Chapter Sixteen
Edmund longed to pace, but long walks and rides were causing him increasing discomfort as of late. Even the joy of being with Rose as she wandered around, exclaiming with delight in each new development, could not fully dull the aches and pains he felt each evening. The thought of Kew Gardens made him blanch and feel far older than his thirty-five years. A small, cowardly part of him thought of finding some excuse, some new temptation to distract Rose from the promise of their delayed “honeymoon.”
It was during one of these prolonged moments of self-loathing in his rooms that he heard Rose’s excited exclamation from across the hall. Although she still shared his rooms at night, she always bathed and dressed in her own chambers.
“Oh, Jane! This is from him! Quickly, fresh ink and paper, for I must write him back at once.”
Edmund listened as Jane, the ladies’ maid he had elevated from housemaid at Mrs. Brown’s suggestion, hurried to do his wide’s bidding—and his entire heart quaked with fear and rage.
Who is she writing to? What man is this? Why is she so eager?
It could be someone from the Royal Horticultural Society. Perhaps she has received some important correspondence about the paper she co-authored with her father. Yes, that’s it, a letter with praise and critique, and she is writing back to thank the sender.
Or...
Thoughts of the long-hidden letters he’d found in Catherine’s wardrobe rankled him and made him less sensible than he should be.
Or, it is a lover.
But who? How? Unlike Catherine, Rose is no coquette, no flirt. We have been to some quiet suppers with the finer families in the district, but nothing as lavish as a ball, not since the one held here.
There was only one way to put his mind at ease.
Edmund crossed the hall, leaning heavily on his cane, clutching the carved knob with white knuckles. “Rose, my dear?”
There was a gasping noise from within. “Edmund! Yes?”
He frowned. Rose’s usual response was to carol out, “Come in!” if she did not rush to open the door herself.
“I came to bid you goodnight.”
“Ah. Jane was just leaving. I will come to you presently.”
The door remained shut, and it felt like iron bars had slid suddenly across his heart, blocking him from Rose’s warmth and candor, two things he had greatly admired about her right from the start.
With a heavy heart and throbbing leg, he retired to his own rooms and waited.
How will I handle this? Should I confront her with my suspicions? Demand she show me every piece of post she receives?
What a tyrant I would become! But isn’t that what a deceitful heart deserves?
He put his head in his hands, smothering a groan.
It startled him to hear his door open and feel Rose’s light weight indent the bed beside him. “Oh, poor Edmund. Do you have a headache? Would you like me to make you some tea?”
“Catherine never entered the kitchen. That is why we have a cook.”
“Yes, but it is late, and Mrs. Taylor shouldn’t be troubled for something so simple. When we stay in London, will the staff come with us? Or shall I cook?” Rose asked, her soft hand, with slightly calloused fingertips, stroking through his hair and over his brow.
She is so caring still. I can’t believe it—no, I will not believe it. I will trust my wife.
It seemed like the iron in his heart melted in a sudden surge of heat. Edmund caught Rose’s hand and kissed it, pressing it to his cheek. “I only have need of you.”
Smiling, Rose settled herself beside him, sitting up with her back against the bolster. In her long white nightdress, she looked like an angel, beautiful in her own right, without need for paints and powders.
“Tell me about London. Where will we stay? What will we do first?” Rose asked.
Edmund fell back against the bolster, but it wasn’t long until he collapsed against her side and let himself be settled so that his head was in her lap, her fingers moving in loving strokes across his forehead from temple to temple.
“I have written to request a suite at the Brown Hotel. We will leave by train quite early so as to avoid the hottest part of the day. Jane and Walters will travel with us and attend to the luggage. We’ll take cabs most places, and I shall conserve my strength for walking the grounds of Kew Gardens with you. We can go there as often as you like.”
Instead of making a glad exclamation, Rose hummed softly, a pleased but somehow hesitant noise.
“What is it?” His shoulders tensed, waiting.
“Perhaps... Perhaps there is something I would like even more than Kew Gardens. But you may not like it.”
