Cherrybrook Rose (12 page)

It wasn't going to be easy. She had deposited at the pawnbroker's everything she possibly could, down to their silver cutlery and even all but one of her fine dresses and their petticoats and accessories, knowing she would never see them again. They ate frugally, and no meat would grace their table until all their debts were paid off. Most painfully, she had told Florrie that if she wanted to stay on with them, she would no longer receive any salary. Her cheeks wobbling dejectedly, the loyal housekeeper had declared she would never leave them. She only wished that instead of sending her wages over the years to her widowed sister who had five children to bring up, she had kept the money so that she could have helped Rose now. Joe had been told he would have to pay for his keep, but he was happy with that, knowing he had been on the receiving end of Henry's generosity since he was a child. Gospel, for the time being at least, could stay, his speed being useful in conveying Rose quickly on the numerous errands she had run in order to gain grace with their creditors. Besides, she told herself, it would take time to find a buyer for him, and time was a commodity of which she had very little at the moment. The oil lamps were replaced with cheap candles, and those were only lit when they could hardly see where they were going. In the evenings, she and Florrie would sit, straining their eyes, by the glow from the open firebox, and Henry, warmed instead by hot-water bottles filled with water heated on the range – which by necessity was alight all day – no longer had a cheering fire in his room. Rose had lit one for him this morning only because she knew Mr Frean was coming, and she didn't want him to suspect their drastically impecunious state.

‘Won't you take a cup of tea?' she invited him, deliberately widening her smile when he seemed to hesitate. ‘'Tis so good of you to come all this way just to see Father.'

‘I don't come
just
to see him, you know, Rose,' he said solemnly, drawing in his chin. ‘I need to keep more of an eye on the place now that your father is . . . incapacitated. And,' his mouth twitched awkwardly, ‘that's what I need to talk to you about. So, yes, please. I should like some tea, and perhaps we can have a little discussion.'

Rose winced as she spooned some fresh tea into the pot, for they had got into the habit now of reusing the leaves until they barely coloured the hot water before they were discarded. She watched Mr Frean from the corner of her eye, her heart sinking as she observed the sombre expression on his face. She passed him the cup of tea, hoping he didn't notice the tremor in her hand.

‘So, how can I help you?' she asked, trying to sound casual as she sat down opposite him and took a sip of the steaming liquid.

George Frean raised a ponderous eyebrow. ‘We need to discuss the future, Rose,' he said gravely.

‘Oh, 'tis all taken care of. We're going to turn the parlour into a bedroom,' she told him, hoping he thought she sounded bubbling with enthusiasm. ‘Some of the men are going to do it on Sunday, and carry Father down. 'Twill be so good for him to be out of the bedroom after all this time. And the dining room will become his office. We're going to bring everything up from his
old
office so that he can run the business from here,' she concluded with a satisfied smile.

Mr Frean sat back in his chair and drew the air through his flared nostrils. ‘The manager of the powder mills needs to be on site, you know that, Rose.'

She felt her stomach contract as she nodded with fading confidence. ‘Yes, I know, so I'm going to order an invalid carriage,' she announced, though she didn't add that she had no idea how she was going to pay for it. ‘And if Polly – that's the mare that pulls the dog cart – is too big, we'll sell her and buy a smaller horse that can pull either. So Father will be able to get over the entire site, wherever he's needed.'

She stopped as Mr Frean lifted his hand in a gesture of reluctance and he slowly shook his head. ‘I'm sorry, Rose. I have no doubt that you would make any measures you took work admirably. But I'm afraid it just wouldn't be enough.'

Rose blinked at him as a slick of cold, clammy sweat oozed down her back. ‘B-but . . .' she stammered, her chin quivering.

‘I really am sorry,' the older man sighed, the lines on his face deepening. ‘I know you well enough, Rose. And I'm sure you'd make everything work superbly. As far as it went. But . . . you'd be relying too much on the other men, Mr Ashman for instance. While they were running back and forth here, they wouldn't be doing their own jobs. It is your father's responsibility to inspect the site
personally
all the time, and with the best will in the world, he could not do so from an invalid carriage. He would need a couple of men to lift him in and out of the thing all the time, and that would cost the company time and money it really can't afford. And I know we have an agent as well, but you know as well as I do that your father often has to visit the mines and quarries himself, and that would be impossible.'

