A Rose In Jeopardy

CHAPTER ONE 1880

CHAPTER ONE

1880Lady Rosella Ryland reached out her hand to gently touch the glorious pink rose hanging down from the trellis above her head.

It was such a perfect shape with its cluster of curled petals, the most beautiful flower on the old rambling rose bush that had been there as long as she could remember.

“Happy birthday Rosella,” she whispered sadly to herself, as she breathed in the divine scent of the rose in the warm summer air of the walled garden at New Hall.

It was the first of June and she had just become seventeen years old.

But there was no one to remember that this was a very special day, for her beloved Aunt Beatrice, who had brought her up, was dead and she had no other close family who might wish her a happy birthday or send her a present or even a card with their good wishes.

“Your Ladyship.”

There was a crunch of boots on the path behind Rosella. Thomas, the gardener’s boy was hurrying towards her with a shallow basket over his arm.

Dear Thomas – he had remembered what day it was and he was bringing her a present.

But as he came closer, she saw that the basket was empty except for a pair of secateurs.

“I thought you might like – ” Thomas stammered, looking shyly at her from under the fair hair that hung over his forehead like a pony’s mane, “ – to cut some of the flowers, like you used to, my Lady.”

Rosella could not help the tears that stung her eyes.

It was not that Thomas had forgotten her birthday. After all, he was just the gardener’s boy! Why should he have remembered that today was such a special occasion for her?

The staff at New Hall had been deeply shocked by her aunt’s sudden death and were most preoccupied with what might happen to them in the future, as Lord Carlton Brockley, Lady Beatrice’s brother, would be coming soon to take up residence and no one knew what kind of a man he might be to work for.

Thomas would be no exception to that, of course. He might even fear that he would lose his job.

No – it was not the fact that he had not wished Rosella ‘happy birthday’. It was the memory of so many happy times she had spent in the walled garden, gathering flowers to take to her aunt, that suddenly caused Rosella’s heart to ache.

Every morning she used to cut some of the finest blooms of whichever flowers were in season and take them to her aunt, where she sat on the yellow silk sofa in the drawing room after breakfast with her constant companion, Pickle, the grey parrot, in his cage by her side.

As Rosella stood there in the bright sunshine on her birthday, struggling to hold back her tears, she remembered another day, just one month before, when she had hurried back to The Hall through a shower of soft spring rain, her arms full of white lilac and huge crimson peonies.

“Hello, hello! Good morning, my dear!” Pickle called out from his cage, as she entered the drawing room, ruffling his grey feathers and holding his head on one side to stare at her.

“Why, why, it’s my darling Rosella!” Aunt Beatrice exclaimed. “What a wonderful choice. The scent of lilac reminds me that summer will soon be here and the white flowers will look so very pretty next to the red peonies. How clever you are.”

That day Rosella’s aunt was in her usual place on the yellow sofa, but she was not sitting there. She had put her feet up and was lying back on the cushions as if she was very tired.

But she was smiling and seemed so pleased with the flowers that Rosella thought nothing of it.

The parlourmaid brought a big blue-and-white vase and scissors and Rosella began to arrange the flowers.

“Just think,” Aunt Beatrice said dreamily. “in a few short weeks the garden will be full of roses again,”

“Your favourite flower,” Rosella replied, trimming the stem of a lilac branch. “And mine, too, naturally.”

“I should hope so!” her aunt smiled.

It was a favourite little joke of theirs – for Rosella had been named after her Mama, whose first name was Ella and after her Papa’s favourite flower – the rose.

“There are lots of buds already on the rose bushes,” Rosella said now. “There will be masses of flowers soon.”

“Oh – I just cannot wait.” Then Aunt Beatrice gave a little sigh. “This garden here at New Hall, I am so lucky to have enjoyed it all these years. It must be the finest in all of Hampshire. At least that is what your dear Papa, my darling brother, always told me when he came to visit.”

Rosella looked up from the flowers, as she heard her aunt give another little sigh.

“Did I come with him too?” she asked, trying to think of something cheerful to say, as her aunt’s elegant head was bowed, as if she was about to cry.

“Oh yes, my darling. As soon as you could put one foot in front of the other, you used to totter up and down the paths following your Papa.”

Aunt Beatrice’s eyes were shining brightly again as her mind travelled back in time.

“You tried so hard to copy him, when he told you the names of some of the roses, Gloire de Dijon – Cardinal Richelieu, but the words were much too hard for you.”

“I know them all now. Every single one!”

“He would have been proud of you,” Aunt Beatrice said. “Very very proud.”

And she shook her head, looking sad again.

Rosella’s Mama and Papa, Lord and Lady Ryland had died in Italy in a railway accident, when she was still a tiny child.