“I am sure I would like anything that pleases you, my dear.” He opened his eyes, looking into hers, watching the way her hair fell free over her shoulders at night.
“There is a man I wish to see—for both of us to see.”
When he said nothing, she continued, words rushing from her pale pink lips, “A doctor who specializes in setting broken bones and making braces that straighten injured limbs, and even feet. Dr. Robert Owens is his name, and he has a practice in London, only a few streets south of Harley Street. He has written to me today and says he can see us, but to examine you, then to measure your leg and make the specialized brace, it will take at least two weeks, and you will have to return to his premises for fittings. And as it works—slowly, he tells me—you will have to return to London every few months to have it adjusted further still.”
Edmund blinked up at her, slowly lifting his head. “What?”
“The brace is leather, lined with fleece so it doesn’t irritate the skin, and then metal brackets are fitted on the outside where the leg is twisted inward. Slowly, with the muscles and bones held in the proper place, they will begin to straighten. He says that without an examination he cannot tell, but the bone—the bone may need to be rebroken, and that would cause significant pain. I did not finish my letter in response to him yet, Edmund, for this is wholly up to you,” Rose clasped her hands at her middle, holding them tight under her breastbone, “but I would prefer a honeymoon where you may be healed and find lasting relief to any botanical visit. Flowers die and bloom again, but I only have one husband.”
Words were sorting themselves out in Edmund’s mind. At first, his relief blotted out all of her words, but as they made sense, Edmund understood two things. His wife was willing to sacrifice what he had promised her for his greater good, and that her diligent studies had yielded a course of action he’d never considered, nor indeed ever heard of.
“Have I overstepped a wife’s bounds? I was afraid of doing so, but I felt it better to see if Dr. Owens would even see us before telling you.” Rose’s hands clasped and unclasped, fingers knitting nervously at her bust. “I know Mama would tell me it was none of my concern and not to meddle.”
Edmund found his voice at last. “I will go see this Owens.”
Rose’s hands fell, shoulders sagging as the tension left her. “Oh, that’s wonderful! And... You are not displeased?”
“On the contrary,” he sat up, scooting around to sit up beside her and bring her under his arm, “I am beyond pleased. You have spent a considerable amount of time and effort on my behalf.”
He struggled to say how much that meant to him. He had believed that it was his job to make a woman happy enough to stay with him, such as he was. In that, Rose had seemed suitable—quiet and content with a simple life as opposed to one of glamor and endless society.
“I can’t thank you enough, my love. But you must not sacrifice your time in London. We could invite Ivy or your mother along as your companion so you can see the sights and tour Kew Gardens as I promised. I will not have you waiting in some doctor’s stuffy surgery.”
“But I will not have you waiting alone! I would rather stay with you than see a hundred gardens!” Rose protested. A frown fled across her features, replaced with a slight blush. “It is our honeymoon. I know that it is often the fashion for a well-to-do woman to bring a traveling companion with her, but I confess I have enjoyed the days we are alone at Cadfael House the best. There is only one thing I like better.”
Her words intoxicated him, and his head weaved closer to hers. “What?” His lips just barely brushed hers.
“The nights.” Her lips found his, soft, like the velvety inner petals of the flower that shared her name.
“Mm. My darling Rose...”
“I do hope that Dr. Owens can help you, Edmund, for one selfish reason,” she whispered, fingers kneading along his arm.
“Oh? And what is that?”
“Well, perhaps if he can, then you will not worry about clumsiness or disappointing me—not that I could ever be disappointed in you, Edmund! And not that you should feel it necessary. I’m happy as things are.”
Edmund freed his arm to scoop her closer to him, one hand tangling in her hair, touching her with a possessive luxury that he’d never allowed himself before.
Rose made it clear that she approved, burrowing into his touch as if trying to mold their bodies together.
“I’m happy as things are—but soon, I believe I will find a way to make you happier still. With or without the doctor’s assistance, Rose. You give me all the healing that I could want.”