An English Rose

* * * *
Chapter 1

Upon the occasion of her mother's death, the green-shuttered cottage had become hers, and inside its ivied walls Hannah Whitechurch felt that not only her body dwelled, but her soul as well.

Outside the cottage, pendants of wisteria dripped from the thatched eaves and threaded over the chimneys, which in the mild English summer provided residence for a squirrel whose chattering broke every dawn. In springtime crocus and daffodil dotted the velvet lawn, eventually giving way to clematis the color of French rouge, which climbed above the cottage beds and outshone the less showy petals of the white begonias. Bees sprinkled the air, their hives not far away, found in some hollow log dripping with clover honey. This tiny Eden, the cottage and its circling wood, was known in the village by the name of Solitude.

At the south side of the little paradise there jutted a small half-timbered room with lead panes so bubbled they resembled boiled sugar more than glass, and every day Hannah gazed through them, enjoying the distorted, slightly humorous view of her two sisters as they stooped to hoe thistles, sweep the stepping stones, or shoo the cat away from the rabbit hutches. Today her youngest sister, Lucie, carried buckets of water through the garden and grumbled about her lot in life.

"I don't know why we must have so many animals," she said, sloshing the water that would fill the creatures' empty bowls. "Rabbits, dogs, a cat, canaries, even a thoroughly disagreeable hedgehog." The girl listed the entire menagerie on her fingertips. "And then there are the wild birds in winter, and that moth-eaten raccoon who insists upon scraps from the table. Don't you think it's rather too much, Jane?"

"Must you always complain, Lucie?" Jane asked, her usual quiet patience giving way. "Besides, you know very well that Hannah must use the animals as models for her watercolors. Now be quiet, or she'll hear you grousing about them and be upset."

Lucie flounced through the rows of flowers, her long skirts stirring the petals fallen on the sun-warmed path, dandelion wisps clinging to the hem. "You'd think that Hannah would have memorized every feather and tuft of fur by now, as many times as she's sketched the creatures. A lot of trouble they are. Every bite they eat means we do with less, one way or another."

Jane, dark as a Gypsy and syrup-voiced, wielded the pair of shears in her hands, cutting a purple iris at its base and catching it in a basket as it fell. "I've yet to see you do without a meal, Lucie. And it's uncharitable of you to say such things about Hannah's animals."

"Uncharitable to whom? Hannah or the animals?"

"You're being cheeky and I'll not answer. Make yourself useful and cut some daffodils after you've fed the rabbits. The yellows go well with my purples."

Hannah, the eldest sister, sat listening through the open window. She told herself that Lucie's complaints weren't really malicious, just born of self-indulgence combined with an obsession for lace-trimmed dresses designed to catch the eye of any young man who might happen to bowl down the lane in a shiny curricle. Sighing, she used her brush to blend raw umber with lead white, creating the fur on the underside of a wild hare's belly. The little painting was her latest in a series of pictures that she hoped to sell to a London greeting card publisher. A few months ago she had sold two dozen watercolor paintings, and prior to that the publisher had bought designs for a line of ladies' notecards.

Hannah paused in her painting and rapped on the window with the end of her paintbrush. "Girls?" she called. "Shall I stop and make tea? Aren't you parched from the sun?"

Jane ceased her clipping of the irises and pushed black ringlets from a brow made dewy with heat before peering at Hannah in her nearsighted way. "Are you sure it's no bother?"

"None at all. I'll call you when it's ready." Hannah rose and passed through the parlor, wending her way past the crowd of furniture, her hands touching the back of a worn chintz sofa, the arm of a slipper chair, then the pineapple-shaped newel post in the same way they might reach out and caress the shoulders of dear old friends. Lucie had left raisin buns baking in the oven, and as Hannah smelled their spice she made a mental note to compliment her sister. Lucie, despite her blitheness, always needed flattery, for she was self-conscious over her plain looks, especially since her most consuming aim in life was to catch a young man of means--handsome, if at all possible. To everyone's astonishment, she had managed to attract one fine specimen by the name of Mr. David Smythe. Indeed, over the last months the effort to entice Mr. Smythe to the altar and securely noose him had become a family project.

Hannah shook her head over the ironies of life. Where Lucie was ordinary, Jane possessed a great, quiet beauty, and yet claimed no care at all for men or marriage or the blessings of children. She was too inward for intimacy, Hannah thought, spending hours in the woods alone, scribbling haunting lines of poetry or playing melodies on an old flute. There was a pool in the woods too, a dark, glassy place where Jane believed the fairies danced and where she went to sit quietly and read her poems in the green half-light.