She could hardly remember them, but sometimes the echo of her Mama’s soft voice and the strong feel of her Papa’s hand holding hers would come to her when she was alone in the garden, walking along the same paths they had explored all those years ago.

Aunt Beatrice had brought her up, here at New Hall – the beautiful Georgian house that was not new anymore at all, but was almost a hundred years old.

“You are my greatest blessing, Rosella,” her aunt had told her many times. “What a very sad and lonely life I would have had without you – ”

Sadly Lord Peregrine Brockley, Aunt Beatrice’s husband, had passed away not long after they were married and before any children had been born to them.

When her brother and sister-in-law died, leaving their little daughter penniless and without a home, since the Ryland estate had passed to a distant elderly male cousin, who had no liking for small children, Aunt Beatrice had no hesitation in taking in her niece and loving her as if she was her own child.

Now Rosella had finished arranging the lilac and peonies and she lifted up the heavy vase to show her aunt.

“Oh, darling. How marvellous.”

The bright June sun shone in through the window, its bright rays falling on her aunt as she lay on the sofa.

“Aunt Beatrice – ” Rosella said, her heart feeling full of a strange anxious pain she had never felt before, as she noticed the dark shadows beneath her aunt’s eyes, “are you feeling quite all right? You look very tired.”

“I am absolutely fine. I have been a little short of breath these last few days. But do you know something? Talking of the roses has reminded me of something very important indeed.”

She sat up on the sofa, moving out of the bright patch of sunlight.

“Darling, please go to the bureau and bring me the little silver bag that is in the drawer.”

Rosella did as she was told.

Her aunt’s silver mesh purse felt heavy in her hands as she carried it back to the sofa.

“Now then.”

Aunt Beatrice undid the clasp.

“Your Birthday! I cannot quite believe it, but you are going to be seventeen years old. My darling little girl is all of a sudden quite grown-up.”

She tipped the purse upside down and a cascade of gold coins poured onto the little table beside the sofa.

“There. I think that should be more than enough to buy the loveliest dress we can find for the prettiest girl in Hampshire, don’t you?”

“Oh! Aunt Beatrice, what a lot of money!”

Rosella had never seen so many coins, all piled up together.

“No expense shall be spared, my darling – ”

She was about to say something else, but her voice caught in her throat and she gave a little cough.

“What is it?”

Rosella felt anxious again, as she saw that her aunt was pressing her hand to her side.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.”

Aunt Beatrice shook her head and, gathering up the coins, dropped them back in the purse.

“Here, my darling. Take this and keep it very safe. And as soon as I am feeling a bit brighter, we shall go into Winchester to the dressmaker. How would you like that?”

“I – think it would be lovely.”

Rosella felt very awkward. It did not seem right to take the purse with all that money inside, but her aunt was thrusting it into her hand.

“I have been putting these sovereigns aside for you for a long time,” she said. “Take them. They are yours.”

And then she lay back and closed her eyes.

“My darling, I really am feeling a little bit under the weather today. Please would you ask the maid to bring me a cup of tea? And then I think I will rest until luncheon.”

Now, standing under the rose trellis in the hot June sunshine, Rosella shivered, remembering that day and the one that followed.

Aunt Beatrice had not come into luncheon.

She had retired to her bedroom and, although she got up the next day as usual, when Rosella brought a bunch of pink-and-white striped tulips to her in the drawing room, she did not move or speak when Rosella approached her, but lay quite still with a gentle smile on her face.

She had passed away as she was sitting in the warm sunlight that streamed in through the window.

“Don’t fret, my dear, don’t fret.” Mrs. Dawkins, the housekeeper, had told Rosella, patting her kindly on the shoulder. “That’s a good way to go, why – her Ladyship would hardly have known a thing, so peaceful and happy in the sunshine here and knowing you would be in to her with the flowers in just a moment. Don’t grieve for her, my dear. We might all wish for so good an end.”

Mrs. Dawkins’s grey eyes were bright with tears as she spoke. Rosella could hardly bear to remember the sad expression on the housekeeper’s face.

And it still upset her terribly to recall the way that Pickle had called out “bye bye” in a sad little voice, as she carried his cage out of the drawing room, almost as if he understood what had happened.

“Your Ladyship?”

The soft Hampshire burr of Thomas’s deep voice sounded in Rosella’s ears, bringing her back to the present and she became aware again of the strong scent of the pink rose blooms.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes, of course I am. It’s so warm today.”

Rosella quickly passed a hand over her eyes to wipe away any tears.

“Yes, my Lady. But it’s June, so I suppose that we should expect it. Oh – ”

He looked down, blushing under his thick fringe of hair.

“What is it?”

“My Lady. I forgot it must be your birthday.”