Rose had listened, her heart beating tremulously. ‘I'm sure Father could manage,' she protested in desperation. In dis-belief. ‘I could help him. All the time. I could—'

‘Rose.' He reached out and squeezed her arm paternally. ‘The practicalities of the situation are bad enough in themselves, and no answers you can come up with will ever provide a proper solution. But even if they could, I'm afraid I find . . .' His face twisted with embarrassment and his eyes searched deeply into hers. ‘I don't quite know how to put this, but . . . Since his accident, Henry, well . . . he seems a different man. He's made some wrong decisions with regard to the business. Left other matters unresolved. Over all – and I really haven't come to this conclusion lightly – I'm going to have to ask your father to leave my employment.'

Rose lowered her eyes. She couldn't think of any words to say, and even if she could, they would have stuck in her throat. Leave Cherrybrook. She really couldn't believe it. Couldn't
comprehend
the notion of leaving what had been her home for as long as she could remember. She had seen the anguished expression on Mr Frean's face as he spoke, anticipated what he was going to say, and yet his words were too awful to contemplate. Held some dreadful, appalling meaning, and yet meant nothing at all. Her senses reeled away from her, and she managed to hold on to them by some tenuous thread. It wasn't real, and yet here she was, sitting in the kitchen, as familiar to her as her own hand. She remained motionless, silent in one of the grimmest moments of her life, and when she looked up, the violet brilliance had gone from her eyes.

Mr Frean coughed gently, for it broke his heart to be the cause of such misery in this vibrant child he looked upon as his own. ‘I can offer you a month's notice,' he managed to say through the enormous lump that had suddenly swelled in his gullet. ‘But I've had to stop your father's wages with immediate effect. However, I will be giving you a hundred pounds. Not company money. The repairs after the explosion stretched its finances too much and some of the shareholders aren't too happy. But out of my own pocket. As a token of my esteem for your father and his hard work and loyalty over the years.'

His face had somehow sagged, and Rose was sure she could detect moisture in his concerned eyes. Mr Frean was a good man, and always had been. A surrogate uncle, since she had no other relation but her father. She appreciated his integrity, his generosity in the circumstances. A hundred pounds. It might sound a handsome sum, but, her brain swiftly calculated as her natural determination to survive took over once more, it was roughly twenty weeks of Henry's pay. She had worked out that six months of living sparingly would clear their debts, and that was without any rent to pay, let alone . . . Gospel . . . and Amber . . .

She picked up the teaspoon and slowly stirred the contents of her cup for a second time. She must find it within herself to remain dignified. Not to allow George Frean to guess at their dire financial straits, even though she didn't know which way to turn and her head was exploding with bottomless despair.

‘Thank you, Mr Frean,' she answered politely, though her voice was small. ‘'Tis most kind of you. I'll start looking for somewhere else to live straight away.'

‘Have you no relations who might take you in?' he suggested, trying to be helpful, Rose realized.

‘Unfortunately, no,' she replied, straightening her shoulders a little haughtily. ‘But don't concern yourself. I'm sure we'll manage. 'Tis most kind you've been. But . . . have you told Father?' she asked in dismay, the apprehension taking hold of her again.

Mr Frean looked at her askew. ‘I'm afraid I didn't have the courage. And I thought perhaps it would be better coming from you.'

Rose paused. Averted her eyes. Gave an almost imperceptible nod of her head. ‘Yes. I'm sure you're right.'

‘Well, I must be off.' He rose to his feet, clearly relieved the difficult interview was over. ‘Other matters to attend to. But I really am so sorry, Rose. I'll miss you both. But perhaps we can keep in touch.'

‘Yes, I'm sure. And I do understand 'tis not your fault.'

‘Thank you.' He sniffed slightly as he wriggled into his overcoat. ‘I'll see myself out.'

