A Bouquet of Thorns (18 page)

It was three days before he demanded his marital rights, and he did show her a little consideration, which made it more tolerable, so their bitter exchange had achieved some good. She still felt soiled, used, but at least Charles was satisfied and his attitude towards her was generally more understanding. And if she was to carry out her schemes, she needed to regain his trust.

For the first time in his life, Seth Collingwood – or Warrington, to use his real name – truly wanted to die. Years ago he had returned home on his first army leave to find that the young girl he had wanted to marry in the village had been spirited away in his absence by his father's money. He had exploded with a young man's fury, his hatred for his family and in particular his father driving an irrevocable rift into his heart. But his anger had led him not to suicidal misery, but to seek vengeance. His move into the cavalry and his promotion to captain had both cost his father a deal of money, which he had never recouped when the Purchase System was abolished, and that had given Seth some satisfaction. When he had been arrested and then convicted of a crime of which he was totally innocent, he had been filled with a black depression, and when, in that moment of desperate madness, he had run off into the blanket of mist, the desire to end his life had never entered his head. But now, after two weeks of working in the infamous bone shed, he had had enough, and every night and morning, he prayed God to let him die.

At five o'clock in the morning, the prisoners were woken with a bucket of cold water first to wash themselves in and then to wash out the cell. But no matter how hard Seth scrubbed himself, he couldn't get rid of the stench of human excrement that seeped into his skin, up his nostrils and into his very heart. The previous evening he had been marched with some fellow inmates to the bathhouse for their weekly dip, but it had made little difference. They had then been issued with their so-called clean underwear for the week, and Seth had despaired. As usual, the drawers were stained from the diarrhoea from which so many of the convicts suffered, and he had shuddered with indignity as he had put them on.

On the verge of tears, he cringed as he donned them again that morning, waiting for the moment when the cell door would be unlocked for each convict to slop out, carrying his own daily foul bucket to the tub at the end of the corridor which itself was emptied every other day into the cesspits next to the bone shed. The vile odour started it all up again, reaching into his stomach and tearing at his insides. There were those working in the bone shed who seemed to have got used to the smell, throwing him disparaging glances as he spent all day retching despite his best efforts not to – not for their sake but because once his stomach was empty, it was agony.

Just before six o'clock, the usual pint of ‘skilly' or watery gruel and a chunk of bread were pushed through the hatch. Seth eyed it suspiciously. What was the point in forcing it down when he knew he would only bring it back up the moment he entered the shed? So when they were all crammed into the chapel for the brief morning service, the words on his mute lips were not the communal prayers but
Dear God, please let me die today
.

He couldn't help but slow his pace as they were marched past the piggery. The stink was already inside his head, there was no escape. Perhaps he could bolt towards the wall and they would shoot him dead. But they wouldn't, would they? They knew he couldn't get out, so they would merely pin him down manually and set him back to work. He had already lost all his points towards his ticket of leave because of his few weeks of freedom and had been lucky not to have more years added to his sentence, so any futile attempt now would simply put his marks in deficit.

Down the steps to the sunken shed, thus built so that the workers would be on a level with the cesspits next to it. Once drained, the remaining solid matter would have added to it manure from the piggery and the farm, and crushed bones from the shed. Hell wasn't in it, as far as Seth was concerned.

As they were forced inside, he bent his elbow across his mouth and nose in the vague hope that his senses might adjust slowly to the suffocating reek of sewage and rotting bones. They didn't. He was sick almost at once, his eyes watering in the acrid air, and for sympathy received a blow in the back from the warder.

‘Clear it up, you milksop!' the warder bellowed in his ear.

Sweet Jesus, he couldn't help it. He was used to malodorous army latrines, but this was something entirely different. In the confined space of the shed, the stink was unbearable. He tried, dear Lord, he
tried
to think of something else, to imagine the scent of lavender, of rosemary and other herbs. The sweet fragrance of
her
. But it was no good.

