Cherrybrook Rose (8 page)

‘Bloody lunatic.' Her sharp hearing caught Charles's muttering as he approached, and somehow it brought a satisfied smirk to her face. ‘You really should take more care, Miss Maddiford!' he admonished, raising his voice as he drew level with her.

‘Oh, Gospel's quite used to it! He'll slow down himself if he's unsure. I expect the mare only goes on the roads usually. She's very sweet, mind.'

Charles opened his mouth as if he would add some sharp riposte, but then his eyes focused on something strange in the distance and his brow puckered with curiosity. ‘What on earth is that?' he asked instead.

‘'Tis what I was going to show you! 'Tis an ancient stone row. There's lots of them on the moor, but this is my favourite.'

‘How fascinating!' His eyes shone with genuine interest, and Rose tipped her head in approval as she urged Gospel forward at a walk, in consideration of the chestnut's heavy breathing. ‘And how unexpected! I had no idea there were such things on Dartmoor. I know of Stonehenge on the Salisbury Plain, but I thought it was unique.'

‘You live and learn, Mr Chadwick. Not that these stones are anything like the size of those at Stonehenge. I've never been there, of course, but I have read about them.'

‘You read quite a lot, then, Miss Maddiford?'

‘Oh, yes. Especially about other places.'

‘You'd like to travel, then?'

The radiant smile lit up her face again, pricking deeply somewhere about his heart. ‘Oh, no, Mr Chadwick. Dartmoor is quite sufficient for me.'

‘You wouldn't care to visit me in London? You and your father, of course,' he added hastily. ‘You would be most welcome as my guests, and I could show you all the sites. We could go riding on Rotten Row!' he suggested with an enigmatic laugh.

‘Rotten Row?' The puzzlement in Rose's expression was comical, and Charles's amusement deepened.

‘It's a fashionable bridleway in Hyde Park,' he explained. ‘You'd have to ride at a more moderate pace, though. If you cavorted about at your normal velocity, you'd upset all the sedate ladies who parade up and down on pretty little ponies a baby couldn't fall from!'

He chuckled easily at the picture it evoked in his mind, and Rose couldn't help but smile. Perhaps he wasn't so obnoxious after all. ‘You ride quite well yourself, Mr Chadwick,' she admitted.

‘Perhaps. But I've never seen anyone of the fairer sex ride like you do.'

Rose lowered her eyes. She knew she was a superb horse woman and she was proud of it, yet she found it an embarrassment to receive such a compliment from Charles Chadwick's lips. For once in her life, she felt unsure of herself, and it unsettled her. They rode on in silence, breathing in the fragrant freshness of the damp grass and peaty earth beneath their horses' hooves, both lost in tangled emotions until they reached the curious line of standing stones set in the ground. Rose eased on Gospel's reins and the animal came to a halt, standing quite still as even he became swamped by the uncanny atmosphere. Rose's eyes smouldered a smoky amethyst as she contemplated the mythical scene before her, its familiar power holding her in its hypnotizing spell.

‘Oh, Mr Chadwick, no!' she called as she was shaken from her trance by the horse and rider moving slowly forward. ‘You must dismount. To show respect.'

Charles stopped at once, and glancing back over his shoulder, landed lightly on the ground as she came towards him, leading Gospel by the reins. ‘The stone circle at the other end,' she explained in a reverent whisper, ‘'tis an ancient burial site, or so we believe. For village chiefs. Or maybe priests.'

‘And the stone row?' he replied in a low voice.

‘We don't know. Perhaps graves of ordinary people, or marking the way to the sacred site.'

‘Well, it's certainly impressive. It must be, what, nearly a quarter of a mile long at a guess.'

‘There are some over a mile and a half, but they're much further away.'

‘Good heavens.'

She looked at him askew as they ambled along the row of stones, the corners of her mouth lifted pleasurably. He clearly appreciated the mystic grandeur of the place, which elevated him considerably in her esteem. Her keen eyes scanned the horizon, the moor seemingly endless in that particular area, apparently stretching to infinity. It was easy to understand why it had been chosen as a ceremonial site.

‘They must have been some sort of pagans. Druids, perhaps?' Charles mused softly.

