Page 55 of The Thorn and the Rose

23rd July 1848, Dern Palace, Sevenoaks, Kent.

“Tell me you’re not still writing to that faithless husband of yours,” Thorn said sourly, moving to peer over his sister’s shoulder.

Cat tugged a loose sheet of paper over the letter she was writing and gave him a look that suggested he mind his own business.

“Sorry,” he said with a sigh. He had done his best to keep his sister’s spirits up over the past years and they had become closer than ever, finding consolation in the fact that they both knew what it was to love someone who seemed not to want them. That the bastard refused to send her even a single letter in all that time, however, made him want to wring the devil’s neck. But Cat loved him, and he understood all too well she had no control over her feelings. “Forgive me, Cat. I know you must be worried about him. It seems like Paris is on the verge of more rioting, does it not?”

“Yes,” she said quietly.

Thorn nodded and walked off again, staring out of the open window. Their mother’s garden was at its zenith now, and roses clambered over every available inch of every wall, framing the windows as their colourful, blowsy blooms nodded in the breeze. The heady scent drifted in, enveloping him in sweetness.

“You’re having one of those days, aren’t you?” Cat said frankly.

Thorn turned a quizzical gaze upon her. “What do you mean?”

His sister set down her pen and got up, coming to stand beside him. “I mean, you’re having one of those days where you can’t stop thinking about her, can’t stop wondering what you did or said that sent her running away again. You’re tormenting yourself with the idea you ought to have gone after her, despite not knowing where to look, despite everyone telling you not to, that you’d be a fool if you did.”

Thorn let out a breath of laughter. “Yes, just that, and I suppose if anyone should understand, it’s you,” he said with a crooked smile.

“Indeed,” Cat said, holding his gaze. “How long has it been?”

“Over a year.” Despite himself, his mind returned to that morning, to the fury in her eyes that had turned to affection and trust as she had listened to his story. Had she been playacting even then? He had been so angry in the days after her disappearance that he’d not allowed himself to think of it, to think of her, but as time passed that scene replayed itself over and again, and his heart told him it had been real, but then why up and leave again without a word?

Cat gave him a critical once over. “Thomas, you’re a mess. You’ve been out of temper for months and you can’t settle to anything. You’re never going to have a moment’s peace if you don’t find out what happened, for better or for worse.”

“I know that,” he admitted, turning to face her. He decided it was time he told her the whole truth, which he’d told no one else. “I’ve been back there, Cat. Dozens of times. I go every few weeks just in case she returned. I’ve asked their neighbours, but no one seems to know anything. There’s no sign of her, or her mother, the place is entirely overgrown. I know they had no money, but if she was desperate, why not turn to me? She must have realised I would have helped her in any way I could. If I could only find a single clue where she went, I would follow her, but how can I when I don’t have the faintest idea where to begin?”

“Perhaps she was running from her brother,” Cat suggested. “If he beat you so badly, he’s not shy of violence. Perhaps he would hurt her too.”

“He’s still in gaol,” Thorn said with a shrug. “When I finally calmed down enough to consider that she might not be playing games with me again. I called in at the gaol, and just asked if they had a Lord Childe in residence, they assured me they did.”

“Then go to there and speak to him. Perhaps he knows where she would go.”

“And you think he’d tell me?” Thorn said, incredulous. “Do you not understand his whole vendetta was designed to punish us, to punish Pip by hurting me? We both remember seeing the devil now, the awful scene he made in town, shouting vile names at Jenny and telling her she’d burn in hell, and you think he’d help me? He’s a bloody madman and it would be the cherry on the cake if I went cap in hand, begging for information about his sister.”

Cat reached out and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. “Brother, I know what it is to love someone who does not return your feelings. I also know what it is to hope. If I had a chance, the slightest chance of getting what I wanted, I would take it. Pride be damned. What matters more to you, finding the woman you love, or giving some man you don’t care a button for the opportunity to gloat? Love does not lie down when it encounters difficulties, it stands up and fights.”

Thorn stared at his beautiful sister, his heart filled with sorrow for her, but also pride. She was so like their mother. At first glance, both women appeared to be fragile, lovely creatures, but they were two of the strongest people he knew, and the most courageous.

“I never said I loved her,” he replied, frowning.

Cat laughed and leaned in, kissing his cheek. Thorn gave her a rueful smile.

“You’re right, of course,” he said, squeezing her fingers gently. “I ought to have spoken to you before now.”

“Of course you should. You know I’m always right.”

He laughed at that, as he was supposed to do, and she smiled in return.

“What?” he asked, as she continued to study him.

“Take someone with you who knows him well. Perhaps he will take the opportunity to gloat, but he that will be hard to do if an old acquaintance is there to witness his fall from grace.”

Thorn’s eyebrows went up. “How Machiavellian you are, Cat,” he said admiringly.

Cat shrugged. “He hurt someone I love. I think he should suffer for that.”

28th July 1848, The King’s Bench Prison, Southwark, London.