100. A Rose In Jeopardy Page 8

  “Come on, my little angel! A kiss.”

  “You ask a – lot of me.”

  “A kiss? Such a tiny thing.”

  His breath smelled of wine and beef from luncheon.

  “A kiss is not – such a small thing for a girl like myself,” Rosella countered.

  She seemed to see the young man still smiling and nodding encouragement as she thought of what to say next.

  “I – am very young – ” she continued.

  “And so sweet!”

  Algernon squeezed her waist.

  “I have never kissed anyone before.”

  “Then I shall be the first.”

  Algernon gave a little groan of delight.

  “Indeed. But – dear Mr. Merriman, I cannot even think of such a thing until we are engaged.”

  “Oh,” he said and a wide smile dawned on his face. “Then – you will do it. You will be Mrs. Merriman!”

  “I will think about it,” Rosella said. “I promise you that – I will think about it.”

  His smile faded a little.

  “But – ”

  “It has all been so sudden,” she went on, forcing herself to smile at him. “I have never had a proposal of marriage before. I must have time to get used to the idea.”

  “Do you know what you are asking me, you wicked girl?” he interrupted. “Have you any idea what agony it is to want you so much?”

  “I know how much you care for me,” Rosella said, lowering her eyelashes modestly. “Please, just a little time, is all I ask and then – ”

  “And then, believe me, I shall take all the kisses I want!”

  Algernon sounded disgruntled, but, at long last, he released his grip on her waist.

  Rosella then smoothed her skirts, trying to keep her trembling hands steady.

  “So, I would suppose that now we have reached an agreement, I might allow you to come down and join us at dinner,” Algernon smirked with a tweak of his moustache.

  Rosella shook her head.

  She could face neither the hot roast goose nor Lord Brockley, as she was sure that his Lordship would have no time for her little ruse and would see right through her.

  He would insist that she gave a definite answer immediately.

  “I am not at all hungry,” she said. “I would like to stay here and think about your proposal, Mr. Merriman.”

  “You will say ‘yes’, won’t you?” he said, turning back to look at her as he was about to leave her. “Of course you will! I shall tell his Lordship the good news.”

  And then, at long last, he was gone.

  Rosella sat down on the end of her bed, shaking from head to foot.

  Outside the rain still fell in sheets and it would not be dark for several hours.

  She must prepare herself for what she had to do, and then she must wait until the conditions were absolutely perfect for her escape.

  *

  It was not till the early hours of the morning, when the sun was about to rise and the Park was full of soft grey light, that the rain stopped.

  Many times through the night Rosella had almost climbed out through the window and let herself down onto the orangery roof.

  But she was afraid of slipping on the wet tiles and a little afraid too of the dark as there was no moon.

  But now she had to go.

  The purse of sovereigns was tied onto a belt at her waist and hidden under her skirts.

  In a small carpet bag, she had packed a couple of her dark blue cotton dresses and a few essential items.

  She would have so loved to take the portrait of the young man in the turban, but it was too big and awkward for her to carry.

  “Goodbye,” she nodded to him, as she stood by the open window. “I will never forget how you have helped me tonight.”

  His eyes seemed to move a little in the dim early morning light, as if he heard her words and was wishing her well on her journey.

  “Be brave, Rosella,” he seemed to say. “All will be well.”

  She did not feel very brave, as she tossed her carpet bag out of the window and then, clinging onto the rope she had made by plaiting her bedcovers together, she lowered herself down onto the orangery roof, next to the smashed remains of Pickle’s cage.

  From the distant trees in the Park, a few birds were tuning up, beginning their dawn chorus.

  With a pang in her heart, she thought of Pickle and wondered where he was and how he was faring out there in the wild.

  All through the night, as the rain fell, he had been on her mind. He was not used to such conditions, having spent most of his life indoors.

  But then she remembered that once he had been a wild bird and had lived in a tropical forest where rain fell almost all the time.

  Perhaps he was glad to be free again, at last.

  And she, Rosella, was free too.

  For, now that she was embarked on her escape, it was relatively easy to clamber down the drainpipe at the side of the orangery.

  Now she must go to Winchester, through the Park and over the wet farmland, staying away from the roads in case anyone should see her.

  She was just setting off under the trees that grew at the side of the drive, when she heard a call that turned her veins to ice.

  “Lady Rosella. Lady Rosella.”

  Someone was coming after her!

  Too afraid to turn around, Rosella waited.

  She heard footsteps running through the wet grass and then a hand touched her shoulder.

  “Lady Rosella?” a soft Hampshire voice said.

  It was Thomas, the gardener’s boy.

  “Oh, Thomas!”

  Tears of relief sprang into Rosella’s eyes.

  “Please, be quiet. No one must know I am here.”

  She explained, the words spilling over themselves in her haste, that she must leave New Hall at once or marry Mr. Merriman.

  Thomas’s eyes were round with amazement.

  “But Lady Rosella, you must not.”

  “No, Thomas. I cannot marry him. But I have to leave and secretly or they will come and force me to go back. They – they locked me in my room.”