‘Possibly,' Rose agreed. ‘But I don't suppose as we'll ever know for certain.'

They walked on, stopping a while by the stone circle before remounting. But there seemed little to say, and Rose set Gospel at a loping canter, leaving the ancient monument behind them and gradually heading more steeply downhill until they crossed over a small bridge and climbed the valley on the far side. Charles followed, not pausing until they reached the gushing, evidently man-made waterway that blocked their path.

‘Dock Leat,' Rose answered his enquiring expression. ‘There's lots of leats on the moor. Brilliant engineering, using the contours of the land to maintain the correct flow. For industrial use mainly. You must have seen them at the powder mills yesterday. This one's for drinking water and such at Devonport, mind. There's huge flat stones set across to form bridges. You may need to lead the mare across if she's not used to them.'

‘You just lead the way, Miss Maddiford,' Charles enthused, following her advice, not sure which inspired him the more, Rose herself or her passion for the thrilling landscape of the moor. Which, when he thought about it, were really one and the same thing!

‘Race you to the top!' she yelled unexpectedly as he sprang back into the saddle. ‘Up there!' she nodded, waving at what to Charles seemed like an impossibly steep crag.

And she was off, laughing into the wind as Gospel charged forward along a narrow grassy pathway through the rock-strewn landscape. Charles shook his head. There was absolutely no way he could catch up with her. But he didn't care. He had never been one to long for women's company. The ladies of London society with whom he was acquainted held no pleasure for him. He had maintained a mistress once in his youth, a clean young girl who had been devoted to him, though he had always made it clear they could never be wed. She had been a virgin, as he had been, and though he had kept her purely for his carnal satisfaction, he had held a certain fondness for her. Foolishly, without telling him, she had fallen pregnant and sought help in a London back street, and the ensuing infection had killed her. Since then, Charles Chadwick had turned his back on the female race. Until now. His mind had been intoxicated, his heart quickened and enflamed. There was no one in the world like Rose Maddiford, and he would have her as his bride to honour and to worship.

Having dismounted somewhere near the bottom, she was now standing on the summit of the rocky tor, silhouetted against the skyline like some apparition from the realms of fantasy, her arms lifted and spread towards the heavens, as magnificent as the beast she had left to await her. Charles's heart was in his mouth as she appeared to be on the very edge of the sheer drop, and abandoning the chestnut mare next to the black gelding, he scrambled up the high outcrop of granite in a frenzy of anxiety. But to his relief, when he reached her, he realized she was in fact well back from the dangerous edge.

Rose was waiting patiently for him, a rapturous smile firing her face and tendrils of wild, curling hair escaping from the excuse of a hat on her head. He knew then that he loved her with a power beyond his comprehension. He
must
have her. And he was obliged to drag his gaze away from her to the direction to which she was gesticulating with a wide sweep of her arm.

‘There! Have you ever seen a view like that?' she demanded.

Charles breathed in deeply, his eyes wide with delight. It was as if the world lay spread out at their feet, a gentler part of the moor with the river valley below them, and far in the distance, a shining tortuous ribbon of water.

‘That's the River Tamar,' she told him, the exuberance quavering in her voice. ‘On a clear day like this you can see all the way down to Plymouth, you see? And the sea all the way along!'

Charles squinted hard, but he knew his vision wasn't as sharp as it might be. But if Rose fancied she could see that far, it was good enough for him.

‘And look! If you turn around, you can see right over the north of the moor! 'Tis like mountains from here. 'Tis an amazing view in all three hundred and sixty degrees, don't you agree, Mr Chadwick? In fact, when I'm up here,' she said solemnly, the sudden reverence in her words taking him by surprise, ‘I feel as if I'm up in heaven. Looking down on the most beautiful landscape God ever invented. I feel so at peace, I'd have no regrets if I dropped dead just now,
here
, at the most wonderful place on earth.'

‘Well, I sincerely hope you don't,' Charles murmured, ‘drop dead, I mean, when I've only just met you.'

She blinked at him, her cheeks blushing a deep burgundy as she cleared her throat. ‘This is Sharpitor,' she snapped hotly. ‘That steep ridge in front of us is Leather Tor. And over there, that's Peek Hill, but the view's the same. And 'tis more than two miles to Princetown on the road, so I think as we'd better be heading back. The mare looks tired out.'