A fellow inmate tipped a pile of bones in front of him and he took up the hammer, his shoulders slumped wearily. Many of the bones still had rancid meat adhering to them and had been in the heap outside for a week or more, putrefying in the summer warmth and smelling almost as badly as the human manure to which they would be added. The hammering began, and Seth closed his eyes in a moment of despair. Within half an hour, the airless atmosphere was so thick with the tainted dust of the crushed bones that he could scarcely see his neighbour. It settled on his chest, inflaming his already weakened lungs so that he struggled for breath, coughed and spluttered with each blow of the hammer. Crush to dust. With the threat of punishment if the pile wasn't pulverized by the end of the day. Sweat pouring from his face, running down inside his uniform. Retching and coughing until he thought his insides would break. Strangled.

Four torturing hours. Filed out into the open, gulping at the fresh air. Searched for hammers and other tools, then marched back to the cells for dinner. A pint of lukewarm beef soup, flavoured with onion and a slice or two of carrot. The most appetizing meal of the week. It would make good vomit for him, he mused in distraction.

He was right. He crawled on his hands and knees back to his work place. Couldn't breathe, his lungs fit to burst. Perhaps he would get pneumonia again. He prayed God it would kill him this time.

‘Please, I want to see the medical officer,' he choked.

‘Get back to work, you blackguard,' was the response.

‘I'm going to the powder mills this morning,' Charles announced over breakfast. ‘The new manager is facing prosecution over various regulations the government inspector found weren't being properly adhered to. And, as one of the major shareholders, I find that quite worrying.'

Rose looked up sharply from the creamy porridge, sweetened with honey, that her rebellious stomach was just about allowing her to swallow. ‘My father would never have allowed that to happen. He was always praised by the inspectors.'

‘Yes, I know. My confidence in him was one of the reasons I bought even more shares when trade was lessening. But I was wondering if you'd care to accompany me? You could visit Molly while I carry out a tour of inspection of my own.'

Rose lifted an eyebrow, and the corners of her mouth curved upwards. ‘Yes, I should like that.'

Charles returned her smile with some satisfaction. It was a gesture of reconciliation on his part, and she had accepted. Perhaps there was hope yet. Little did he realize he was playing right into her hands!

It was a pleasant August day and they took Merlin and the wagonette, Rose driving as it was something Charles had never learnt to do. While he went off to speak to the new manager, Rose hurried off to Joe and Molly's cottage.

‘Rosie! How lovely to see you!'

The younger girl stopped stirring the stew she was cooking for dinner and they embraced tightly. Rose bit her lip, her chin quivering. Dear Molly. How good and kind, like all her family.

‘How are you, Rosie?' she asked tentatively, her face taut with compassion. ‘How you'm getting on?'

Rose knew that she was referring to the loss of little Alice, and she nodded as they drew apart. ‘Well, as best I can, I suppose,' she answered, knowing she could open her heart and talk freely to her friend. ‘I feel raw, empty, angry, all in turns. And Florrie's a tower of strength, as you might imagine.'

‘Yes, I be certain she is.'

Rose smiled ruefully, and then her mouth widened with delight. ‘And look at you! You're really showing now!'

Molly's pretty face darkened. ‘Are you . . . are you sure you doesn't mind?'

‘Mind? Why should I mind that you're expecting?'

‘Oh, I just thought . . . with Alice—'

‘'Twas not your fault and, well, I can enjoy your little one, can't I? I mean, Joe's like my brother, so I'll be its auntie, won't I? I really am so pleased for you both!'

She grinned, her heart genuinely lifting, and Molly smiled with more confidence. ‘Let's have a cup of tea,' she said, turning back to the range. ‘Did your husband let you out, then?'

‘He's here, too. Because of his investments and the trouble there's been. I don't know how long he'll be, so I'd better come to the point quickly.'

She sat down on a rustic settle, perching on the edge and leaning forward urgently. Molly turned to gaze at her, head tipped to one side.

‘You wants me to do something?' She frowned.

‘Yes. Yes, I do.' Her voice was low and trembling, and she fixed Molly with her arresting eyes. ‘I need you to act as a go-between for me. I'm going to write to some of the local hunts. Ask them to keep an eye out for Gospel. But if there's any news, I need it to come to you. If there's any chance of getting him back – well, if Charles found out, he'd put a stop to it.'