  “My Lady, wait, and I’ll go with you, I have to take some of the fruit from the garden into Winchester for the market and that’s why I’m up so early. No one’ll see us, they’re all still a-bed.”

  “Thomas, you will get into trouble.”

  The boy shook his head.

  “I’ll find an old coat for you in the stables and a basket of eggs. If anyone sees us, the’ll think you’re one of the girls who works in the dairy goin’ to market.”

  Rosella was so overcome at his kindness that she almost forgot herself and would have given him a hug.

  But something flapped in the leaves over her head, sending sharp drops of water showering on her.

  She blinked the water out of her eyes and peered upwards.

  “Hello! How are you?” a small voice spoke up and the leaves rustled as a shadowy form fluttered down from the branches to land on her shoulder.

  “It be Lady Beatrice’s bird!” Thomas cried.

  Pickle was looking rather wet and bedraggled, but his eyes were bright as he gazed affectionately at Rosella.

  “Oh, Pickle! I am so glad you are all right,” she whispered. “But whatever am I going to do with you? I cannot take you with me.”

  “May I have a nut?” Pickle asked, in his most polite voice. He did not seem to appreciate the seriousness of the situation.

  “My Lady – there’s an old birdcage at the stables. I saw it when we were sweepin’ out the loft over the harness room,” Thomas said. “The gardener told me it belonged to the little parakeet that her Ladyship had before she bought the parrot. I think he’d fit in it.”

  “Oh, Thomas, I don’t know. How will I carry it?”

  “It’s not as big as his usual cage, my Lady. And – it can rest in my wheelbarrow on top of the fruit as we go to Winchester. Wait here.”

  He ran off, his feet sinking int
o the wet grass.

  Pickle nodded his head as if in approval.

  “Chop, chop, hurry along there!” he muttered to himself, sounding just like Mrs. Dawkins speaking to one of the maids.

  Rosella laughed at him.

  She felt very touched that he had chosen of his own free will to come down out of the tree to her. How could she think of leaving him behind, however hard it might be?

  She scratched the feathers on top of his head and watched for Thomas to return and he soon came hurrying back with a laden wheelbarrow.

  She wrapped the old coat that he had brought round her shoulders and took a last look at the beautiful frontage of New Hall.

  The moment had come when she must say goodbye to her old home forever.

  “Will you be all right, my Lady?” Thomas asked her, as they stood together on the platform at Winchester Station to wait for the London train.

  “Of course I will.” Rosella forced herself to sound bright and cheerful. “You must go back, Thomas, or they will wonder where you are.”

  “But my Lady – what will you do in London?”

  “Oh, I have a little money. I shall be fine.”

  Rosella tried not to worry about the unknown City, crowded with strangers that waited for her at the end of the train journey.

  “Do you have a place to go to?”

  “No, but I – shall find some lodgings. And then, I will look for some kind of work – ”

  With every word she spoke, she felt more doubtful and afraid.

  Thomas now asked if she had a pencil and paper.

  “My sister lives at Limehouse, my Lady,” he said. “In the East End of London. It’s a poor enough place, just a sailor’s cottage, but Sarah’s a kind soul and, if she knows I sent you, she’ll make you very welcome.”

  He wrote down in large clumsy letters the number of the house and the name of the street.

  “Thank you so so much, Thomas.”

  Rosella did not dare to say any more, as she would break down into tears.

  “Keep the old cloak on, my Lady, in case there be anyone on the train who might recognise you.”

  Rosella nodded and checked that Pickle’s cage was well hidden from view under the old blanket that Thomas had given her.

  “And, my Lady – ”

  Thomas’s kind face was very pink as he took her hand to bid her farewell.

  “Will you – will you write to me sometime, just to let me know you are safe? I’m no great one for readin’ and writin’, but a few short words will set my ’eart at rest. Just sign your letter a friend – and I’ll know it’s you.”

  Rosella nodded again and then with a shrill whistle, the train pulled slowly into the platform and she lost sight of Thomas in a cloud of steam.

  “It is just you and I now, Pickle,” she whispered, as she stepped into a Second Class carriage, her heart beating with apprehension.

  But he did not reply, for, as always happened when a cover was put over his cage, he thought it was night-time and had fallen asleep.

  *

  “There’s a couple of hours yet before the tide is at full flow,” the Captain said in his precise Scottish accent. “Take a turn about the wharf, young man, and stretch your legs. It’ll be a few days before you get the chance again.”

  Lyndon would have preferred to go to his tiny cabin on board The Grace Darling and wait quietly there until the ship cast off.

  London meant nothing to him now, his heart and soul were flying on ahead to Venice and he would not be happy until the voyage was begun.

  He left his bags for one of the sailors to stow safely away and stepped back onto dry land.

  It was now a quiet time by the river. The afternoon bustle had ended and it would be a little while before the nightly crowd of revellers came down to fill the inns and taverns with their shouts and laughter.

  The sun had not quite set and the twilight sky was full of purple and lavender, reflecting its deep colours onto the silvery surface of the Thames.

