Cherrybrook Rose (17 page)

She bit down on her thumb, something she had never done even as a child. And for the first time in her life, she missed the mother she had never known. Florrie had been her mother, a devoted servant, but perhaps it hadn't been her place to speak of such . . . delicate matters. And perhaps Florrie herself didn't know. There had been no Mr Bennett. Like so many in her position, she had assumed the title of ‘Mrs' because cooks and housekeepers were expected to be married women or widows. It gave the household respectability. What a ridiculous convention . . .

And what a ridiculous farce life was, if everything was supposed to be so upright, and yet
that
was what went on at night between married couples. And all that jolly celebration of a wedding ceremony, just so as
that
could take place! She had thought marriage consisted of romantic walks, friendship . . . What a fool she had been.

Her heart closed in a bitter fist. All those dreams she'd had, and now she was imprisoned just as surely as the convicts just a few miles across the moor. Except that in five, ten years' time, they could look forward to being released, whereas she was trapped for life. Till death us do part. With my body I thee worship. Worship! It was hardly how she would put it.

The acrimonious, livid thoughts tumbled in her head, firing her own anger, her own wretchedness until the morning light began to creep into the luxurious bedroom, and outside the moorland birds were twittering their chorus to the new day. Finally, when her soul was saturated with misery, it could take no more, and her exhausted mind took refuge in sleep . . .

Charles's warm, moist kisses on the creamy skin at her throat brought her from her fitful slumber. Her eyes sprang open, and there was his face, so full of love, hanging over her. He smiled, stroking a hank of her long, lustrous tresses.

‘Oh, my lovely girl,' he muttered. ‘I hope you slept well.'

He didn't wait for an answer, but was running his hand up and down her arm, and then the inside of her thigh, his fingers seeking out the place his body had possessed the previous night. Rose's shattered soul had no time to blink away the sleep before the hideous memory slashed at her in all its foul clarity. She could not go through that again, and a spark of flashing rage whipped her tongue to a cutting sharpness.

‘No, Charles! Get off me!' And she pushed hard against his shoulders.

But he only grinned back. ‘Oh, come, my lovely girl! This is what we got married for!'

His words were like shards of glass in her heart, bleeding the fight from her soul. It was useless. But she couldn't . . . ‘Oh,
please
, Charles,' she begged him, tears of desperation, of hopelessness, glittering in her terrified eyes. ‘It
hurts
!' she moaned, just praying . . .

‘Only at first,' he said gently. ‘You'll get used to it. Now just try and relax, and it won't hurt so much.'

A groan of resentment drowned somewhere inside her. She was beaten. And it wasn't Charles's fault. She turned her head away, lying as still as a corpse as he did what he had to do to her frail, aching body. When he entered her, the agony ripped through her again, and she rammed her fist into her mouth to stifle her screams, biting down through her knuckles. No one must hear. Her
father
must not know. He must not know that this diabolical thing that was being done to her was pure torture. She had married Charles because she thought she loved him. Now she knew that she didn't. But it was too late. Charles had always been kind and generous, but now she realized she had bought security for herself and her father with her body, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Charles had finished, and he rolled on to his back with a satiated sigh before propping himself on one elbow and gazing down at her, his eyes crinkled softly at the corners. ‘You are so beautiful,' he whispered, his voice quavering with passion. ‘You'll come to enjoy it soon, I promise. Oh, I must be the luckiest man alive!' He jumped up in the bed, spreading his arms wide above his head in a gesture of sheer jubilation that under other circumstances would have made her laugh. ‘Now, what would my beautiful wife like for breakfast? No, don't tell me! I'll make it a surprise! I'll go down and speak to Cook, and you shall have breakfast in bed. And think what you'd like to do on the first day of our married life. It's such a lovely day, how about a walk over the moor?'

He had slipped into his dressing gown and slippers, and with a grand flourish, plucked one of the red roses from the vase on the dressing table, placing it reverently on her chest before taking her limp hand and kissing it, first her wrist and then working his way up her arm. One final kiss on the tip of her nose, and he was gone, singing tunelessly on the top of his voice as he waltzed along the landing and down the stairs.

