he growled with annoyance.

Rose's heart sank to her boots. ‘Are you sure you've sent one?' she replied with feigned innocence. ‘I've not seen one.'

He scowled and flicked through another smaller book. ‘Definitely. But you can have this carbon copy.' And tearing out the page, he slid it through the narrow gap beneath the little window.

Rose took it between shaking fingers and pushed it, folded, into her purse, trying hard not to look at the faint blue figures at the bottom of the thin paper. ‘I'm so sorry, Mr Richards. It must have been overlooked. You may imagine everything's been upside down since my father's accident. I'll see to it forthwith,' she smiled in what she hoped was an assured manner. ‘Now, when can you deliver?'

‘Hmm,' the man grunted as he pinched his moustache between his forefinger and thumb. ‘You can have a couple of sacks the day after tomorrow. But 'tis all until that bill's paid.'

‘Of course. I understand. Thank you.'

Her lips moved of their own accord, as did her feet which somehow took her outside and along the slippery ground back to where Polly was waiting patiently. Slowly, she pulled the blanket from the mare's back, and climbing up into the driving seat turned the cart for home. And once they were out on the Two Bridges road, she braced herself to take the folded sheet of flimsy paper from her purse . . .

‘Your father's asleep now, Rose dear,' Florrie announced staunchly as she puffed into the kitchen late that evening and flopped into her chair by the side of the range. ‘I'll just make myself a cup of tea, and then I'll be off to bed myself. Will you have one, my dear?'

Rose glanced up from folding the last of Henry's nightshirts that she had been ironing on the thick pad on the kitchen table. She knew she must have appeared inattentive ever since returning from Princetown, though she had endeavoured to hide her preoccupation. Florrie had been surprised at the lack of meat and other provisions in the shopping basket, but Rose had blamed the bitter weather for the delay in the delivery of supplies to the shops, and the older woman had accepted the lie unquestioningly. Rose had felt guilty at the deceit, but not for long. She had a far more serious matter to ponder at the moment.

‘Oh, yes, please, Florrie,' she answered gratefully. ‘I'm that weary.'

‘And you'm not yersel today, neither,' the housekeeper commented shrewdly. ‘Be summat amiss?'

Rose was aware of the flood of colour into her cheeks, but she disguised it with a heartfelt sigh. ‘Oh, 'tis just Dr Power. He confirmed today what you and I have thought for some time. That Father's never going to get any better.'

Florrie pushed a mug of tea towards her, and then sat down heavily herself. ‘Ah, well,' she muttered thoughtfully. ‘I suppose us should be thankful for small mercies. We still has your father, which be more than can be said for poor Elisa Russell of her husband.'

Rose nodded solemnly. Yes, Florrie was right. But that wasn't all that was on her mind just now. They drank their tea in silence, easy in each other's company even though not another word was exchanged. Florrie finally bade her goodnight and a distracted smile flickered over Rose's face. She listened for the weighty footfall on the stairs and then in the room above, and eventually all fell quiet.

She leaned forward to open the firebox door, then sat back, contemplating the dying embers that glowed an ever fainter orange among the grey ashes. The day had been a hard one, first the conversation with the doctor, and then her visit to Princetown. And it wasn't over yet. Surely there had been some sort of mistake? The cheques could both be the result of an error at the bank, but the unpaid bill at the coal merchants seemed too much of a coincidence. It was dated over a week before Henry's accident, so he must have received it before that horrific, fateful day, though it was possible that in his present condition it had totally slipped his mind. But it included not only the enormous delivery at the beginning of the winter, but also lesser amounts they had purchased in the spring and summer; all in all, a considerable sum. Did it really remain unpaid? If so, Mr Richards's attitude was hardly surprising, and he was being quite charitable in letting them have any more at all.

She rose to her feet, silent and floating as if in a dream, and taking up the oil lamp, quietly let herself into the dining room and opened her father's bureau, her fingers trembling as she reached for the growing stack of correspondence she had placed there at Henry's request. She glanced surreptitiously at the door as if she expected someone to enter and catch her red-handed like a thief in the night. But this was her responsibility now, and she had to know the truth.

Slowly, one by one, she unfolded the papers. Any private correspondence she put to one side. The rest . . . Each one made her heart thud harder until her whole body shook and she had to sit down abruptly as the strength emptied out of her in a flood of horror. Bills unpaid, final demands. Not just the two returned cheques for Miss Williams and the butcher's, both of which covered several months of purchases, but the wine merchant's in Tavistock, the shoemakers where she and Henry had each had two pairs of boots made the previous summer, a coat from Henry's tailor, animal feed – for Gospel, of course – and the fine new saddle and the necklace Henry had bought for her twenty-first birthday last June.

She really couldn't believe it. She knew they lived well, but she had always assumed they could afford to! Henry would always smile benevolently at her delight, but the appreciative kisses she bestowed on him were because she
loved
him, not because of what he gave her! How
could
he! How could he possibly get his own finances in such a state when he was such an excellent businessman, as Mr Frean had said on so many occasions? Her dear,
dear
father . . .

Tears of panic, frustration and utter despair pricked at her eyes as she shook her head in disbelief. In her fingers quivered an irate letter from the bank together with a copy of Henry's vastly overdrawn account. She hardly dared open the last document, for she was feeling physically sick and really didn't think she could take another shock. But it wasn't another demand, just a letter from Charles Chadwick.