Appreciating the squares of sunshine dancing through the kitchen windows now, Hannah removed the copper kettle from the hob, poured water into the teapot through the strainer, then let the brew steep while she removed the browned raisin buns from the oven.

"Girls!" she called again through the open casement. "Come before your tea cools." The price of this tea is dearer than gold, she wanted to add, inwardly chafing as she often did. Her sisters were habitually unmindful of the price of all the little luxuries they expected her to provide.

A moment later, like warm summer breaths the young ladies blew in, pulling off straw hats and smoothing muslin skirts, one setting aside her cuttings of iris, the other reaching to retrieve three rose-patterned plates with the edges chipped. A dish of sugar was whisked from the pantry, and fresh cream splashed from a pail to a pitcher. The cottage boasted no dining room, so the trio seated themselves at the kitchen table, spreading mended napkins across petticoated laps, helping themselves to buns with dollops of yellow butter and green mint jelly.

"I heard a piece of gossip today," Jane said, settling into her chair and striking up a conversation as she stirred sugar into her tea.

"Oh, tell us, tell us," Lucie begged.

"Well," Jane began in a mysterious voice, "a certain neighbor is going to be returning to our little hamlet. I'll bet you can't guess which one."

Lucie squirmed in anticipation. "Who? Who?"

Jane chewed her bun, prolonging the suspense before announcing with an important smile, "It's Mr. St. James. He's coming back to Twinings and--"

"Mr. St. James." Hannah had glanced up sharply. "Where did you hear that?"

"In the village. He hasn't been in residence at his estate for ages and ages, you know. Scarcely anyone in the village even remembers when he was last here. His Aunt Tilda told the vicar that her nephew had been in all sorts of exciting places--India, for one. And more recently in London, where he has an important law practice. They say he's a most sought-after bachelor," Jane whispered. "There's a positive competition for his attentions among all the young ladies in London. No doubt his conquests are numerous there."

Hannah buttered her bread and muttered dryly under her breath, "No doubt. Just like the rest of his breed."

Ignoring her sister's caustic remark, Lucie turned to Jane. "I don't recall ever having seen the master of Twinings."

"Some of the gossips in the village remember. They remember him as a young blade going off to university. Divinely handsome, according to opinion."

"He's a bachelor, you say?"

"A widower, actually. And there's a daughter. But calm yourself, Lucie. If a man of Mr. St. James's caliber were to go looking for a woman to court, he'd not so much as glance once in the direction of such a humble cottage as ours."

"Or if he did look in our direction," Hannah put in ruefully, "he'd be looking to dally and nothing else. You put him out of your mind this minute, Lucie, and if he happens to go riding down our lane, don't make eyes at him even if he looks your way."

Lucie threw Hannah an impatient glance. "I don't know why you're so sour on gentlemen. I shall be glad to have a man of authority in residence at Twinings again, since the estate is only a stone's throw away. There are so many of those dreadful Irishmen tramping the roads these days. They trudge along in their ragged clothes, peering in windows, skulking about barns. Why, I've started to be positively afraid when I go to bed at night."

"Afraid they'll all pass you by instead of climbing through your window and whisking you away?" Jane needled her sister, her eyes twinkling. "I saw you peeking through the shrubbery at one of those Irishmen the other day, admiring him, watching as he rolled up his sleeves in the heat."

"I did not! How dare you accuse me of it."

"Smooth your feathers, Lucie." Jane smiled. "You needn't defend yourself. I'm honest enough to admit that I've watched, too. Irishmen have an air about them, don't you think? Wild and melancholy, and they sing the most wonderful Gaelic tunes." Jane's eyes had softened with her imaginings, which were always fanned by legend and mythology and the dark, dreamy poems of Lord Byron, which she read as often and with as much ardor as Lucie primped before her mirror. "Of course, Mr. Rochester was quite a romantic gentleman, too. So rich and yet so tormented."

Hannah passed the plate of raisin buns again with a wry expression. "I'd rather have an Irishman than one of Rochester's ilk--deceitful and accustomed to getting his way. At least Irishmen don't pretend to be more than they are. But they're hardly romantic, Jane. Most are starving beggars these days. Or thieves."

The soft-hearted Jane shook her head sadly. "They say that the crop failure in Ireland is horrendous again this year. People are leaving the country in droves."