  ‘How much more beautiful it will be in Venice,’ Lyndon thought, remembering the paintings he had seen, ‘where there is water everywhere and the sky seems so much wider.’

  His mind was so far away that he barely noticed that there was someone standing, all alone, by the side of the river, until he tripped over a strangely-shaped bundle beside this person and almost fell flat on his face.

  There was a loud shriek and an odd creaky little voice warbled,

  “Mind how you go – please!”

  Lyndon looked around, expecting to see that the voice had come from an old woman who owned the parcel.

  Instead, he found himself staring into a pair of deep blue eyes, belonging to a girl so pretty she seemed to have come from another world altogether than this dark dingy wharf.

  Her skin was white and her hair a bright shining gold, surrounding her lovely face like the halo of an angel in a painting.

  Lyndon was so shocked by the sight of her that he completely forgot his manners.

  “Who? What – ?” he stammered.

  “Hello!” the odd croaking voice spoke again, but the girl’s lips did not move.

  “I am sorry,” he said, now completely mystified. “I didn’t see you there and I tripped.”

  “It’s my fault,” the girl replied and her soft voice echoed in his ears and sent shivers down his spine, as it felt as if he must have heard it before somewhere very dear to him and yet he could not quite remember.

  “I came down to the river to get some air, for the house where I am staying is very cramped and I thought I would bring Pickle too.”

  “Pickle?”

  Lyndon looked down and saw that the bundle at her feet was a round birdcage with a blanket tied around it.

  Inside it was a large grey parrot, which was eyeing him suspiciously with its bright intelligent eye.

  “Oh, good evening, Pickle,” he said. “Now at last I understand.”

  The bird stared at him disapprovingly.

  “He is rather shy with strangers,” the girl explained.

  Lyndon raised his eyes to her face again.

  She spoke clearly and sweetly with no trace of any accent.

  Her skin was fine and soft and the hand with which she held her old coat together at the collar was slender and delicate. She was not at all like the rough girls and women who frequented the docks, especially in the late evening.

  “We have not been introduced,” Lyndon said shyly.

  Surely, this girl must be of good birth, if not noble birth. Yet he had not seen her before at any of the London parties and soirées he had attended.

  “My name is – Mr. Jones.”

  “And I am – Jane,” she answered, gravely. “I am staying here with my friend, Sarah, while I look for work.”

  “Work?” he asked, forgetting his manners again, as he could not imagine this lovely girl serving ale in a tavern or sewing seams in the back room of a dress-shop.

  She turned a little pink, as if she was embarrassed and he quickly pulled himself together.

  “And how is your search going?” he asked her in a polite tone.

  “Oh, I have had several offers,” she replied with a little sigh. “There are plenty of posts for Governesses and companions.”

  “That’s good!”

  “But the trouble is that no one wants to take a noisy and unruly parrot as well as myself!”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  Lyndon noticed that the parrot was still looking at him menacingly.

  “And I will not go without Pickle,” she continued, “as he is all the family that is left to me in the world.”

  “Of course. I absolutely understand.”

  He did not, but he could tell by the determined look in her blue eyes and the way that she held her pointed chin high on her slender neck that she meant what she said.

  And then the image of a little monkey in a red coat, being cosseted and caressed by an aristocratic old woman, came to him.

&nb
sp; He had felt guilty about not visiting the Contessa at her hotel. Had she waited for him there? Perhaps she had forgotten all about him and found other English people to befriend her.

  But this glorious girl might be able to help her and the old Contessa, who loved her monkey so much, might even understand this girl’s attachment to her parrot.

  He dug in his pocket and pulled out the Contessa’s card.

  “I don’t know if this will be any use,” he said. “but I believe this person may be seeking a companion.”

  “You are too kind, Mr. Jones!”

  The girl’s face lit up as she took the card from him.

  “Not at all.”

  Lyndon could now hear heavy footsteps hurrying along the wharf behind him towards The Grace Darling.

  For all the time he had been talking to this girl, he had forgotten all about Venice.

  If he was not careful, he would miss the departure he had been so impatiently waiting for.

  “I have to go,” he blurted out. “It has been such a pleasure to meet you.”

  “Yes. Thank you, again.”

  The girl reached out her hand, but he was already on his way.

  There was a strange feeling in Lyndon’s heart as he climbed back on board The Grace Darling.

  Something about this lovely girl touched his heart and he did not know if he could bear it.

  He did not dare look back at the wharf in case she was still there, standing by the water with the last light of the evening gleaming on her golden hair.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Let me out! Let me out!” a small voice cried.

  It was very early, but Pickle was already awake.

  Last night Rosella had been feeling so tired that she had forgotten to pull the blanket over his cage and the rays of the rising sun had shone through the tiny window of the garret where they were staying and awakened him.

  She rolled over on the lumpy mattress that lay on the floorboards and gave him a piece of bread from her last night’s supper.

  “Can I have a nut?” he asked, looking at the bread with his head on one side.

  “Shh, now Pickle!” Rosella whispered. “We must not wake the baby!”

  But it was too late. From downstairs she could hear that young Peter was already starting to cry.