Cherrybrook Rose (24 page)

‘Charles!'

She made herself run across the room to him. He looked up, scowling thunderously, but before he could utter a word, she bent to press her mouth against his, embracing him with all the passion of a young girl.

‘Why didn't you come straight in here to greet me?' he said tersely as she straightened up. ‘Cook's had time to bring you in some tea.'

Rose glanced across at the tray on the table, and her weary heart sank. Were they to argue already? She didn't have time to answer before Charles barked at her again.

‘I hear you've been to Molly Cartwright's wedding,' he growled stiffly. ‘You deliberately kept it from me, didn't you, knowing I'd disapprove?'

Rose merely shrugged. ‘You weren't here to tell. What time did you get back, anyway? Would you like some tea? I'll fetch another cup.'

She turned towards the door, but he caught her by the wrist. She yelped, for the bruises were still fading from where he had held both her hands above her head in the bedroom when they had quarrelled last. It was a squeal more of surprise, though, than discomfort, and she flicked up her head, the fine line of her jaw lifted stubbornly.

‘If I wanted to go to my best friend's wedding to Joe who is virtually my brother, I didn't need your permission!' she hissed at him, her eyes flashing dangerously.

‘Oh, yes, you did!' Charles spat, his lips white with anger. ‘My wife, hobnobbing with that rabble! I won't have it!'

The bile scorched in Rose's gullet, and it was all she could do to stop herself flying at him with hungry fingernails. Instead, she glared at him steadily, her cheeks colourless with strained composure.

‘Nobody possesses me,' she grated levelly. ‘If I wish to associate, as you put it, with good, honest, God-fearing folk, you won't stop me.'

‘Oh, yes, I will. And may I remind you, madam, that in your wedding vows not so long ago, you promised to obey me.'

‘And in all things reasonable I do. Which is more than can be said of
you
when it comes to honouring
me
! You treat me like some whore in bed.'

‘Rose! I won't have such a filthy word coming from your mouth!'

He raised his hand, ready to strike her. A rush of fear tingled through her body, and she instinctively wrenched herself away from him. He lost his grip on her wrist, and with the force of her own movement, her feet went from under her. Her head narrowly missed the table as she went down, but her collarbone cracked against it instead. Pain stung across her shoulder, and her vision clouded with black spots as she lay crumpled on the floor, fighting the chasm of unconsciousness that threatened to swallow her. She sensed rather than saw Charles drop on his knees beside her, and she shuddered when he took her in his arms.

‘Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry!' his voice shook in her ear. ‘I wouldn't have hit you, really I wouldn't!'

She shuddered as she felt him lift her into the air and carry her over to the chaise-longue. Her head swam giddily and when her eyes wandered into focus, Charles's face was looming over her, a mortified picture of concern.

‘You don't think . . . It isn't broken, is it?' His lips trembled.

If she hadn't been in such agony, she would have made a verbal attack on him, but as it was, she shot him an acid glance as she tried to look down at the site of the injury. It was too close to her neck to see, so instead she gingerly fingered her collarbone, exposed by the low neckline of her dress. It had already swollen into a tender lump the size of an egg, and she tentatively moved her shoulder in a small circle. It hurt, but over all, the pain was subsiding.

‘No, I don't believe 'tis broken.' She found her voice at last, though it was small and shaking. ‘So you won't have to explain to the doctor how it happened,' she added with caustic contempt.

Charles's eyes opened wide in his flushed face. ‘It . . . it wasn't my fault,' he protested.

Rose glared at him, her eyes glowing like hot coals, and suddenly the resentment, the abhorrence, rose in her like a bore tide. She felt the contents of her stomach lifting to her throat, and with one hand clamped over her mouth while the other arm was held tightly across her chest to protect her injured shoulder, she fled the room and raced upstairs to the bathroom where she retched her heart into the pretty china washbowl.