“Oh, Thomas, please don’t worry about that.”

Rosella’s heart gave a little skip – someone had remembered after all!

“Go back to The Hall, my Lady, and I’ll bring the flowers to you,” he said, his face brightening up. “I knows how it is when there’s no family to think about you on your birthday. I’ve only my sister now and she’s in London.”

He then picked up the secateurs and began clipping some of the glorious blooms and laying them in the basket.

Rosella strolled back through the bright sunshine to the front door of The Hall and she was just stepping inside when Thomas caught up with her, holding out the basket that was brimming over with pink, white and golden roses.

“Many happy returns for today, my Lady,” he said, as he ducked his head in a little bow.

“Oh, my goodness!” squealed Mrs. Dawkins, who had just come into the hall.

“I had quite forgotten! Come Lady Rosella, we must make a big fuss of you.”

She took the basket of flowers and led the way to the parlour, a small room where Rosella preferred to sit now, since the drawing room held such sad memories.

“My Lady, I shall put these in water for you and bring you some of your favourite hot chocolate.”

Rosella sat in one of the armchairs by the fire.

It was strange to have someone else do for her what she had always done for her aunt.

But when Mrs. Dawkins returned with the roses in a tall glass vase, they looked so lovely she almost forgot how sad she was feeling.

And when the housekeeper set the vase down next to Pickle, who was sitting in his cage on the windowsill, he called out “goodness gracious” in such a surprised tone that Rosella had to laugh at him.

“Now, my Lady – ”

Mrs. Dawkins watched the parlourmaid coming in with a cup of steaming hot chocolate, before continuing,

“I well know that your dear aunt had planned a very happy day for you. She told me many a time she wanted to take you and buy you a fine gown.”

“Yes, that’s right, Mrs. Dawkins.” Rosella replied. “She even gave me some money, but – I don’t think – ”

“Well,” Mrs. Dawkins was determined to speak her mind. “I know how much your aunt wanted you to have that gown, my Lady, so I am going to call for the carriage to take you into Winchester. And you must then choose the loveliest silk and ask the dressmaker to make you the finest outfit you’ve ever had!”

Rosella shook her head.

“I couldn’t.”

“It’s what your aunt would have wanted. For her sake, Lady Rosella, you must do it!”

Mrs. Dawkins stood her ground firmly until Rosella finally nodded in agreement and then the kind housekeeper hurried away to speak to the coachman.

*

Mr. Algernon Merriman lounged back against the leather cushions of the Brockley coach, as it jolted along the bumpy country road and wished he had suggested to his friend, Lord Carlton Brockley, that he should use the open landau instead for their journey down to Hampshire.

It would have been much more comfortable on this hot and stuffy day than the cramped interior of the coach.

He looked across at Lord Brockley, who was sitting opposite him and thought that his companion was looking very much the worse for wear.

His Lordship’s heavy face, with its drooping jowls and thick black mutton-chop whiskers, was flushed with heat and shiny with sweat.

“Whose idea was this?” Lord Brockley growled, running the back of his hand over his brows. “We would have made much better time on the railway.”

“Now then your Lordship. One must keep up one’s appearances.”

Algernon pulled himself up on the seat so that he was sitting up properly.

He caught a glimpse of his reflected face in the small window above Lord Brockley’s head.

They were neither of them getting any younger, but at least he, Algernon, had a good thick head of fair hair still and his long pointed moustache, newly trimmed and waxed by his valet early that morning was perfection!

Luckily his reflection in the little window was not a very good one, so that the nasty black eye he had acquired a few days before, in most embarrassing circumstances, did not show up.

“You are taking possession of your new country residence, Carlton,” he continued. “You can’t just turn up in the Stationmaster’s dog cart like any old passenger. You must make an impression! Arrive in your coach, my Lord, with your coat-of-arms and your coachman, if you please.”

“Hah!” Lord Brockley was not at all convinced. He rapped on the roof and shouted out, “how much further?”

“It be just ten miles to the other side of Winchester, sir, we’ll soon be there,” came the muffled reply.

His Lordship growled impatiently.

“Ten miles too far,” he muttered.

“But just think of what awaits you,” Algernon said. “One of the most attractive seats in Hampshire, so I am told. Frankly, old man, I can’t understand why you haven’t claimed it long ago. It’s been yours for years.”

If he had been lucky enough to inherit a country estate from his elder brother, Albert Merriman – which was about as likely as the prospect of seeing a large pig with wings flashing past the carriage window, since he was only the fourth son of Sir Walgrave Merriman.

His three elder brothers, who were all in excellent health, would have to be out of the way before the family Manor House in Gloucestershire could be his and he would certainly not have allowed his sister-in-law to live there in the lap of luxury for several decades.

