Page 7 of The Thorn and the Rose

“Of course I can,” Thorn said, though he felt very much like he might throw up at the least provocation and his head had settled down into a dull thud as if someone were using it for an anvil.

With Marie’s help, Thorn dressed and made his way up the stairs and into a neat kitchen, sparsely furnished but clean and bright. He walked to the back door, his legs feeling strangely weak.

“Turn right to the end of the street, and then right again and keep walking,” she told him. “You’ll see where you are soon enough.”

Thorn turned back to her, frowning. “I can’t just leave like this. I owe you a debt for helping me as you did when it was such a risk. Won’t you let me help you in return? You must allow me to do something for you. I can tell you are unhappy. I could take you with me, I could—”

“No. There’s nothing you can do, Mr Barry,” she said, her voice quavering.

Thorn let out a sigh of frustration. “At least tell me when I will see you again?”

She shook her head, her eyes bright with tears.

“I will see you again,” Thorn insisted, taking hold of her shoulders. “You cannot think I would just forget about you, that I could pretend this never happened. You saved me, Marie, and… and I know there is more going on here than I understand. If… If you are a part of it, I don’t care. I’ll still help you, but I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again.”

He realised as he said it how true the words were. This girl fascinated him, and he needed to know more about her, to help her if he could.

“Oh, p-please, Mr Barry,” she said, her voice thick as a tear rolled down her cheek. “I am sorry. Truly, truly sorry, but you must forget about me. It’s for the best. Please believe that.”

“The best for whom?” he demanded, angry now.

She reached up a hand and pressed it to his cheek. “For you,” she whispered.

Thorn covered her hand with his own, turning into it and pressing a kiss to her palm. “No. I do not believe that. Now, listen, Marie. If ever you need to reach me, you can always do so via The Sons of Hades. Just ask for Mr Barry and someone will fetch me or get word to me, but I will come back for you, Marie. As soon as I can, I will return and introduce myself to your brother. I will bring my mother, so all will be quite proper. Then we can be friends in the eyes of the world and—”

The words died in his throat as she pressed her mouth to his. With a sigh, Thorn gathered her close, relishing the feel of her body pressed against his until she pushed him away again.

“Goodbye, Mr Barry,” she said, her fists clenched, her chin up, though the words trembled a little.

He stared at her, plagued by doubt. Leaving her like this seemed very wrong, but he did not want to cause her trouble. He must simply do as he said and return with his mother in tow. Her brother could not possibly dislike that, and he would think of a way to explain how they knew each other. His mother would come up with something, no doubt. For now, though, he must get himself home. That in itself seemed no easy task.

“Goodbye, Marie, for now. For I will see you again,” he said, giving her hand a squeeze, before hurrying down the street.

Chapter 3

Dearest Matilda,

I am quite certain that Thomas is alive and well and will be returned to you at any moment. I have no doubt the boy has got himself into mischief of some sort and is just reluctant to admit it. I am so sorry that you are suffering such torments of worry, though. As if you haven’t had enough trouble since darling Cat’s marriage to that dreadful man. How is she? Do remind her that we would welcome her at Beverwyck at any time and would be glad of her company. Indeed, I think we could do with a distraction, for I want to weep whenever I look at Fred. His heart is broken since Aggie left and I do not know how to mend it. I cannot fathom why she ran away from him. She was so clearly head over ears in love with him and yet the letter she left… Oh, Matilda, youth really is wasted on the young. Were we really so foolish as they were? But yes, I suppose I know the answer to that. We all had our own ridiculous decisions to make and challenges to overcome, and overcome them, we did. I know Thomas will be no exception, and I pray he will return to you very soon.

I am thinking of you, my dear friend, and sending much love.

―Excerpt of a letter to The Most Hon’ble Matilda Barrington, Marchioness of Montagu from her friend, Her Grace, Prunella Adolphus, The Duchess of Bedwin.

8th June 1845. Montagu House, St James’s, London.

Pip walked up to the back door of his parents’ town house, his heart thudding too fast. He was worried sick about his brother and had spent the past weeks in town asking questions and investigating dead ends, with no luck whatsoever. He told himself that Thomas could not be dead, for he would know if that were the case. The truth of this was a certainty he felt to his bones but had found difficulty in explaining to anyone else, though he had tried. His mother had been so pitifully grateful to see him, the guilt of having stayed away for so long crashed down upon him with the force of a landslide and he was suffocating under the pressure of it. So, he had come to a decision. Whatever had happened to Thomas, whatever else happened in the future, there would be no more secrets. No more lies. He would take whatever his parents dished out by way of retribution without a word of protest, but his darling Tilly would be a comfort to them at a time when they were in desperate need of it. For he knew them well enough to know they would never, by word or deed, reproach his little girl for her illegitimacy. The only shame to be found here was his own, and he must bear that for the rest of his days.

“Papa?”

Pip turned to regard his little daughter. Her solemn face considered his steadily, her chubby arms clinging to his neck as he carried her down the path to the back door. He hated himself for that, for bringing her in like a dirty secret, but for the moment he wanted to shield her from gossip, and that meant keeping the world in ignorance. For now.

“Yes, little bird?”

“Who we see?” she asked, her silver eyes crinkled with anxiety. She could tell he was tense, and his nervousness had communicated itself to her despite his best efforts. Pip smiled and stroked the impossibly soft blonde curls. White-blonde hair. Good God, she could be no one else’s bloodline than his father’s with those remarkable eyes and that startlingly fair hair. She was the image of his sister as a child. Pip’s heart clenched, and he kissed her cheek.

“We are going to meet your grandpapa and grandmama, sweetheart. Remember?”

She nodded, tightening her hold on his neck. “They like me?”