Rose slowly blinked open her eyes. There had still been some light in the sky when, after a sumptuous Christmas dinner, she had come over so tired that she felt she must have a lie-down. Now, after a short sleep, the room was in total darkness, and she had to fumble with the matches to light the oil lamp on the bedside table. She lay for a few minutes, her gaze meandering over the lovely room. Charles certainly provided well for her, and she
was
grateful, but . . . She exhaled in a profound, weary sigh. If only Charles had continued to be the same man after their wedding as he had been before, she perhaps could have loved him. But he wanted her entirely to himself, to
possess
her in every way, and it was ruining their marriage.

She sat up, wincing slightly as her bruised collarbone was still a little sore, and shivering as Patsy, the housemaid, had not yet lit the fire. Rose had merely snuggled beneath her thick woollen shawl as she lay on the bed, and now she pulled it tightly about her shoulders. Goodness, she had eaten too much, but Cook had excelled herself and Rose's appetite, which had been so poor since Henry's death, had seemed stimulated. Her dress was strained, and the ties around her waist which held the small bustle at the back felt uncomfortably tight. It had been like that for a few weeks now, which was odd really considering how little she had been eating of late. But then her monthly must be due, as her breasts were swollen and tender. She hadn't had the ‘curse' as Molly called it since . . . since when?

She frowned. And a little flutter quivered through her body as she cast her mind back. Since her dearest father had passed away, her life had been one appalling black blur. She could scarcely remember the weeks she had spent in London, and the dark days since then had been lost in a mournful haze, all her strength expended in trying to claw her way out of her grief. She simply hadn't considered . . . But now the force of it hit her hard in the chest, stunning her. She had been ‘on' when they had arrived in London at the beginning of October. She only remembered because she had been worried about the long journey and the frequency with which she might be able to find a public convenience. But she couldn't remember anything since. With everything that had happened, her bereaved mind had hardly taken note of . . .

She was pregnant. She must be! Everything pointed to it, the nausea, the thickening of her waist, the tiredness. She sat motionless in the silent room, trying to absorb what had just dawned on her. A child. Charles would be thrilled. And her? Well . . . yes. She supposed so. A tiny kernel of hope was slowly unfurling inside her, hope that the child would heal the deepening rift between herself and Charles. Because she
wanted
their marriage to be a happy one,
wanted
so much the loving relationship that was eluding her. But what if it made things worse? What if Charles wanted to dominate her in all matters concerning the child? It would only make her misery all the deeper.

There was only one way to find out and she got to her feet and went downstairs. As she entered the drawing room, Charles glanced up from the book he was reading.

‘Ah, my dear, did you have a nap? You certainly look refreshed.'

At least he appeared in a good mood, and it gave her courage. ‘Charles . . .' She came forward and warily squatted down before him. ‘Charles, I have something to tell you. I believe . . . I think I may be with child.'

Charles's eyes almost popped out of their sockets and his mouth fell open before spreading into a huge grin. He cast the book aside and dropped on to his knees, wrapping her in his jubilant arms. Her eyes closed as her head lay against his shoulder, and her heart took a little leap in her chest, for perhaps, yes, this would bring them closer together.

‘Oh, my darling,
clever
girl!' he murmured ecstatically into her hair before pulling back and grinning almost idiotically at her. And then, bewilderedly, he asked, ‘How?'

To witness the collected, dominant Charles Chadwick, businessman of the highest standing, lost for words and quivering, was almost comical and Rose smiled coyly. ‘Surely I don't need to tell you that?'

Charles shook his head with a grunt of merriment. ‘No, I meant . . . are you sure? I mean . . . when?'

Rose lowered her eyes. ‘No. I'm not positive. But I think I must be. I haven't had . . . well, you know, for nearly three months. And I've been feeling queasy for weeks. I hadn't really thought about it, what with Father . . .' Her voice trailed off sadly for just a moment before she came back with a serene smile. ‘But just now, I was thinking that I seem to be putting on weight, and it dawned on me that . . . it could be—'

‘Oh, I'm sure you're right! Oh, my lovely one! Come now, you must take care of yourself.' He helped her to her feet and sat her down in one of the armchairs like a piece of precious porcelain, fussing over her like a mother hen. Rose felt swamped with relief, for surely he would treat her with kid gloves now that he had what he wanted from her? He had certainly been the perfect, loving husband for the last ten days, ever since the horrible incident on the evening of Joe and Molly's wedding, trying to make up for what he had done to her, she grimaced bitterly, since she considered it was entirely his fault. ‘And you must take care of our son.'