All that Algernon had managed to acquire in the way of property was a lease on a small flat in Bayswater, very insufficient for a gentleman such as himself, he felt.

Lord Brockley was in a very different position.

His Lordship had both a fine town house in London and another large country property at Epsom, which was most convenient, since it was right by the Racecourse and so not too far from the City.

It was only the death of his sister-in-law, Beatrice, and the recent decision of his wife to ban him from the London house, that had persuaded him to go to Hampshire.

He pulled a most unpleasant face and grunted,

“What? With the old battleaxe, Beatrice, my sister-in-Law still hanging around? No fear! Women! The bane of my life, Merriman, bane of my life! Want nothing to do with them, to be honest with you. Now Beatrice’s gone – there’ll be no problems.”

The fair s*x was a very sensitive subject with Lord Brockley just at that very moment.

Relations with his wife, Lady Brockley, had never been particularly cordial, but after the deplorable incident of just a few days ago, she had gone, most unnecessarily, in Algernon’s opinion, on the warpath and forbidden her husband entry to the Mayfair house.

Lord Brockley had been reduced to sleeping at his Club, which had led to his spending a great deal of time in the smoking room there and thus the plan to travel down to Hampshire and take possession of New Hall.

“New Hall – new start, your Lordship! What could be better?” Algernon had suggested, thinking that the more miles they could put between themselves and the furious Lady Brockley the better.

In spite of the sweat that was dripping from him in the sweltering interior of the coach, Algernon gave a little shiver as he remembered the expression of icy fury on that Lady’s aristocratic countenance and the sheer hatred that blazed from her steely eyes as she ejected both him and Lord Brockley from the front door of the Mayfair House.

“Where is our son?” she had hissed at her husband. “You have driven him away, you useless man! What have you done, you and that despicable friend of yours, to cause him such distress? Get out! And never let me see you here again.”

Algernon had tried to protest that it was surely her beloved offspring, Lyndon Brockley, who was at fault and why, he, Algernon, could hardly see at all out of the eye the young man had so impetuously shoved his fist into!

But Lady Brockley was having none of it and the elegant blue door slammed irrevocably shut behind them.

Algernon sighed.

What could he do, when young ladies found him so irresistibly attractive?

He knew that he always looked very dapper in his evening dress, especially the frock coat very cleverly cut to disguise a waistline that had, alas, begun to expand a little in recent years.

And the combined effect of his good tailoring, well-brushed hair and perfectly tweaked moustache had indeed worked its magic on the slightly tipsy young person in the blue dress, who had fallen into his arms on the stairs after dinner at the Brockley’s Mayfair house a few nights ago.

A most charming creature and pure chance that she just happened to be engaged to Lyndon, Lord Brockley’s son.

If only young Lyndon had then been a little more attentive, he might have been the one to catch her, when her foot became tangled in the train of her dress and the one who should have pressed his lips against her delicious young mouth.

“Merriman!” Lord Brockley’s angry voice recalled his companion to the jolting coach. “I cannot continue. I require some liquid refreshment. Immediately!”

One of the reasons why Algernon had remained so close to Lord Brockley for so long, was his willingness to fit in with whatever his Lordship wanted to do.

Now, as he peered out of the window, he could see that they were driving by houses and shop fronts.

“I think we must be in Winchester,” he said. “Let’s pause at the nearest hostelry.”

He reached up and thumped on the roof, shouting to the coachman to take them to an inn.

He was very thirsty himself and a flagon or two or even three of the finest local ale would not go amiss.

As the coach lurched to a halt, Algernon hurriedly fastened up the top button of the riding breeches he had worn for this journey into the country.

He had not worn them for ages and they really were far too tight for him now and most uncomfortable around his middle if he had to sit down for a long period of time.

But one must look the part of a country gentleman if one was to make the right impression on the pretty young girls who might be found in this rural locality.

Girls, like the delightful example he could see now, as he stepped out of the coach.

A slender little thing in a dark gown with the most sublime head of golden curls over which she was holding a parasol, was just walking out of the inn yard and up the High Street.

Lord Brockley stumbled down from the coach.

“Come on, Merriman,” he said impatiently. “Leave off chasing the girls for just one day, can’t you? This place looks most inviting.”

He peered into the interior of the inn and sniffed appreciatively at the mixed aromas of beer and roast beef.

“Merriman, we need go on no further,” he insisted with great determination. “I have had enough of travelling and botheration. We will stay here and have a good dinner and go on to New Hall later when we are fully refreshed.”

With a lingering glance at the graceful silhouette of the lovely golden-haired girl, now folding up her parasol and disappearing into a shop, Algernon Merriman tipped his hat over his forehead to disguise his huge black eye and followed his companion into the inn.