Cherrybrook Rose (3 page)

Molly's face lit up at the mention of Rose's young dog, far more of a pet in her opinion than the fearsome Gospel, of whom, like most other people, she was petrified. ‘But she's only a puppy, Rose! You cas'n expect her—'

‘She's nearly a year old. She should be able to contain herself by now. I want to be able to take her out riding with me.'

‘What! And frighten everyone even more than you does already with that monster you calls an 'orse!'

Rose blinked her eyes wide, and then the pair of them fell about laughing as they wandered on down the road. As their merriment subsided, they paused again to gaze on the sheer immensity of the landscape, the prison lands that had been cleared and drained under cultivation to some hardy crop, while sheep or cattle grazed in other fields. And yet what they could see was merely a small patch of the three hundred and sixty or more square miles of spectacular scenery, exposed, rugged hills with impressive outcrops of granite tors, or pretty valleys and sheltered pockets of fertile farmland that made up Dartmoor. A hostile wilderness, and yet a luring sense of peace and infinity . . .

‘Get along there, you, six four nine!'

Molly flicked her head with surprised pleasure. ‘'Tis Father's voice. He must've been on duty at the quarry today. That'll have pleased 'en no end.'

They both turned instinctively to peer down over the low but solid stone wall on their right. Behind them, on the opposite side of the road, was the entrance to the heavily guarded prison quarry, but to avoid the inmates marching down a public road to and from the place of their labour, a tunnel passed beneath the highway, emerging on the other side on to prison farmland and a well-trodden track that entered the gaol by a side gateway in the massive wall. The day's back-breaking toil was over, and sure enough, a line of weary convicts, some – the least trustworthy – chained together with heavy leg irons, were dragging themselves back towards the comfortless buildings that would swallow up their very existence until it began all over again the following day. The track was some twenty feet immediately below the two girls, who watched from their vantage point, entirely unseen.

The line of men in their ugly uniforms and forage caps on their closely cropped heads was lengthening as they were marched out of the tunnel accompanied by several armed guards and even more prison warders, amongst them Molly's father. Jacob Cartwright had worked since a boy in the Dartmoor quarries, his skill and experience gaining him a respected position as the years went by. That was how Rose and Molly had originally met, when Jacob had come to Cherrybrook to order gunpowder for quarry blasting, and for some reason had brought Molly with him. But he wasn't getting any younger, and some time ago had decided, like other of his colleagues, that being a prison warder would be more suitable employment for a man of more mature years. The Governor had to be careful who he employed, and Jacob fitted the bill admirably: a strong, sturdy local, experienced in directing strong-willed men, and of course his expertise in quarrying was invaluable. He was a fair and just warder, popular with the inmates, for though he would deal toughly with those who deserved it, he was one of the few who found room in his own strictly regulated role to reward good behaviour with clemency and understanding.

He hurried along now, his sharp eye ever watchful, unaware of his eldest daughter and her friend looking immediately down upon him. The girls would not utter a sound, of course, for they knew his concentration must not be distracted for one second. It filled them both with unimaginable horror, therefore, when one of the convicts behind him swiftly picked up a heavy stone that happened by some oversight to be lying by the side of the track, and went to smash it over his head.

The scream lodged in Molly's throat, her suddenly weak and trembling knees buckling under her, whilst at her side, Rose's jaw hung open in appalled disbelief. But in that terrible moment, another prisoner bounded forward and in a brief struggle plied the weapon from his fellow inmate's grasp. Before Jacob Cartwright could turn round to investigate the scuffle behind him, two Civil Guards emerged from the tunnel and, spying the second convict with the rock still in his raised hands, rushed at him with a lustful cry. One of them slammed the butt of his Snider carbine into the man's stomach. He fell to the ground, dropping the stone, totally defenceless against the two guards, who became intent upon kicking him into submission with their steel-capped boots.