The relief was so overwhelming that she began to read it without considering that she should never go through anyone's private mail. The neat, precise letters marched across the page like regimented soldiers, their regular form fascinating her eyes before their meaning began to filter into her brain. It had been written shortly before Christmas, commiserating Henry on his terrible accident which he had learnt of from Mr Frean, and saying that he fully understood how Rose's decision would have been put on hold for the time being. Though his heart yearned to be with her again, he would stay away until such time as Henry summoned him. That he felt he loved her more with each day they were apart, and he longed for her to do him the honour of accepting his proposal and allowing him to provide generously for her for the rest of her days.

Ha! The bitter laugh crowed in her aching gullet until her heaving lungs dissolved into racking sobs of misery. So upright, so correct! He'd hardly want her
now
if he knew the truth; that she was the daughter of a debtor; of a man whose crime not so many years ago could have seen him in prison. Oh, no! Not that she returned Mr Chadwick's affection in any way, and she had only entertained the idea of any relationship between them for her father's sake. But
now . . .
!

No. It was time to face facts. To face the stark reality of the cold and hostile world that lay outside the four walls of the solid house. And indeed within it, for three months ago, Henry had been a strong, vigorous man who had made her believe that life was bountiful, and the only problem she had to confront was whether or not to marry a man who was both considerate and rich, but whom she did not love.

Now everything was changed, her comfortable existence swept away from beneath her feet. And she had no idea which way to turn.

‘Why didn't you tell me, Father?'

Her voice was soft, compassionate, afraid, hardly more than a whisper fluttering in her throat. She was sitting by Henry's bedside, holding his hand and stroking the skin which had always been brown from exposure to the elements, but was now pale after three months' confinement indoors. Henry lifted his misted eyes to his beloved daughter, his heart stung by the agony on her face.

‘I were going to,' he said quietly, a frown of shame dragging on the ugly scarring on his forehead. ‘But then . . .
this
happened,' and he waved his other hand towards his legs, ‘and I really couldn't bear to. I knew 'twould put so much strain on you. That so much would fall on your shoulders. That you'd have so much to do, things . . . that no daughter should have to do for her father. How could I possibly make it so much worse by telling you the truth? To break it to you that we'd have to sell Gospel, and that were just to start? You love that horse, and because of me, you'd have to sell him.'

Rose had drawn back with a jerk. Sell Gospel! The thought had never crossed her mind! Of all the solutions that had tumbled in her brain, keeping her awake the entire night, selling Gospel was never amongst them. He was part of the family, like Florrie and Joe. And who would buy him anyway? He was a fine animal and worth a great deal if he'd had a temperament to match, but his distrust of the human race and consequent bad temper was immediately apparent to any stranger. It would either be back to the martingale for him, the harsh bit and the whip, or the knacker's yard. The shock pulsed down her body and then settled in the pit of her stomach with all the other horrors that were seething there, waiting to be accepted into her rebellious mind. She inwardly sighed. It was just another nail in the coffin.

‘But . . .
why
, Father?' she moaned with a forlorn shake of her head. ‘Why were you always giving me so many things if we couldn't afford them? I didn't
need
them. I'd have loved you just as much without.'

Henry's faded blue eyes glistened as a sad smile crinkled them at the corners. ‘Yes, I know that, child. But I wanted you to have everything. Everything that I hadn't been able to give your mother. We were young, just starting out in life with little money to spare. Just enough to keep a roof over our heads and to employ Florrie. She were only meant to be temporary, to help your mother for a while when you were born. When Alice died,' his voice quavered, ‘I thought I'd lost everything. That my life was over. And then I began to realize that I still had her. In you. You're so like her, you know. To look at, and in character. So I vowed that I would dedicate my life to making you happy. To making up for the fact that you never had a mother. And in doing so, I believed I were doing it for Alice, too.' He paused, and the devoted smile slid from his wan face. ‘But it all went wrong. I never meant it to end like this. You've been a wonderful daughter to me, Rosie. No man could ever wish for more. And now I've got to break your heart. And I'm so,
so
sorry.'

Rose had listened, her head bowed, and now she raised her eyes to him, deep crystal pools of anguish. Her wretched soul was torn by her love for this dear man who had been her life, and who had been cruelly reduced to a helpless cripple. She threw her arms around him, her tears dripping on to his greying hair as she rocked him back and forth.

‘'Twill be all right, Father, I promise you!' she spluttered between her sobs. ‘I don't know
how
yet. But . . . I'll work something out. Just see if I don't!' And even as she spoke, her voice began to tremble, not with dejection, but with outright determination.

‘D
id you find Father a little better today, Mr Frean?' Rose smiled optimistically as the elderly gentleman entered the kitchen a few weeks later. She was certainly feeling more cheerful herself, as in that time she had set her plan of campaign in motion, and so far at least it seemed to be working. She had returned the saddle which, lavishly polished over the months she had used it, showed no sign of wear, and though the saddler could not cancel the debt entirely, he had reduced it by more than half. Likewise the jeweller, though she had been angered to see the necklace displayed in the window shortly afterwards at the full price, and no end of hard argument had persuaded him to come down on what he considered she still owed him for the ‘loan' of the jewellery. The wine merchant was the only person to take back what remained of Henry's store of bottles at its full value, though she would still owe him a reasonable sum. There was nothing else that could be returned, but she had visited the bank manager, explaining all about Henry's accident and breaking down in wrenching sobs that had melted the poor fellow's heart. The sight of the beautiful,
helpless
young woman weeping wretchedly was really too much for him, since he was not a dispassionate man. For Rose's part, it hadn't been difficult, for though she had planned on play-acting, when it came to it, the appalling discovery of the dire straits of her father's financial affairs had once more grasped her by the throat, and the tears had come naturally. She had explained all the measures she had put in place, the manager suggesting she might also pay a visit to the pawnbroker's, and in the end he had agreed to allow her six months, interest free, to pay off her father's debts.