Rose realized she had been holding her breath, and now she released it in a broken sigh. Charles was as ecstatic in his love as she was devastated by it. Oh, God in heaven, what had she done? She rolled dejectedly out of bed and on to her feet, for she could not stay there, between the sheets where it had happened, a moment longer. But as she dragged herself across the floor, the pain cut into her and she could hardly walk. She staggered into the bathroom, blindly, only her instincts functioning. She used the chamber pot, hoping it would bring some relief, but it only stung her bruised flesh more deeply, and when she looked down, there was blood on her thighs.

A whimper of despair uttered from her lips. This was to be her life from now on, with no escape, and she must keep the agony of it to herself. Her heart was empty, beyond tears, and all she wanted just now was to free herself from the physical suffering that bore into the very core of her. There was water in one of the huge jugs on the washstand. Cold water that had stood there all night. She tore off her nightdress and setting the matching china bowl on the floor, crouched down over it and poured the cooling water over that intimate part of her, soothing the soreness and washing away the filth and degradation. The morning air brushed against her naked skin and made her want to weep. Could she ever
feel
as she should, ever truly love a man so deeply that she could give herself willingly to him? Even take pleasure from it herself?

Now she would never know.

‘W
ould you like another cup, Rose?' Florrie asked, dropping the ‘Miss' Charles had instructed her to use, seeing as the master was in his study attending to the pile of business correspondence that had arrived that morning.

Rose looked up from the book she was reading. The three of them – Henry in his invalid chair, Rose and Florrie – were taking morning coffee on the terrace of Fencott Place, for the fine summer weather, amazingly, was holding. It was ten days since the grand celebration of Miss Rose Maddiford's marriage to Mr Charles Chadwick, ten days in which she had realized she had made the greatest mistake of her life – except when she studied her father, who was being so well fed and cared for, and appeared healthier now than at any time since the accident. It was worth the terrible ordeal she was subjected to every night and most mornings, at least it seemed so at moments like this when peace and harmony comforted her bruised heart. And yesterday, her ‘monthly' had started, and she had welcomed the few hours of painful cramps because it seemed it would provide her with several days' respite from Charles's onslaughts. It still hurt her dreadfully, although possibly a little less than at first, but she felt so degraded, so filthy and ashamed afterwards, and perhaps she always would. But those minutes of vile obscenity – for thank goodness that was as long as it lasted – were locked away in a nightmare of bitter shadows during the bright sunny days in between, when Charles was everything a loving, attentive husband should be. More so, for he was clearly reluctant to leave her side for more than a minute.

Indeed, he came hurriedly out on to the terrace now before Rose even had time to reply to Florrie's question. His face was set in a deep scowl that, Rose considered, robbed him of his handsome looks, and he came to stand behind her, laying his hands on her shoulders with an irritated sigh.

‘I'm afraid I must go into Princetown to send a telegram,' he announced. ‘The telegraph office will be open, I take it?'

‘Oh, yes.' Rose deliberately patted one of his hands in a show of affection she did not feel, for at that moment, Henry had glanced across at them. But her sharp mind was busy inventing an excuse not to accompany Charles if he invited her to do so. ‘For such a small and isolated place, we're lucky to have one, but I suppose 'tis because of the prison.'

‘Having dangerous convicts on one's doorstep can have its advantages, then,' Charles muttered grimly.

‘They're not all dangerous,' Rose corrected, leaping at the opportunity to disagree with him. ‘Some are forgers . . . or thieves. Not necessarily violent.'

‘Well, my dear, I don't have time to argue about that now.' Charles cut her short with uncharacteristic crispness. ‘I must get to Princetown as soon as possible, and I'll have to wait for a reply, so I'll be some time. You could come with me if you don't mind the waiting. We could have lunch at the Duchy Hotel.'

Rose felt her heart thump in her chest as she whipped up the courage to defy her husband for the first time. ‘Well, if you don't mind, darling,' she said, lifting her vivid smile to him, ‘I think I'll go out on poor Gospel. We haven't been out for a ride since before our marriage, and the poor animal will be champing at the bit. Literally,' she added with a forced grin.

‘All right, sweetheart, but take care on that monster.' Charles dropped a swift kiss on the top of her head, and then, pulling on his coat which he had left on the back of one of the garden chairs, strode back into the house and, they assumed, away down the front driveway.