He jerked his head towards her belly with a caressing smile, and Rose snatched in her breath. She was giving him a child, but was she giving him a son? She caught her lip, and forced a small nervous laugh. ‘There's no need to cosset me. I'm not ill, just pregnant. 'Twas not so long ago that women up north worked down the mines till they gave birth, and then carried on working the next day.'

‘Women built like oxen, and they or the child were probably dead within the week,' Charles protested, taking her hand and stroking it adoringly. ‘You're more like a fairy, and I won't have anything happen to you or our son. If it wasn't Christmas Day, I'd fetch the physician at once.'

‘Oh, I don't think as there's any hurry. Dr Power won't—'

‘Dr Power!' Charles's eyes snapped wide. ‘You don't think I'm going to let the
prison
doctor see to my wife during her pregnancy, do you?'

Rose's spine stiffened like a mine rod, the glorious hope of the last half-hour crumbling into dust. ‘But he's an excellent physician—'

‘And looks after the trash of society, the worst criminals in the country, for God's sake! He touches them and their filth, and then you expect me to let him put his contaminated hands on
my
wife!'

‘Oh, I see!' she grated sourly. ‘He's not good enough to oversee the birth of
your
child, but he was good enough for my father! Is that how you saw my father, then, as some being inferior to your high and mighty self? And am I merely the mare you wanted to service in order to get the son you wanted?'

Charles glared at her, his mouth a thin, tight line and his eyes bulging in his livid face. ‘You know that's not what I meant. But you will
not
have the prison doctor attend you. I shall go into Tavistock and make enquiries as to the best and most senior physician in the town.'

‘Well, I'd leave it a few weeks if I were you, till the bruising on my shoulder's gone! He might just ask how I came by it.'

She sprang across the room, tears pricking her eyes, unable to remain in his company a second longer. But leaping up with such violence caused the blood to drain from her head, and she made a grab to support herself on the table. As she did so, her arm caught the fine crystal vase on display there and sent it flying into the air. And, just like her splintered heart, it crashed on to the floor and shattered into a million pieces.

R
ose stared despondently out of the drawing-room window, not that she could see very much. It was mid-April, and though they had been enjoying some kind spring weather, today it felt as if they had been plunged back to the depths of winter. The day had started mild, but a fine steady drizzle had turned into a thick, grey, bone-chilling fog that sat, heavy and motionless, on the moor like a life-extinguishing blanket. Whether it was a true fog, or whether at fourteen hundred feet above sea level Princetown was merely enveloped in low cloud it was difficult to say, but the moisture hung in the saturated air with not a breath of wind to blow it away, and since midday, visibility had been reduced to no more than twenty yards. It was the sort of day when the unwary traveller could easily lose his way on the moor and become treacherously lost. The best way to survive was to take shelter and wait for the fog to lift, although it might possibly last for days.

Rose turned from the window with a restless sigh. She had heard an explosion earlier, rekindling her appalled memories of the day her father's life had been decimated. It was unlikely to be another such event, and was anyway far quieter. Besides, such sounds were not uncommon up on the moor, a guard firing a warning shot, or blasting either at the prison quarry, the new enterprise at Merrivale, or the massive quarries on Walkhampton Common, so Rose had taken little notice.

That had been some hours ago, and now she sat down in the armchair by the welcoming, cheerful fire, and laid her hand on her swollen abdomen. The baby kicked back, and Rose wondered for the umpteenth time if the child's presence would improve her life, or whether Charles would be as possessive over it as he was over
her
. Or what if the child proved to be as headstrong and domineering as Charles himself? Oh, she would want to love it, but hadn't she wanted to love Charles, and look what had happened there!