‘Not surprising, chasing after you!'

Rose clamped her jaw, her eyes flashing a midnight blue, and with a disdainful flick of her head she scurried back down over the rocks and, leaping into the saddle, turned Gospel homeward. Charles sighed as he remounted and urged his horse forward. Damn it! It was meant to be a joke, and instead she had taken offence. He could see that if he wanted Rose as his wife, he would have to learn to treat her quick temper with kid gloves . . .

‘Hello, Rose!'

A huge grin of relief split Rose's taut face as they trotted back into Princetown. The ride home along the Yelverton road had been tense, Rose being disinclined to respond to what she considered Charles's idle chatter with anything more than a monosyllabic grunt. He was a stranger, an outsider who had invaded her private world and somehow tricked her into disclosing some of her innermost thoughts. And she would never forgive him!

‘Molly! How are you?' she responded with a brightness that was meant to slice at Charles Chadwick's arrogance.

‘Oh, we'm fine!' Molly, a full shopping basket on her arm, screwed her head to look enquiringly up at Rose's companion. ‘Been for a ride, have we?'

‘Oh, this is Mr Chadwick,' Rose replied, flapping a casual hand in his direction. ‘He's an investor in the powder mills on a short visit, and I were just showing him part of the moor.' And when Molly continued to gaze at Charles with her sweetest smile, Rose went on irritably, ‘Mr Chadwick, this is my dear friend, Miss Cartwright. Her father's a prison warder.'

A stiff smile tightened Charles's lips as he raised his hat. ‘Miss Cartwright,' he managed to grate with affected pleasure. ‘You will forgive us, but I was just about to accompany Miss Maddiford to her home.'

But Rose rounded on him with barbs of rancour in her voice. ‘I'm quite capable of seeing myself home, thank you, Mr Chadwick! Besides, Molly . . . Miss Cartwright and I have not seen each other this week, and I should like to converse with her. In private, if you please,' she added frostily as she swung her leg over Gospel's neck and alighted on the ground.

Charles merely bowed his head politely. ‘Then I shall wish you both good day. But I should be obliged if you and your father would honour me with your company at dinner tonight at my hotel. I shall send a carriage for you both at, shall we say, seven thirty?'

And before Rose had the chance to force a word from her gaping mouth, he turned the chestnut mare and disappeared at a brisk trot towards the said hotel.

Rose's cheeks puffed out with indignation and she stamped her foot with an irate grunt as Molly giggled beside her.

‘Oh, Rose, you do look quite funny!' she chortled.

‘I don't know why
you're
laughing! That bumptious, impudent prig didn't like the idea of my having friends among the—'

She broke off, her lips twisted with shame, but Molly only shook her head. ‘The working classes?' she suggested, linking her arm through her friend's. ‘I don't mind you saying it, for 'tis true. We'm hardworking, honest people, and proud of it. We cas'n help it if we wasn't born with money. And I bet
he
works, only in a different way. And he looks as if he's took a shine to you, Rose!' she teased with an admiring twinkle in her merry green eyes.

‘Well, he can take his shine somewhere else, the insufferable, boorish—'

‘Handsome, polite, well-heeled gentleman!' Molly finished for her. ‘You should be flattered, Rose! And thankful! I wish someone like that would show an interest in
me
,' she ended ruefully.

Rose bit her lip, the tang of remorse bitter in her mouth. Yes. To Molly, someone like Charles Chadwick would be manna from heaven. But no one of his ilk would ever look at her, pretty though she was, for anything more than a swift dalliance. Rose knew she should be grateful, for though her father made a decent living, they were still miles away from Mr Chadwick's league, and if his intentions truly were honourable, he would be considered by the circles he moved among to be marrying beneath him.

The thought clouded her brain, her forehead corrugated as she walked arm in arm with her friend, Gospel's reins trailing from her other hand. Perhaps she should give Charles Chadwick another chance, and this time do her utmost to be civil and draw on her better nature.

‘R
ose?' Henry prompted gently over his plate of sausage, bacon and scrambled egg, for Florrie believed a man should go to work on a hearty breakfast.