Relief swamped Rose's limbs and for a few seconds, she slumped in her chair before stretching with delight. She was free. Free! For a few hours, she could be her old self again, carefree, reckless Rose Maddiford, and her spirit soared.

She leapt to her feet. ‘I'd better go and change, then!' she declared brightly, and as she sprang forward, Henry caught her hand.

‘You are happy, then, my child?' he asked mildly.

Rose looked down on him, and her chest squeezed painfully. ‘Oh, yes!' she cried, the lie burning her lips as she forced them into a broad smile. It wasn't as difficult as she had imagined, for she was becoming used to the deception. Henry must never
know
. And besides, the thought of racing hell-for-leather across the moors, alone, on Gospel's back, filled her with joy.

The gelding kicked up his heels when he saw the saddle, and as Rose slipped on his bridle and fastened the chin strap he shook his head vigorously in eager anticipation. The warm weather meant he had remained out in the field overnight for the past few weeks, as having something of the thoroughbred in him, this was not sensible for much of the year. But even so, he was as desperate as his mistress for a long, mad, un-restrained gallop.

They paid a visit to the gunpowder mills first, avoiding the old house where the new manager was now installed, since it held too many memories of a life when Rose had been truly happy. But she chatted with many of the workers, catching up on all the news and taking tea in Mrs Roach's cottage surrounded by her growing brood. And then she and Gospel took a vast circular route across to the East Dart and down the riverbank to the stone bridge and ancient clapper bridge at Postbridge. They continued along to the swirling waters at Dartmeet before charging westward back across the open moor towards home, Rose's wild hair streaming out behind her as she crouched down over Gospel's flowing mane. As his strong legs ate up the miles, the wind rushed through Rose's head, blasting away the anger and resentment from her soul.

Charles was waiting for her as she crossed the stable yard with the heavy saddle, humming to herself with relaxed pleasure. She stopped, her heart immediately gripped with defiance.

‘Where the hell have you been?' Charles demanded.

Rose lifted her chin, squaring her shoulders so that, unwittingly, her breasts jutted out pertly, causing the saliva to run in Charles's mouth. ‘Out for a ride,' she frowned at him in exasperation. ‘Just like I told you.'

‘But you've been hours! It's half-past three, for God's sake!'

‘So?' she shrugged as she tried to push past him. Yes, she thought. Five hours of sheer bliss. Away from you.

But he caught her by the arm so that she was swung round to face him. ‘So?' he repeated angrily. ‘I've been worried sick! Anything could have happened to you!'

‘I've told you afore, I'm perfectly safe when I'm out on Gospel. Now, if you don't mind, this saddle's heavy.'

‘Oh, of course,' Charles murmured, and shaking his head as if coming to his senses, he relieved her of the said item and followed her into the tack room.

‘And now I'm really thirsty,' she told him tersely as she hung Gospel's bridle on its hook.

‘Well, it's lucky Cook has just brought out some lemonade, then, isn't it?' he answered with equal acidity.

Rose flicked her head and, neatly sidestepping him, strode out of the yard and across to the terrace. But for the changed position of the sun, the scene was almost as she had left it earlier that morning. Henry glanced up with an unconcerned smile as he sipped at a glass of freshly made lemonade.

‘Did you have a good ride, Rose, my dear?'

‘Yes, wonderful, thank you, Father,' she answered, flinging herself into a chair.

‘You see, Charles, I told you there was nothing to worry about. You'll just have to get used to Rose dashing about on Gospel.'

‘Well, I just don't think I could ever get used to having my precious wife gallivanting all over the moor on her own, and putting herself in all sorts of danger. And now I won't have to,' Charles beamed, his attitude changing to one of complacency. ‘I have a surprise for you, Rose, my darling. Whilst I was waiting for the reply to my telegram, I had my lunch at the Duchy. And remember the chestnut mare I hired out from them last autumn? Well, they still have her, and she was such a suitable mount for me that I bought her. They were reluctant to part with her so I had to pay twice what she's really worth, but no matter. So now I can always accompany you on your excursions, and she'll be good company for Gospel. They got on well together, as I remember. So, what do you think of that, my love?' he grinned triumphantly.