Page 45 of Grasp the Thorn
Jeffreys kept his face bland. “Yes, sir. I wouldn’t presume to argue with you, sir.”
Bear shook off the supporting hand and led the way into the disreputable place he’d come across in his flight. “Less of the lip, Jeffreys, and tell me exactly how big a hole I’ve dug for myself, and what trouble my lady wife faces. Do it while you help me get presentable. If I am going to crawl home seeking forgiveness, the sooner the better.”
“The sooner the better indeed, sir. The lady died. Mrs Clifford. The vicar is refusing to give her a funeral or space in consecrated ground. Mrs Gavenor won’t go anywhere without two guards from the work site because of that Pelman.”
Bear issued a string of hearty curses, and Jeffreys nodded agreement before going in search of the landlord and a bucket of hot water.
Soon, Bear was retracing his steps toward Rose Cottage, mounted on one of his own horses, Jeffreys following and leading the hired horse. Within half an hour, they reached Thorne Hall’s rear gate and Bear turned in. “We’ll take the shortcut, Jeffreys, and I’ll stop to apologize to Caleb on my way.”
Caleb was found overseeing a gang of workers who were taking advantage of the fine day to seat the main beam of the new stable block.
Bear pulled his horse up beside his foreman, who watched him with wary eyes. “I’ve come to apologize, Caleb. I was completely out of line.”
The man raised one eyebrow. “You were. But you should be apologizing to your wife.”
Bear accepted his employee’s censure meekly. “I know. I plan to. I plan to keep doing so till she gives me another chance, though I don’t deserve it. I don’t seem to think clearly when that woman is around.”
The foreman lifted one corner of his mouth in a wry smile, but his tone was sympathetic. “Love does that to you.”
The word hit Bear like a mallet. Love. Love had not been part of the bargain, but there he was, in up to his neck. Deeper, having treated his wife so badly she might never forgive him. After all, what had he done to show his love? Hurt her, deserted her, abused her.
“You rescued her from Pelman, I take it.” He hoped.
“Just in time,” Caleb confirmed. “Have you been to the house?”
Bear looked toward the bridle track. In a few minutes, he would see her. “Not yet. I stopped here on the way.”
“Better go,” Caleb advised. “And Mr Gavenor? From one married man to another, tell her that you love her. Women need to hear the words.”
The vultures had gathered—the vicar, the squire and his wife, the Pelmans, a group of the more conservative and judgmental villages. All had come to bolster the vicar in his determination to stand outside the gate and lecture Rosa on her evil ways and her certain damnation.
Bear observed from the shadows of the trees. Rosa faced her accusers with a dignity that touched his heart. “You are offensive, sir,” she told the vicar. “You have listened to the calumnies of false witnesses.”
“Your own husband bears witness by his absence,” said the vicar, triumphantly.
That was Bear’s cue. He stepped into view, leaving Jeffreys to manage the horses. “Mrs Gavenor’s husband bears witness by his presence.” As he spoke, he covered the ground in long strides and plunged straight into the group, which scattered to avoid him. “Dear wife, I apologize for the delay in my arrival. How may I be of service? Shall I remove the litter from outside our gate? Do these people not realize this is a house of mourning?”
He reached Rosa and bent to greet her with a kiss on the lips, ignoring the startled look she gave him before she returned it. He had some grovelling to do, but he wouldn’t undermine her position by doing so in public. Turning back to face the crowd, he said, “Vicar, if you are not here to make arrangements for the funeral of my aunt by marriage, then you are not welcome.”
Lady Threxton pushed her way to the vicar’s side. “You know your duty, Mr Snaith.”
Bear ignored him while glaring at Pelman, who was whispering urgently to his sister at the side of the crowd. “Pelman, I hear you have continued to persecute my wife. I warn you now, your past is on its way to catch up with you. Count yourself lucky that I am too busy to give you the thrashing you richly deserve, and get yourself home, lest I make time to remedy the lack.”
He gave Lady Threxton’s indignant protest one contemptuous look and turned to the squire. “Threxton. You and your household have been helping this snake and his vicious sister to spread lying rumours. You know best why. I suggest you take your wife home and meditate on whether your own lives would stand up to the scrutiny of my investigators. I assure you, Mrs Gavenor’s reputation would not suffer from such an examination, and Pelman’s are now known to me and are about to catch up with him.”
Bear turned and put one arm around Rosa. “Let us go inside, dearest. We have much to talk about.”
He looked back over his shoulder. “Vicar Snaith, my next errand shall be to see the rector about your stewardship of his parish. I am not impressed, and I don’t believe he will be.”
Snaith sputtered, still looking after the Pelmans, who had hurried back to their buggy and were already on the road back to the village. Sir Gerard bit his upper lip as he watched the pair. “What do you mean, Gavenor? If you know something to Pelman’s discredit, spit it out.”
“I have just arrived home, Threxton. If the mystery does not solve itself in a day or two, I’ll make a point of calling on you.” While Bear and Sir Gerard spoke, the villagers had been deserting the crowd, fading backwards or sideways and strolling off as if they had merely paused from curiosity while out on an afternoon walk. When Sir Gerard took his protesting wife’s hand, placed it firmly on his arm and escorted her to his gig, the vicar found himself abandoned.
“I suppose you had better come inside,” Bear said without enthusiasm. If Rosa wanted a respectable Christian burial for Mrs Clifford, then Bear would do whatever it took to make him cooperate.
“Show Mr Snaith into the parlour,” he instructed Maggie, who stood at the front door gawping. “My wife and I will be with you shortly,” he told Snaith before whisking Rosa into the study. She came, unresisting. A good sign, he hoped.
Inside the study, with the door closed, she withdrew her elbow from his cupping hand, her face set in worried furrows. She was pale, with bruises under her eyes that indicated lost sleep, and she was nearly as thin as the day they met. “You have not been eating properly,” he said.
