Page 47 of The Thorn and the Rose

Mary returned a grin, her good humour returning in full. “You’re welcome, my lord. Let me know if you’ll be wanting anything else, eh?” she added with a saucy wink, and strode off with a spring in her step.

Thorn chuckled and tucked into his breakfast, well satisfied with the result of his investigation.

Though it was hours too early to pay a morning call, Thorn was in no mood to wait. After gaining directions to Magpie Hall, he strode through the village, which he’d not visited since he was a lad. Though the sky was a vivid blue, the morning was chilly for April, his breath blowing clouds as he walked. Winchelsea was a pretty place, laid out in the style of a bastide on a grid pattern and beside the church lay the ruins of Grey Friars Priory, which Thorn remembered exploring with his brother.

Magpie Hall lay just outside the village, set far back from the road and partially hidden by trees and shrubbery. The driveway was badly overgrown and a garden that must once have been lovely was in an obvious state of abandonment. As he grew closer, he discovered a handsome stone building with many large, mullioned windows, the leaded light glass reflecting the early morning sunlight and sparkling with gold. Thorn stood for a moment, admiring the fine house even as he noticed the evidence of many years of neglect.

So, this was where Marie had grown up, and where the man who had caused them such difficulties had lived before he’d been thrown into gaol. From the discussion Thorn had heard last night, it seemed to be the best place for him. He’d slept little, wondering sickly if the bastard who had smacked his wife about had also treated his daughter so shamefully. He’d sensed her fear of his anger before now, the way she shied away, as if expecting a blow. It was no wonder she struggled to trust him, if that was even what she wanted to do. Perhaps Marie hated all men so thoroughly it was she who had orchestrated the attacks on the Sons of Hades. Thorn shook his head, refusing to believe that. Not that she wasn’t capable, but he had seen the desire to trust in him shining in her eyes, and he refused to believe that was a lie.

Thorn strode up to the front door, determined to get the answers he needed today, and promising himself he would not give into frustration or lose his temper, no matter the provocation. Lifting his hand to knock, he hesitated as he discovered the door was open, and gave it a little push.

“Can I help you?”

Thorn turned away from the house and found a petite lady with soft hazel eyes and white hair gazing up at him. She had a sweet, open countenance and there was a wistful expression on her face as she regarded him.

“Good morning, madam,” Thorn replied, removing his hat and giving her a formal bow. “Allow me to present myself to you. I am Lord Thomas Barrington. I beg you will forgive me for calling upon you at such an early hour, only I have been searching for this place for many weeks and, now I’ve found it, I could not bear to delay.”

“This place or for a young lady?” she asked, her mouth curving into a smile that revealed a glimmer of a woman who had once been a beauty and was a faint echo of Marie but, he suspected, without her strength and resolution.

“You have found me out,” he said ruefully, offering her his most charming smile.

“I am Mrs Fortesque, and you are Montagu’s younger son,” she said, studying him intently.

“I am. Do you know my father?”

“Oh, no. I cannot claim that honour, though I met him once, and your mother. So charming, a handsome couple too. You are very like him.”

“I take that as a great compliment,” Thorn replied earnestly.

“You should,” the lady said with a soft laugh. “Now, then. You wish to see my beautiful Rose, do you?”

“Rose?” Thorn replied in confusion.

The lady hesitated. “You do wish to see Miss Fortesque? Miss Rosemarie Fortesque?”

“Oh!” Thorn said in relief. “Yes, indeed, I do.”

“I am glad,” the lady said with a sigh. “It is about time a proper gentleman called upon her. The poor girl has been so isolated and alone. Are you perhaps the reason she has been so very unhappy of late? Not that we haven’t reason enough,” she added, her gaze travelling away from him and moving across the overgrown garden.

“I don’t know about that,” Thorn said, wondering at the truth of it himself. “But I would help her if I can. All of you, if she will allow it.”

The lady gave a little laugh. “I don’t know if she will. She’s devilish proud, you see, but Rosemarie is the one who keeps us together, keeps us from ruin. I did not realise that for a long time, but I was ever a foolish creature.”

Her gaze became misty once more and Thorn was uncertain she even remembered he was there.

He cleared his throat. “Where might I find your daughter?”

The lady turned to look at him, her eyes unfocused. “Rosemarie?” she said in confusion. “Oh, in the house, I expect. Do go in. If you’ll excuse me. I must tend to the garden.”

Thorn watched her go, wondering what she intended to do, or where she proposed to start upon the surrounding jungle. Bemused, he carried on into the house.

Rosemarie stared regretfully at the painting on the dining room wall. It was a beautiful landscape by Gainsborough, which she adored. It had escaped the debt collectors because it belonged to her mother, willed by Rosemarie’s father to be given to her upon her mother’s death, and therefore Everett had no claim upon it. Yet that would not have stopped him; the only reason the painting had escaped sale to date was because it was very large, encased in a heavy, ornate frame and hung very high on the wall. It had been some time since they’d had any male servants strong enough to help undertake such a task as moving it, and Everett was too idle to dirty his own hands. A blessing, that, Rosemarie thought with a sigh. She had systematically stripped the house of anything she could lay her hands on and hidden everything in the underreach. This was the last and most valuable thing remaining, supposing they could get it off the wall.

“What if we drop it?” Mrs Mills asked, her worried countenance screwed into a frown.

“We won’t,” Rosemarie said curtly. “Not unless you want us to end in the gutter. I think once I’ve sold everything, we’ll have just money enough to buy us a little cottage if we’re not too fussy, but if you want money to live on, it’s in that painting.”

“Well, when you put it like that, I guess we’d best get it down in one piece,” Mills said. She glanced at Rosemarie. “Today then?”