Page 54 of The Thorn and the Rose

Rosemarie turned away, and then realised she had an opportunity. Surely Lord Thomas would come here, looking for her. Hurrying away from the destructive scene, she went to her brother’s office. The furniture was all gone, save for a single chair brought up from the kitchens and a few boxes. The last precious sheets of paper they owned were stacked neatly beside a pencil stub and Rosemarie snatched this up. Knowing she had minutes at best, she wracked her brain for something to say.

My lord,

I write this in haste. I do not know if you will find it, or if you will believe I ran away from you again.

If you are reading this, please believe that I did not go willingly. My brother overheard our conversation and knows all. He says your brother is responsible for Miss Nichols’ death, that she died bearing his bastard. Is this true? Why did you not tell me so?

Myself, my mama and Mrs Mills are all in his power. If I can escape him, I intend to do so, but he is no fool, and he is in the company of a man who I believe would do us harm without losing a moment’s sleep over it. He goes by the name of Scuttler.

I do not know where he means to take us, but I beg you will follow if you can. I cannot be certain, but I wonder if he will return to London despite the risk. He seems to prefer life in town, and I think he hopes he can disappear in the city.

I will not lose hope. I believe in you.

Your Marie.

It was not much for him to go on, but it was something, and at least he would know she had not gone of her own accord. The lies Lord Thomas had told her about his brother rang in her ears, but she put these to one side. He had not lied, except by omission, she told herself, which was as bad but… but ought he to be punished for his brother’s sin? And what had happened to the little girl, Miss Nichols’ child? He had said his father would have forced them to marry any woman they got with child, and she had heard the ring of truth in those words. But Ashburton could not marry a dead woman. Perhaps there was more to the story than Everett knew. At the very least, she owed him the chance to explain. She would not lose faith in him. Not now, after everything she had put him through.

Rosemarie slipped the note into her skirt pocket and hurried back out to the hallway.

“Rose, where is Rose?” Mama asked, her agitated voice trembling with emotion. Mrs Mills was standing beside her, their travelling cases now having been loaded.

“Here, Mama. Right here,” she said soothingly, taking her mother’s hand.

“Right, let us be off,” Everett said, striding back into the hall. “Into the carriage with you.”

Mrs Mills supported Mama, a hand about her waist as she guided her out of the hall. Rosemarie turned to stare at her brother as their parent’s soft sobs echoed in the empty space and then quieted as they went outside.

“Well, brother, I hope you are proud of your achievement. You have ruined us, broken Mama’s heart, and now we are on the run, I collect. You did not leave the gaol with all your debts paid, I suppose?” she asked sweetly.

“You’d do well to mind that tongue of yours, pet,” he said evenly, not rising to the bait.

“As you wish, Everett.” She turned, moving back to lay her hand on the newel post, looking up at the soaring ceiling and heavy beams of the great hall.

Everett stood on the doorstep, the weak afternoon sunlight casting his shadow as a long, malevolent shape over the ancient wood floor. “What the devil are you doing?” he demanded irritably.

“Taking a last look at our home, Everett, just in case I never see it again,” she said, not having to feign the misery behind the words. She had always loved the hall. When she had finally realised her brother would never let her come out to society, that he had no intention of letting her marry, she had assumed she’d spend the rest of her days as an old maid here.

To console herself, she had dreamed of returning it to the place that Mama remembered from the happy days when she had first married Rosemarie’s father. At least she could have lived for the rest of her days in the beautiful place she loved. As she walked slowly away from her childhood home, she slipped her hand into her pocket and took out the note. Drawing her hand behind her skirts, she let it drop to the floor, hearing the gentle sound of it slip over the once well-polished wood as she walked outside and closed the door behind her.

Thorn checked his pocket watch. They ought to have been here a half hour ago. Though he was well used to some ladies' ambiguous notions of timekeeping, he did not think Marie was the sort to keep a fellow cooling his heels. An unpleasant tingle of foreboding tiptoed down his spine, and he shook it off, telling himself he was being fanciful. Yet the sensation persisted and so he went to Magpie Hall, covering the short distance with brisk strides, intending to escort the ladies to the inn himself.

The sensation worsened as he turned onto the driveway to discover the house in darkness. Not that he had expected a blaze of light. If things were as bad for Marie as he suspected, a single candle or lamp per person was more likely. Yet there was not so much as a glimmer, no sign of life. Disturbed, Thorn hurried to the front door and knocked, not entirely surprised when no one came to answer. He knocked harder and made his way around the house, peering in the windows and finding the place entirely abandoned.

“The devil take you, Marie, what game is this now?” he muttered, anger and hurt vying for supremacy in his chest. Why would she run from him again? He had thought she had believed him, had thought they had forged an understanding, a connection. Fool that he was, he had believed she had put her trust in him. Well, fool no more, he thought angrily. He was done playing games. If she wanted him, she could damn well come and find him.

Chapter 18

1848

My lord,

Please tell me you are safe. I have never yet demanded anything of you, but please, please reassure me. Won’t you write to me, this once, to tell me you are well?

We have heard the stories of rioting in Paris, horrible stories of violence during this new revolution. Louis Phillipe is here, in exile, having abdicated the throne and fled Paris, and the gossip mill is spreading dreadful tales that rob me of sleep.

Please, my lord, a word is all I ask of you.

―Excerpt of a letter from The Most Hon’ble Lady Catherine ‘Cat’ St Just, Marchioness of Kilbane (daughter of The Most Hon’ble Lucian and Matilda Barrington, Marquess and Marchioness of Montagu) to her husband, Ciarán St Just, Marquess of Kilbane.