And he was gone, leaving Rose alone in the kitchen. She rested her elbows on the table and dropped her head into her hands. She realized with mild surprise that she was quite calm, not even shaking now. The shock was numbing her mind and her body to the harsh reality about her. She must make plans, decide on the most advantageous way to use the money which her pride would have refused under other circumstances. But first – and God alone knew how – she must break the bitter news to her father.

Rose's head was spinning with calculations as Gospel romped up the soaring hill from Tavistock on to the moor. She had secured the lease of one of the Westbridge Cottages in the town, not a palace but sound and adequate. One shilling and sixpence a week and, unbelievably in her opinion, two and threepence a week for a field and a stable for Gospel, though it was only a few minutes' walk out of the town, so she supposed she would be paying for the convenience of it. Food and fuel on top of that, candles and the occasional extra expense such as shoe repairs or medicines. Having paid off every single creditor with Mr Frean's generous gift, including the overdraft at the bank, scarcely thirty pounds remained, which wouldn't last long, and there was still an invalid chair to purchase, not the pony-drawn carriage she had originally planned, but, thankfully, a cheaper bath chair that she or Florrie could push on the more even surface of Tavistock's streets. The solution to the problem was, of course, quite simple. She would acquire a position, and the three of them – for Florrie was both indispensable and an integral member of the family – could live quite comfortably in the little cottage.

Feeling rather satisfied and even a little excited at the prospect of a new life, she gave Gospel his head. She would miss living in the centre of the moor, where she could lose herself in its boundless sense of infinity. But by keeping Gospel, she could reach its open vastness within minutes. She could still visit Molly and the workers and their families at the powder mills. And at the thought of the few people she would
not
need to see ever again, such as the strait-laced Miss Williams, her nose wrinkled with such distaste that she found herself smiling.

Molly. Her dear friend who at the moment knew nothing of her enforced leaving of Cherrybrook. It was early March. The snow had melted in the returned prevailing wind, and though the moor was not cloaked in mist, it was a miserable yet mild afternoon. She could not stay long, but she did have time to visit Molly and still be home before darkness closed in.

She passed the recently opened quarry at Merrivale, stopping to make way for a farm wagon crossing the old stone bridge over the river. The quarry was experiencing some teething problems, but it was nevertheless a welcome addition to the powder mills' customer list. Rose's mouth thinned to a fine line. She would have to stop thinking like that, for it really didn't matter any more. Just one moment of . . . of what, they had never discovered – the tiniest granule of grit, perhaps – that had found its way into the circular incorporating trough, despite the stringent rules of cleanliness, and her father's still active life had been shattered, and her own world had come tumbling down about her ears. It would be so easy to give in, to let the tears that so often threatened to choke her, erupt in all their agony. But she gritted her teeth with determined resolve. She would
not
be beaten, and she dug her heels into Gospel's willing flanks as she turned him off the road at Rundlestone and headed towards Princetown. They arrived at a gallop, and as they raced over the tunnel that led beneath the road from the prison lands to the dreaded quarry the memory flashed through her brain of the ugly incident she had become embroiled in there at the end of the previous summer. It all seemed so long ago, so insignifi-cant when she considered the fateful events that had overtaken her life since.

She deposited Gospel, as always, with Ned Cornish, who gave a churlish sneer when she pressed a penny into his greedy palm rather than the usual silver sixpence. It was months since last he had clapped eyes on her graceful figure that caused the crotch of his trousers to strain, though he had of course heard of her father's misfortune. Such an explosion at the powder mills had been the talk of Princetown for weeks. He watched her hurry down the road in the direction of the prison. If only matters would become
really
desperate for her, he mused malevolently, he could offer her some sort of solace, for his bed was always warm . . .

She found Molly, her mother and little Phillip proudly sitting by the glowing fire in the sitting room of their home in the new warders' block, one of the first families to move in, since the building wasn't entirely finished yet. A mug of weak black tea was at once thrust into Rose's hands. She had always hated the drink served like that, but now she hardly noticed, since she, too, had become accustomed to doing without milk and sugar. It was hot and wet, and she was thankful for that.