Molly remained motionless, her muscles incapable of doing anything more than keeping her upright, but beside her, the indignation swirled in Rose's breast like a rising tide, drowning her senses in unleashed fury. In a trice, she flung aside her riding skirt, vaulted the stone wall and careering down the steep bank, began to pummel the back of one of the guards.

‘No, you senseless fools!' she shrieked, spittle spraying from her incensed lips. ‘'Twasn't
him
! He
stopped
the other one!'

Her fists continued to pound ineffectually at their target, and it wasn't until Jacob's arms encircled her, pinning her own to her sides, that she was forced to stop, though she wriggled like a mad woman, her hat flying from her head and her dark curls whipping across her face like some wild witch.

‘Hush now, Miss Rose!' the strong, steady voice commanded. ‘And you two,
stop
before you kill 'en, will you!'

His authoritative tone ran like ice through the guards' brains as they ceased their retribution with reluctance. Every man held his breath, his heartbeat quickened, as the tension crackled along the halted line, those that were near enough confounded by the savage but beautiful apparition that even now was desperately attempting to break free from the burly warder's hold, her chest heaving deliciously up and down.

‘Is this true?' Jacob asked in his usual calm manner.

‘Yes. Of course 'tis!' Rose told him. ‘
He
was the one who was about to hit you over the head with the stone!' she accused, pointing at the guilty villain, who merely grinned back. ‘
That
poor fellow stopped him, and those idiots—'

‘All right, all right!' Jacob tried to interrupt.

‘We saw it all from up there! Ask any one of these men—'

‘Rose, do calm down!' Jacob hissed warningly in her ear. ‘Never ask a prisoner to cop another! Now!' He raised his voice again as he turned back to the guards, slowly releasing his grip on her as he did so. ‘I believe what this young woman says. Six four nine's always been a troublemaker. I'd just that second had to rebuke 'en. The
other
fellow's new. Model prisoner, so far. So, all right, everyone! Show's over! Move along now!'

A general moan rumbled along the line of convicts as they began to trudge back towards their meagre evening meal, an hour of oakum-picking and an hour of reading or writing in their cells, or if they weren't literate under the prison teacher's tuition, before lights out. It had been a rare entertainment, and that untamed, spirited wench . . .

‘Yes, get up, you bastard.'

Jacob had already moved on and didn't see the final blow that one of the guards inflicted with his boot upon the prostrate form of the prisoner. But Rose did, and the soldier's shin felt the crack of her own foot as she lashed out at him, her blazing eyes deepening to an outraged indigo. He backed away. He had the feeling he'd seen her somewhere before. She was dressed like a lady in a riding habit, and although she spoke with a local accent, it was refined, and her words were well chosen and articulate. You never knew . . . And he didn't want any trouble.

With a scathing glance in her direction, he bent down to thrust a hand under the criminal's armpit and drag him to his feet. The convict stifled a gasp of pain, one arm clutched across his middle, but he lifted his head and turned to look at his saviour.

The tortured expression on his face was like a spike in her compassionate heart. He was young. At least, fine creases were only just beginning to radiate from the outer corners of his clear hazel eyes, so she imagined he could be no more than thirty. It was difficult to tell exactly, for though his cap had been knocked from his head, his hair had been clipped so closely the scissors had grazed his scalp in places, but a cap of light down was just visible here and there. A trickle of blood was curling down his chin from his torn lip, but the pained shadow of a smile twitched at his mouth and his gaze held hers until the other guard cuffed him about the ear and forced him to stumble onwards.

Rose stood and watched as the rest of the work party was marched past, a strange knot frozen solid in her chest as she fought her way back to reality. A convict. Guilty of some heinous crime. Ah, well . . . He must deserve to be incarcerated in Dartmoor's infamous gaol. Put to some of the most gruelling toil known to man, treated like the scum of the earth. The quarry was probably the most feared and hated of prison work. Not a moment's rest was allowed from the strenuous, crushing labour. Serious accidents were frequent, no care given to the prisoners' safety – except if Warder Cartwright was on duty, for he could not find it in his Christian soul to allow even a convicted felon to be maimed if he could help it. Others were less mindful and as well as paying no heed to other dangers in the quarry would order convicts to pick out by hand any unexploded charges. It was not uncommon for a hapless villain to be blinded or have his hand blown away when the powder went off belatedly.

