Page 36 of The Thorn and the Rose

For God’s sake, get me out of here! Sell the rest of the land, sell the furniture, sell anything you can get your hands on and set me free, or I’ll make you sorry, Rosemarie.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Right Hon’ble Everett Branagan, Baron Childe to his half-sister, Miss Rosemarie Fortesque.

12th February 1847. Magpie Hall, Winchelsea, East Sussex.

Rosemarie looked down at the letter she had written, and her stomach gave an uncomfortable lurch. He wouldn’t come, she told herself. Not after last time, and not after so much time had passed. He wouldn’t come. He’d be a fool if he did. It had been over a year since Everett had played that cruel trick on Mr Barry, and her brother had been in prison for debt for over four months now.

She could have got him out. If she had used the money she had squirrelled away from pawning things behind his back, she could have done it. But then she would have been entirely at his mercy. Rosemarie lived in fear that some old friend would come to his aid, but Everett had never been popular so for now, at least, that had not come to pass.

Fifty pounds was the full amount she had. In some ways it was a fortune, but if it was to keep two women for the rest of their days, it was a pitiful amount and she despaired, not knowing what to do for the best. There were still items she had not had the heart to pawn, things that had been in the family for generations, but even then, it would not be nearly enough. It would not buy them a decent home, not if they wanted to remain in a respectable neighbourhood, and then what would they live on?

Though she had hoped their lives might be quieter with Everett gone, it had brought her unwelcome complications. Debt collectors, for one thing. Happily, Rosemarie had already hidden anything left that had any value, and she had pleaded with the men to leave such items of furniture that were indispensable. Though it had disgusted her, she had used every trick she could think of, from flirtation to sobbing and even collapsing in a faint.

Mrs Mills had commended her performance, remarking that after that, the poor men could no more have taken anything from her than stepped on a dove. Then there had been the men who knocked at her door. Word had spread, naturally, of her brother’s incarceration, and of their straightened circumstances. And so, the charitable men of the surrounding area had visited, so solicitously, to offer her their help and support… for a price, naturally.

Humiliated and furious, Rosemarie had sent them away with Mrs Mills' help, the cook looming in the background with a rolling pin the moment Rosemarie called for her. After the first such encounter, Rosemarie made sure Mrs Mills was always outside the door, just in case. She had also received decent offers from kind people wishing to help, but accepting charity made her feel so despondent she could not do it. Pride was ever her besetting sin.

There had also been marriage proposals from decent men, and yet the thought of letting any one of them touch her made her want to vomit. The idea of putting herself in their hands made her feel like walking out into the freezing sea and letting it take her away. Nonsense, she scolded herself. She was not giving in, not giving up. She would fight her fate with tooth and nail… except it all looked so very bleak.

Rosemarie could not keep the truth of their situation from her mother forever, and so she had steeled herself and explained to Mama about Everett and their reduced circumstances. Better she hear the truth from her than from a gossipy neighbour. While Mama rarely left the estate, when the weather was fine, she would sometimes take a turn about the village.

Mama had not taken it well. Indeed, she had not left her bed for weeks and barely ate. She wasn’t even interested in her romance novels or books of poetry. Rosemarie could not cajole her into conversation, and Rosemarie had begun to despair. Somewhat to her surprise, it was their poverty that had upset Mama more than Everett’s absence, and it occurred to Rosemarie then that their mother had never spent time with her son. Though Everett had continued to treat Mama kindly, it seemed now like an act to Marie, as if he were merely playing a part. Did Mama see that too? She had always seemed rather afraid of him. Did he remind her too much of her violent first husband, who had made her so unhappy?

Either way, Mama needed to see a doctor, for Rosemarie was afraid she had fallen into melancholy and would never return. At least before, her mother had been happy, lost in memories of a blissful past with Rosemarie’s father. Could she not at least return to that happy state, if not the real world, which had little to recommend itself as far as Rosemarie was concerned.

She looked down once more at the letter she had written and gave a despairing laugh.

He wouldn’t come, she told herself. He wouldn’t come.

