Page 62 of The Thorn and the Rose

“Mama, come along. If you don’t get up, the nurses will take over and wash you, and you know how that distresses you,” Rosemarie pleaded.

It grew harder each morning to force herself to wake early, to wash and dress herself and get her mother dressed too. Better that than have the indignity of uniformed nurses standing over you, or worse still, scrubbing you with a hard brush and washing you off with freezing water. Yet she might have risked even that, just to linger in the dream a little longer. She did not know if the dreams were a blessing or a curse, for they gave her hope, reminding her of just how Lord Thomas had looked when he took her in his arms, of the things he had said that made her believe he was a good man, that he cared for her. But perhaps it was cruel to give her that straw to clutch at, making her jump every time a door opened in the hope it was him, come to rescue her. But there was no rescue from places like this. She had learned early on that any effort to escape was futile and ended in horrifying and humiliating punishments, such as restraints, ice baths, or being confined to her room, alone. Any resistance shown only confirmed that putting her here had been the correct diagnosis; she was a hysterical female with an overactive mind and ought not to be allowed books or stimulating conversation, for they over-excited her.

So, instead, she bided her time, hoping to win their trust, and perhaps a way to escape, being so very docile and biddable she wondered if she would remember who she really was if ever she fled these walls. Every day seemed to leach the will from her bones, wearing away at her spirit a little more.

Thank God for Mills. Mama had sunk into lethargy and depression until Mills had hit upon the garden as a source of interest. Rosemarie’s good behaviour had paid off there, at least, allowing them free rein to walk the garden, and to tend to the plants for an hour in the morning and again in the afternoon. That gave them solace, at least, though seeing the seasons turn was yet another brutal reminder that time was passing. Even if Lord Thomas hadn’t forgotten her, how on earth would he find her in a place like this?

Between them, Rosemarie and Mills got her mother washed and dressed so the nurses had no reason to do anything but unlock the door to the corridor that led to the dining room. Rosemarie sent up a fervent prayer of thanks that there were no mirrors here. Their hair had been shorn to limit the spread of lice, and the shapeless grey outfits they wore were of a coarse weave and hardly flattering. She laughed a little to herself as she wondered at her own vanity, worrying about such a thing as how she looked when she might live the rest of her days in this soulless place of misery.

They made their way to the dining room and stood in line, bowls in hand. A grey paste that might once have been porridge dropped heavily as they held the bowls out. Once seated on the rough wooden benches, Marie forced herself to eat the tasteless pap that glued her tongue to her mouth. Mama only whimpered and shook her head, but Mills was harder and more forceful than Rosemarie could bring herself to be, making Mama swallow a few spoonfuls.

“The sun is shining today, Mama,” Rosemarie said, taking her mother’s hand and trying her utmost to sound cheerful. She wondered if it was only the need to put on a brave face for her mother keeping her sane. “Shall we go for a walk after breakfast and see what’s flowering?”

Mama turned her head away and stared at the wall. Rosemarie swallowed hard, if mama lost interest in the garden too, she did not think she would survive much longer here. She turned to Mills, whose eyes were filled with pity too, but she was damned if she was going to let mama slip away in the godforsaken place. If they died here, forgotten and hidden away, Everett would have won. Somehow, she had to get word to Lord Thomas, to tell him she was here, but she was forbidden writing materials and paper. Every attempt she had made to date had failed and she’d been severely punished, but surely there was a way.

“Oh, that puts the cherry on the cake,” Mills said, her tone sour.

Rosemarie looked up to see nurses coming around with notepads. That meant they were to be interviewed again. She deeply resented the endless questions about her state of mind, about her temper. Even knowing and understanding the questions were precisely calibrated to make her furious, it was still a battle not to rise to the bait.

Today, though, Rosemarie was glad to see the notepads and the sheets of paper they held.

“Mills, how are your acting skills?” Rosemarie asked, watching the nurses with interest before turning back to her.

Mills gave her an odd look.

“If you could make a scene, I could snatch the paper and a pencil and get away to write a note. If I could get it to one of the cleaners, or the kitchen staff, and tell them Lord Thomas would pay them handsomely for their help, they might send it for me.”

“Or they might hand it straight to the nearest nurse and lock you up alone, or worse,” Mills said frankly.

Rosemarie shrugged. “What choice do we have? I won’t stay here for the rest of my days, Mills, and Mama…” She lowered her voice, whispering desperately, “Mama won’t survive it much longer.”

Mills' lips compressed into a thin line at that, and she nodded. “Right. A diversion, is it? Well, let’s see what they think of this.”

Rosemarie jolted in shock as Mills leapt to her feet with a bellow that made her ears ring.

“Call this porridge!” she shouted furiously. “Show me the pitiful excuse for a cook that made this disgusting slop!” With that, she picked up Mama’s barely touched bowl and threw it with surprising strength across the room. It exploded against the far wall, sending grey goo flying as the tin plate clattered to the floor and residents began to scream and react. There were some inmates who truly needed to be there, and it was not long before chaos reigned, with some women tearing their hair and running madly back and forth, and others copying Mills and throwing their porridge, bowls and all, at the walls. Feeling a little guilty that those poor troubled souls had been stirred up into a frenzy, Rosemarie decided she’d best not waste the opportunity and got to her feet.

The nurses had cast their notepads down as they ran hither and yon, trying to contain the gathering riot. Marie tore out a sheet of paper and snatched up the pencil and scurried from the room. She knew she would not get far and so hid in the first available alcove to scribble a note.

Lord Thomas,

We are being held against our will. This is the address where you may find us. Please come!

Your, Marie.

Clutching the paper tightly in her hand, Marie tucked the pencil into her bodice and hurried on. The sound of footsteps approaching had her freezing in a panic and she wrenched open the first door she came to. Darting inside, she looked around. Another door on the far side of the room beckoned, and she prayed it led outside. Her heart sank, though she was hardly surprised. Her luck had run out a long time ago and showed no signs of returning to her. Instead of the garden, another corridor beckoned, and at the end of it a window showed the boughs of a tree. Looking all around, Rosemarie fled, hurrying to the end of the corridor and tugging at the window.

“Damn you!” she whispered, tears pricking her eyes as she discovered it had been securely nailed shut. Pulling with all her might she prayed it might give but it stayed stubbornly in place.

“Young woman, you there! What are you doing?”

A shout from behind her made Rosemarie gasp as she saw a nurse heading purposefully in her direction. Well, now she was sunk. Ice baths and humiliating restraints beckoned, and the likelihood that she would never have such a chance again. She must make the most of it. Turning on her heel, she ran, skidding on the tiled floor as she saw a staircase and almost pitched down it headfirst in her haste. At the bottom of the stairs, another nurse, male this time, spotted her and lunged. Rosemarie screamed as he caught hold of her arm, pausing only long enough to kick him in the shin as hard as she could. With a cry of pain, she suspected it had hurt her as much as him, but he yelled and let her go and Rosemarie hobbled on. The smell of boiled cabbage indicated the direction of the kitchens and the possibility of a more sympathetic member of staff.

Glancing behind to see if her pursuers were close, Rosemarie turned the corner in such haste she did not have time to stop herself before she ploughed into a hard body. She staggered back, dropping the paper in shock as she gazed up into an austerely beautiful face with cool silver eyes.

Rosemarie gave a squeak of alarm and took a step back, but the harshly handsome face softened, and the man bent, picking up the note which had fallen open. His eyes moved over it and Rosemarie held her breath, wondering if he would laugh, or call for someone to restrain her, or…

The man turned his head and called down the corridor. “Thomas!”