A whimper scraped from Rose's lungs. And she somehow prayed that the prisoner – whoever he was, but who had possibly saved Jacob's life – never suffered such a tragedy.

She buried the sickening thought somewhere deep in the darkest recesses of her passionate young mind, and retrieving her hat from amongst the grass at the side of the track, scrambled back up the slope to where Molly was waiting.

F
or once, Rose Maddiford held in check the colossal steed on whose back she rode. It was no mean feat, for the creature was strong and possessed a will of iron. But so did Rose. She kept the reins short in her gloved hands and low down on either side of the gleaming black neck, for she refused to use what she considered the cruel martingale the previous owner had admitted was the only way he could control the beast. She could feel the power now in Gospel's clenched haunches, and she only needed to let her concentration slip for a second before the horse started to pick up its front legs and dance sideways in an effort to escape from Rose's tight constraint. But Rose was not in the mood for their usual mad gallop as they left Princetown behind.

The incident by the quarry tunnel had thrown her senses into some strange confusion. Molly had been like a quivering jelly, wanting to return home at once. It had taken every ounce of Rose's ingenuity to persuade her to complete what was known as the ‘triangle', down to the small settlement at Rundlestone, along a stretch of the main highway that cut right across Dartmoor from east to west and finally back up to the prison village via Two Bridges Road, the very same Gospel's hooves were treading now in the opposite direction. Think how your mother will worry if you tell her your father nearly had his head split open by a convict, Rose had argued. Of course,
she
had been upset, too, for she was fond of Mr Cartwright, but there was something else that had gripped her heart with a violence that astounded her. The unmerited beating the prisoner had received at the hands – or more precisely, the
feet
– of the guards had sickened her, but even more than that, when the fellow had looked straight into her eyes, she had felt a curious and unwanted pull on her innermost feelings. He was a convicted criminal, guilty of some appalling act to warrant incarceration in the dreaded Dartmoor gaol, and yet the vision of his anguished face was haunting her.

Some bemused compulsion drove her to glance swiftly over her left shoulder towards the dark and menacing silhouette of the prison buildings outlined against the blinding light as the sun sank in the autumn sky. She wondered what the convict would be doing now, locked in his cramped, damp and lonely cell for the night. But then her attention was snapped back to the road as they crossed the bridge over the Blackabrook by the quaint farmhouse known as the Ockery. It was rumoured to have once been the billet of two French prisoner-of-war officers out on parole, as had been the custom. Gospel had decided to take exception to the tumbling waters and was sidestepping restlessly. But Rose was determined to keep to a walk, her mind locked in a brown study. What was his crime? she wondered. New. A model prisoner, Mr Cartwright had said. He would have at least five years to serve, then, for that was the minimum sentence for Dartmoor. Five years . . .

They gained the brow of the hill and all at once the panorama of the isolated hamlet of Two Bridges lay beneath them, the picturesque West Dart river valley bathed in the apricot evening sunlight. The breath caught in Rose's throat, the beauty of the dell with its old arched bridge once again enchanting her, though she had seen it a thousand times before. The water twinkled merrily as it rushed over the shallow, rock-strewn riverbed in its hurry to be across the moor and down to the sea, lengthening shadows playing mysteriously on the clear, deeper pools. Just one facet of the moor's deceptive landscape, a gentle oasis in the savage wilderness that surrounded it.

Gospel shook his head and snorted impatiently. He knew he was nearing home and the handful of tasty oats the stable lad would feed him. But why was his mistress holding him back? They joined the steep road that dropped into the valley, then sharply up the far side, and the horse took the incline as easily as swishing away a fly with its tail. And then, as they turned on to the road towards Postbridge and the north-east corner of the moor, the familiar surroundings finally soothed Rose's soul, and with a resolute clamping of her jaw, she gave the animal its head.