Page 61 of The Thorn and the Rose

“I beg your pardon,” he said stiffly.

His father waved this away. “I do not blame you,” he said quietly. “But it does you no good. It is hard to think rationally when one's passions are ignited. Yet if it were your mother we were searching for, I would behave far worse, I assure you.”

Thorn smiled a little, knowing that much was true. “I just keep picturing her in one of these awful places and…”

“I know,” his father said calmly. “I am blessed with an imagination myself and I know what thoughts plague you, but from what you have told me of Miss Fortesque, she is a strong woman, the kind not easily broken. Don’t despair, son. If she knows anything of you, she will know you would turn the world upside down and inside out until you found her.”

“Perhaps,” Thorn said, but there was a knot in his chest that made him wonder if that were true. He had believed she had deserted him, had he not? Though even then, he had returned repeatedly, had tried in vain to discover a trace of her.

Despite them both knowing it was pointless, his father did not protest when Thorn asked they divert on their journey back to Dern and stop off in Winchelsea. Thorn stepped down from the carriage, staring up at the dirty glass of the window where he had last seen Marie.

Frustration gnawed at him. Despite his father’s words of wisdom, he wanted to hit someone to vent his anger and desperation. If her bloody brother had been near him now, he’d be quite capable of murdering the bastard with his bare hands, such was the rage churning in his guts. Instead, he strode to the front door of Magpie Hall and gave it a hard kick. Rather to his surprise, the door flew open with a groan and the sound of splintering wood.

“Feel better now?” his father asked, not without sympathy.

“A little,” Thorn replied, walking inside as memories of that last day assailed him. What was he doing here? It wasn’t as if she was here, or ever would be again unless he…

He paused his bitter internal monologue as his gaze fell upon the dusty floor and a folded slip of paper. The door, being of solid oak, had made it impossible to see this corner of the hall, and the window did not give a view this far over either, or else he’d have seen it before now from outside. Hardly daring to hope it was anything more than a discarded shopping list, Thorn snatched it up, his heart hammering as he regarded the familiar writing.

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.

Thorn gave a cry of mingled triumph and regret as he read the scribbled note. Montagu hurried inside, his eyes sharp with enquiry.

“What is it?”

“A letter from Marie. She must have dropped it on her way out, hoping I would find it. Damn me for a fool. Why did I not force my way in before now?”

“I do not believe I raised you to be a housebreaker,” Montagu said wryly, reading over his shoulder.

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 Nichol’s 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.

“We have two replies from asylums in London,” his father said briskly.

“Yes, and it would be just like the bastard to hide her right under my nose, too,” Thorn said in disgust. “Father, I know you must be tired, but—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Montagu said, his tone cutting. Without another word to his son, he gave orders for the carriage to go directly to London and resumed his seat inside. Smiling with relief, Thorn hurried after him.

Too many hours confined in a cramped carriage were swiftly followed by a train journey and another carriage ride. By the time Thorn finally accepted they could not present themselves at the asylum’s door tired, hungry and dishevelled, it was past midnight. They arranged beds for the night in a rather grubby looking establishment that looked at his father with such awe they might have believed Henry the Eighth had risen from the dead and come to stay the night. If he’d not been beside himself with worry for Marie, it would have been exceedingly amusing.

Thorn’s suggestion that they might just have a bite to eat and go straight to the asylum was met with a flat refusal.

“They might lock us both up and throw away the key,” his father remarked dryly. “I will, under no circumstances, arrive in this state. If you wish for me to be at my autocratic best, I need a shave, my clothes pressed and at least a couple of hours' sleep. You may wake me as early as you like, provided I see hot water and a cup of coffee swiftly thereafter.”

“A deal,” Thorn said, simmering with frustration but accepting the sense of his father’s words. He also knew better than to attempt to persuade him. You could not get blood from a stone or a change of opinion from Montagu once he’d spoken.

Thorn lay down on the lumpy bed in his room, knowing he would not sleep a wink. Marie’s expressive hazel eyes haunted him, the way she had felt in his arms, warm and soft and pliant, trusting him. Would she forgive him for having taken so long to find her? Could he forgive himself? He would make it up to her, he promised himself. If it took him the rest of his days, he would make it up to her.

13th July 1849, Braddock Asylum, Middlesex, London.