Molly nodded emphatically. ‘Yes, of course. Joe's already spreading the word where he can, too.'

‘Is he, bless him? Oh, I'm so grateful. But . . .' She paused, her mouth set in familiar determination. ‘There's something even more important. To do with Seth.'

Molly lowered her eyes. ‘Your convict, you mean?'

‘Yes. Do you know how he is?'

Molly's mouth twisted. It was a question she had hoped not to be asked. ‘Father'd been working nights, so he hadn't seen him for a while. And a few days after he went back on day shifts, he . . .' She hesitated, bowing her head as if in shame. ‘Father found him working in the bone shed.'

Rose stared at her for several numbing seconds while the anger frothed up inside her. ‘The bone shed!' she moaned in an agony of despair since the horrors of the bone shed were well known. ‘Oh, dear God! With his chest, 'twill kill him!'

‘As I say, Father didn't know he'd been moved. Shouldn't have been, of course. Been there two weeks or so when Father found him. Father said he could hardly breathe for the dust, almost collapsed. He had him removed at once and taken back to the infirmary.'

‘But . . . was he all right?' Rose hardly dared to ask.

Molly nodded reassuringly. ‘Yes. Arter a few days, he were so much better that Dr Power sent him back to the workshops. He said when he passes him as fit, he can work on the buildings as he's actually very strong. 'Tis just his lungs have been weakened, so he's not to work breaking stones or ort dusty.'

Rose had been holding her breath and now she let it out in a deep sigh. ‘Oh, thank God he has your father to keep an eye on him. But, oh, Molly, how ever will he last another ten years in that place? And that's another reason why I need your help.' And she proceeded to tell Molly all about her visit to Rosebank Hall and how she had asked Richard Pencarrow to let Molly know when Captain Adam Bradley was to visit.

‘Of course. I'll do anything to help, you knows that. But will your husband not be suspicious?'

Rose pulled a long face. ‘I don't think so. He's graciously said I can go out on my own. Provided I tell him where I'm going,' she added sarcastically.

‘'Tis fair enough,' Molly considered. ‘If I were to go out, I'd tell Joe where I were off to.'

‘Yes, I suppose you're right,' Rose conceded with a shrug. ‘But you must start coming to Fencott Place regularly as well, so that when you do have a message for me, 'twill look perfectly natural. As long as you're up to it, of course. 'Tis a long walk in your condition.'

‘Oh, I be as strong as an ox!' Molly grinned. ‘And I could always send Joe with some sort of excuse, anyways. But, Rose . . .' Her expression became sombre again. ‘You take care. 'Tis fire you'm playing with.'

Rose sucked in her cheeks. ‘The way I see it, I don't have much choice, do I? And when you come to see me, you can choose which of the puppies you'd like, can't you?' Her face brightened merrily, but inside, her heart was clenched with anxiety. For she knew Molly was right.

‘S
o, did you have a good time with your friend?' Charles asked stiffly as they drove home across the moor.

Rose flashed him a relaxed smile. ‘Yes, thank you. And your inspection?'

‘Well, I have to admit that I wasn't exactly sure what I was looking for. I nearly came to fetch you as you know far more about it than I do. But I reckon the prosecution will have shaken things up somewhat and everyone will be more vigilant in the future.'

‘Good. I'd hate anyone to be hurt again like my father was. By the way, Molly and I have decided upon Wednesdays for me to visit. And sometimes she might come over to me, if that's all right with you?'

She cocked her head to one side, smiling angelically as if it were all perfectly natural, which, she considered, it should be. Charles conceded with a grimace. He didn't exactly approve, but at least one day a week, he would know where she was.

And so, on the following Wednesday, she drove Merlin and the wagonette over to the powder mills as Charles had said he needed Tansy to ride into Tavistock to do some business at the bank. But he didn't go straight there. Instead, half an hour after Rose left Fencott Place, he made a long detour up the Postbridge Road. On nearing the cottages where the track led off towards the gunpowder factory, he spied Merlin unharnessed from the wagonette and tethered in the shade. Charles was satisfied. For now.