Page 48 of The Thorn and the Rose

Rosemarie nodded. “I suppose so. We’ll have to occupy mama. She’ll be so distressed. Papa bought the painting for her when they got married. I really have no right to sell it, but it’s either that or remain at Everett’s mercy and I won’t put us in his hands ever again.”

“Amen to that,” Mrs Mills said stoutly.

“Bless you, Mills,” Rosemarie said, going to the woman and taking her hands. “You’d do far better to find yourself a better position, one that actually pays.”

“You stop that,” Mills said sternly. “I’ve been with you and your ma since before you were born. Truth be told, your ma took pity on me and took me in when she’d no need, for I had no references and not a farthing to my name. She saved me from an uncertain future from the kindness of her heart, and if you think I’d abandon you all now, well, you don’t know me very well.”

“I know you very well, and I think you are courageous and true. A dear friend,” Rosemarie added with a smile. “What is your given name, Mills? I think I ought to use it. It is a long time since I was anything close to your mistress. We are in this together now.”

Mills pulled a face. “Abigail, and if you call me that, I shall leave. Mills suits me very well, I thank you, and you’ll always be mistress to me, so I’ll have none of that nonsense. Now, go and get yourself dressed. I don’t know what you’re thinking of, going about the house in your night things. You’ll catch your death.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Rosemarie admitted. “And I wanted to come and look at the painting one last time before we take it down.”

“Well, there’s no point in torturing yourself now, is there,” Mills said briskly. “Run along and I’ll make some breakfast. Those good-for-nothing hens have actually laid this morning, so there’s a nice egg for you and a cup of tea.”

“Thank you, Mills,” Rosemarie said fondly, watching the lady bustle off to take care of her work. Sighing, she took a last look at the painting and tugged her threadbare dressing gown around her, suppressing a shiver. The cotton muslin dressing gown was well worn now but had once been a pretty confection trimmed with ribbons and broderie anglaise, made for summer wear, though, not winter. She had given her warm winter one to her mother, who felt the cold more than she did and was prone to catching chills at the drop of a hat.

Rosemarie retraced her steps back up the stairs, intending to get dressed for the day. Another day. Another twenty-four hours of putting on a brave face, looking on the bright side, and trying her best not to think of Lord Thomas Barrington. Especially not the part where she had let him kiss her. Except it was impossible not to think of it. She had understood in those exquisite, soul-stirring moments just how easy it was to be ruined by a man who had captured one’s heart and mind. Even she, knowing the risks laid out before her, could not have resisted his embrace, refused the touch of his lips. How foolish she was to need him when she knew what he was, how idiotic to long to be in his company, just to hear the sound of his voice. She paused halfway up the stairs, the weight of an uncertain future weighing her down and longing in her heart for things she could never have.

“Miss Fortesque.”

Rosemarie started, turning to stare at the figure standing in the open doorway, as if she had conjured him with her desperation to see him again. Not like this, though. Not here! Oh, Lord, he had found her, figured her out. Panic rose in her chest and though she knew it was pointless, foolish past permission, she ran.

Chapter 16

Dearest Leo,

Just a note to say I was delivered of a daughter yesterday. She’s a darling, utterly gorgeous and with a shock of red hair as vivid as mine, the poor dear. We seem to acquire a different shade of red with each baby I have. This one definitely takes after me and I adore her. Bainbridge is ecstatic, naturally, but then he always is.

We have named her Leona in your honour. I hope you will do your duty by your namesake and stop acting like such a lunatic. For heaven’s sake, find a nice girl and get married. I want to be an auntie so our children can play together. Mine will be all grown up before you even begin if you don’t hurry.

Much love from your overbearing sister.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Arabella Grenville, the Marchioness of Bainbridge, to her brother, Mr Leo Hunt (children of Mr Nathaniel and Mrs Alice Hunt).

6th April 1847. Magpie Hall, Winchelsea, East Sussex.

Thorn pushed the door open and stepped inside the hall. It was entirely empty. No fire burned in the massive grate, no pictures lined the grand staircase. The only movement came from the dust motes dancing in the shafts of sunlight pouring in through the windows, and the slender, white-clad figure moving slowly up the stairs like a frail phantom.

“Miss Fortesque.” His voice sounded too loud in the silent, echoing hall, too dramatic, like a theatrical villain making a surprise entrance on stage to shock the audience. Her reaction was as intense as any director might have hoped for.

She spun around, the colour draining from her face as her hand tightened on the rail, the other flying to her throat. Her eyes widened, there was a gasp, and then a glittering flash of panic before she took to her heels.

Where she thought to run to, he knew no more than he knew what possessed him to give chase. It was instinctive, like the need for a fox to chase a rabbit. He neither questioned it nor had the wit to stop himself.

Taking the stairs three at a time, he flew after her, determined she would not evade him this time. She gave a little shriek as she ran into the first room she came to and did her best to slam the door in his face. Thorn put his hand to it, pushing remorselessly until she gave in and let it go. She ran to the far side of the room and standing before the window, breathing hard.

“What the devil are you playing at?” he demanded, incensed despite his promise to be patient with her. He had no patience left, not now. She had driven him distracted, and he’d had just about enough of chasing around the country looking for her, worrying about her, trying to figure out what the bloody hell she was up to. “Why did you run away from me at Gillmont? Did you think I meant to ruin you? Is that it? I didn’t. I wouldn’t have. I told you I would keep you safe and I meant it. You could have trusted me.”

“Oh, yes, and men always tell the truth,” she said in disgust.

Thomas had to give her that much, the women at Gillmont would certainly tell him men lied as easily as they changed their coats. “Perhaps not all men,” he allowed. “But I do. Do you think I would hurt you, Marie?”

“How do I know?” she demanded, glaring at him. “Why not? Men like you get away with murder, don’t they?”

“Men like…?” He shook his head. “I am not the devil incarnate, Marie. What has your brother told you? What is it I am guilty of exactly? Don’t I deserve the opportunity to clear my name?”

“What about those who don’t even have the chance for a name of their own?” she demanded furiously, her anger such that he stared at her in shock.