Page 29 of The Thorn and the Rose

I hear you had a fine mill with George Ponsonby last week. I wish I’d seen it but thank you anyway for I’d had the forethought to put some money on you.

How are things at the club? I’ll be back in the New Year, so let me know if anything is afoot. I had a letter from Larkin who says there’s still been trouble, but it’s been handled easily enough with all the extra staff and security measures. He sounded fed up with dealing with it, though. You’d think whoever was doing this would be tired of harassing us by now, as they’re getting nowhere. A stubborn bastard, whoever he is. Wish I knew what it was about.

Merry Christmas to you.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Hon’ble Mr Muir Anderson, (younger son of The Right Hon’ble Gordon and Ruth Anderson, The Earl and Countess of Morven) to The Hon’ble Ashton Anson (son of The Right Hon’ble Silas and Aashini Anson, Viscount and Viscountess Cavendish)

23rd December 1845. Magpie Hall, Winchelsea, East Sussex.

Rosemarie looked up as their redoubtable cook, Mrs Mills, hefted a sack of potatoes onto the table. “At least we’ve plenty of these,” she said with a sigh.

Rosemarie grimaced. “Mama is starting to notice the lack of meat and I can’t keep fobbing her off with excuses. When we don’t have a fat turkey and a ham and a goose, and goodness knows whatever else she’ll expect on Christmas day, there will be a scene.”

“Then tell her now,” Mrs Mills said bluntly. “She’s not a child, Miss. I know she has her funny ways, but she’s not stupid.”

“I know,” Rosemarie said helplessly, kneading with greater force the bread dough she’d made. She spent a good deal of time in the kitchen these days. Mrs Mills needed the help for one thing, for another it was the warmest place in the house, and lastly her mama would never think of looking for her here. “It’s just she’s happy when she’s floating about in her abstracted way, reading books and dreaming of Papa. I don’t want to take that away from her. Someone in this blasted house ought to be happy,” she added ferociously, punching the dough with rather unnecessary force.

“Language.” Mrs Mills scolded her. “Remember you’re a lady, Miss Fortesque.”

Rosemarie snorted. “Am I? Look at my hands, Mills, do they look like a lady’s hands? I’ve turned my collars and cuffs too many times to count, I have nothing that hasn’t been darned or patched, and I’m the one who cleans our rooms and waits on Mama. I try so hard to keep everything the same for her, at least, so she does not worry herself to death.”

Mrs Mills dropped the potato she was peeling and wiped her own hands on her apron. She was a big woman, far taller than Rosemarie, not in the least fat, but simply of larger proportions than most. She had been at Magpie Hall ever since Rosemarie could remember and was always a source of good common sense and plain speaking.

Mrs Mills came to stand beside Rosemarie and gave her a hard look. “You need to stop worrying about your mama and see to yourself. Look at you. You’re a rare beauty and that’s the truth. For the love of everything holy, get yourself married and out from under your brother’s control. He’s a bully, far too much like his father was, and that temper of his is getting worse. I don’t trust him. He’s never been right since Miss Nichols refused to marry him, but since she died, he’s… well, he’s not right in the head, Miss, and that’s the plain truth. The way he treats you is nothing short of cruel, and the way he’s stripping the estate of anything of value—”

“That’s enough, Mills.”

For a moment, Mr Barry’s kind blue eyes flashed in her mind, but Rosemarie pushed them away. He was no better than her brother. Mr Barry and his kind were pleasure seekers who lived their lives as though they had a God given right to do as they pleased and suffer none of the consequences. She wondered about the women who lived at Gillmont with their bastard children. Were they happy, or did they wake every morning burdened by the shame of their circumstances?

“I’m sorry if I spoke out of turn, miss,” Mrs Mills said stiffly.

Rosemarie shot out a hand and grasped her wrist. “No,” she said urgently, her voice trembling. “Never that, Mills. You have been a loyal friend to me, and I value your opinion more than any other. If anyone has earned the right to plain speaking, it is you. I… I am only so tired. I know what he is doing. I see it and I cannot make him stop, and who should I marry, exactly? I only know the gentlemen hereabouts and, frankly, I would trust none of them with my future. No, Mills, better the devil you know, for now anyway. At least here there are a few small ways in which I can fight back.”

“Like feeding him potato soup whenever he comes home,” Mrs Mills said with a crooked smile.

Rosemarie nodded. “Keep that fish pie hidden and take it up to Mama once you’ve served us the first course. I persuaded her she had a bit of a cold and ought to keep to her room, so she’ll not come down. Then we shall have a very fine repast of potato soup and then brawn with mashed turnips, followed by cheese and bread,” she said, trying to laugh when the idea of eating brawn made her stomach pitch wildly. She had always loathed it, but it was cheap and that was all that mattered.

“You’re a worthy opponent,” Mrs Mills said approvingly, selecting another potato to peel for the soup. “But you have a care, miss. You’re playing a dangerous game.”

“I know,” Rosemarie said flatly, but there was no other choice, and so she did not wish to think of it.

Once the bread was prepared, she put it in a warm place to rise and covered it with a tea towel. She washed her hands, took off her apron and hung it up, and made her way up the stairs to the entrance hall. Shivering, she tucked her shawl tighter around her shoulders, for the hall was so cold she could see her own breath. Magpie Hall had always been draughty, but in years past they would have had fires blazing in every room and staff enough to ensure everything was clean and well-tended. Now Rosemarie tried not to notice the dirty windows and the way dust gathered in the corners of the stairs. She did as much as she could to keep on top of things but if Mama saw her doing such menial tasks, she would demand explanations Rosemarie was not yet ready to give.

She had put her foot on the first tread when the study door opened, revealing her brother.

“Rosemarie, come here.”

She sighed inwardly, too tired to remonstrate over his peremptory way of speaking to her. Entering the study, she moved instinctively to the fire, one of the few that was kept up when Everett was in residence. With dismay, she observed the open decanter on his desk and his undone cravat, hanging loose about his neck. She had learned to her cost that he was most dangerous when he’d been drinking, which he did with increasing regularity.

“You were angry with me last time I wrote to your Mr Barry, so I thought I would give you the chance to read it first this time. Perhaps you’d like to add something to it?”

Rosemarie’s stomach dropped. No. No, not again. It had been months since Everett had mentioned the man and she had hoped he had either turned his attentions to one of the other members of the Sons of Hades or had at least decided not to involve her any further. She knew he had not given up on his scheme to destroy them. What Everett could not see was that he was nothing more than an aggravating wasp at a picnic. He could irritate them, and perhaps occasionally inflict a nasty sting, but surely that was the extent of his power. She had taken pains not to discover who the sons were, for fear of what she might discover, but she knew enough to realise they must be wealthy and well-connected to run such an exclusive club.

“Well, come and read it, then,” he said petulantly.

“To what end?” Rosemarie demanded. “You have already written the letter and signed it from me. I have nothing to add.”

“Come and read it.” His tone suggested she not disobey him, and she had come to fear his fists of late.