Dear Mr Barry,

I imagine your eyes are taking in the signature at the bottom of this letter and your fingers are already moving to consign it to the fire, but I beg you, if you ever had the slightest regard for me, please read on.

To begin, I must explain this letter is the first I have ever written to you myself. My brother has a fair hand with a pen and approximated my handwriting well enough, but if you kept the other correspondence, I ask you now to compare. You will see the difference at once.

I have been entirely in his power and unable to act for myself. Now, though, he is incarcerated for debt and has been for some months. At first I was happy, for I was free of his influence, but it has taken little time for the scales to fall from my eyes. There is no freedom for a woman without a protector in this world – though I have had offers enough to fill this position. I had no trouble refusing them, though the offers of marriage needed greater consideration, yet I find I value myself too high to marry the men who have so kindly offered to take me when I bring nothing to the match save myself and my name. Perhaps this is hubris when I am standing perilously close to the edge of disaster.

Now, however, I grow desperate, and my options are so narrow I find I have one remaining to me.

Help me, Mr Barry. Please, I beg of you. If you can find it in your heart to do so, I must also beg you come to meet me. I have neither the funds nor the courage to travel to London alone. If you can find it in your heart, you may meet me on the beach at Pett Level on the afternoon of the 15th of February at 2pm. It is a cold and windy location, Mr Barry, so be sure to dress warmly.

My fate is in your hands.

Marie.

Thorn read the letter a second time, hardly able to believe his eyes. He could not decide how he felt about it. As she predicted, his first instinct was to throw it on the fire he stood beside, but on reading again he heard the despair behind the words and could not help but think there was at least a little truth in what she’d written. And there was no denying the attacks on the club had entirely ceased some months ago, which corresponded with the amount of time her brother had been locked up, assuming he had run out of funds some time before his incarceration.

Dammit, but once again, there was no choice at all. Especially once he had done as she suggested and compared the handwriting on this letter to the previous ones. Why he’d kept them he wasn’t certain, but he had, and the hand that had penned this was far lighter and more elegant.

Well, it looked like he was going to Pett Level. That too was intriguing. He knew the beaches along that stretch of coastline, as they were the closest to his childhood home at Dern. As boys, he and his brother had loved the rockpools along the coastline, and the long sandy beaches at Camber. But surely, she must live close by to suggest such a place?

“Smithers! Pack my bags.”

Rosemarie drew her cloak tighter as the wind buffeted her, making her bow her head and lean into it as she walked. Why in heaven's name had she chosen such a place? Yet it was a location she could approach indirectly, taking hidden paths she suspected smugglers had followed in years gone by, and so disguising her route from Magpie Hall. With luck, if he did not see her until she was clear of the cliffs and undergrowth, she would appear to have come from Fairlight farther along the coast. The heavy bag she carried bumped against her leg and she set it down for a moment, resting her aching arm. Her boots were caked in mud and wet too, as it was not a straightforward route to reach her destination, with difficult paths and high ledges to traverse as she eased down the shallower edge of the cliffs, but hiding her tracks was the most important thing.

She was close to the beach now, and she glanced up, her breath catching as she saw the solitary figure walking along the beachhead. He had taken off his hat, for there was no way he’d keep hold of it in this wind, and his blond hair whipped about as it gusted around him. Tall and imposing, he looked every inch the romantic hero of which she had once dreamed. Rosemarie’s breath caught. He had come. Though she had told herself over and over not to get her hopes up, she still had hoped, still longed for… and he had come.

Something fragile flickered to life after being long since snuffed out and she steeled herself against it. She was no longer a romantic child with dreams in her head. This was a fight for survival, and she meant to do just that. This man was a means to an end, nothing more, and she would do well to remember it. She would get her proof of his and his friends’ villainy, she would get financial security for herself and those she cared for, and she would get Everett the revenge he craved so he too could be satisfied. Yet her heart beat faster all the same, and that foolish child would not stop hoping that Mr Barry would prove otherwise, that he would show her there were heroes in the world, real ones, good men who knew what honour was. Lord, but she was a fool.