All at once Lucie gave a little cry and retrieved an envelope from her deep skirt pocket, interrupting the conversation. "I almost forgot, Hannah. Here's a letter for you. Miss Primton, the postmistress, brought by it while Jane and I were gardening."

Noting the return address on the creamy parchment, Hannah sucked in a breath, hopeful and anxious at once. The engraved letters read Hildesheimer Ltd., and she slipped a fingernail past the seal, drew out the folded paper, and read. Her two sisters stared at her with expectancy, knowing how important the news would be, not only to Hannah but to them. Money--which they had begun to think of with a capital M--was a constant worry that niggled constantly at their otherwise tranquil life at Solitude.

"'We're sorry to inform you that we aren't buying any more designs at present.... '" Hannah read. She paused, then finished reading the rest silently. After a moment, she swallowed disappointment, refolded the letter, and stuffed it back in the envelope. Her sisters stared at her expectantly, and as always, Hannah mustered a bold front and explained, "The publisher suggests that I wait until after the new year, girls. Possibly then they will be interested in buying more watercolors."

Jane put a hand on Hannah's sleeve soothingly. "No need to worry, dear. What's a few months? We shall hold on until then." But in the silence that followed, all three young women glanced with apprehension around the safe, well-loved kitchen. Although cramped with cupboards of mismatched plates, untidy bunches of drying herbs, tea canister collections, and baskets of sleeping spaniels, the place was welcoming and clean and always filled with a surfeit of delicious things to eat--pastries, Ceylon teas, liqueur-filled bonbons, coffees--a bounty that Hannah provided unstintingly. But in spite of the older sister's thrifty management in other areas, the funds were slowly running out, and the girls considered it their great good fortune that Hannah's watercolors had provided a steady if meager income to sustain them. That source was waning now. If it were to fail, what would happen to them all?

"What about the other publisher--Fanshire?" Jane asked, her heart pounding in the way it always did when life became too uncertain. "Isn't that the name?"

Hannah shook her head. "They wrote me three months ago to say that their cards were to be manufactured in Germany from now on and that they wouldn't be needing British artists."

"Are there no other possibilities?"

"There are always possibilities, Jane." Hannah's expression reflected none of the turmoil, none of the fear that she herself had been experiencing for months. It would not do to start a panic in the house, and her pride kept her from accepting the grim eventuality that she might be unable to continue to care for her sisters in the usual way.

Reassured by the strength that glowed in her sister's steady hazel eyes, Jane relaxed. Hannah was strong-minded and practical, two qualities that neither she nor Lucie possessed in great abundance. Hannah would surely think of something to do, some course of action to keep them all afloat. If not, well, perhaps if Lucie were to catch that well-to-do young man of hers...

Apparently Hannah's thoughts were running in a parallel vein, for she glanced at Lucie, tapped a finger to her temple, and said, "Don't fret, Lucie. I've promised that you shall have a new gown and you shall. We'll buy you a length of silk, blue to match your eyes. Mr. Smythe will be simply bowled over when he sees you strolling along in it, wearing a matching blue bonnet with a plume in the band. Now drink your tea. It's cooling. And see if you can rouse yourself afterward to go and pick up your shawl and parasol in the parlor before we all fall over them."

"You needn't mother me, Hannah," Lucie said, squeezing a precious slice of lemon into her cup before savoring its tangy taste upon her tongue. "After all, I'm at an age where I could marry and be mistress of my own house."

"Quite true. But I advise you to think less of marriage and more of what it is you want to do with yourself."

"You aren't going to start with that lecture again, I hope," came the sulky reply. "Just because you like to paint flowers and rabbits in little designs doesn't mean that--"

"Lucie," Jane interrupted, falling into the usual role of peacemaker. She understood both Hannah's need for order and her younger sister's vanity. "Hannah doesn't mean that you should be interested in painting. She's just trying to--"

"You needn't explain my point of view," Hannah cut in. "Lucie is right. If she has no interest in anything but marriage, it's wrong of me to condemn her."

"It's just that you're sour on marriage, isn't it?" Lucie demanded, unable to fathom that any woman could willingly do without a man. "Heaven only knows why. I suppose it's because you want things your own way, and a man would interfere. I've tried often enough to figure it out without success. Won't you even consider having a suitor?"

But Hannah directed the conversation away from the subject. "We need to return to the matter at hand," she said firmly, setting down her teacup. "Whether we want to or not, I fear we'll have to tighten our purse strings yet again. For a start, we can do without lemons. They cost a fortune."

Lucie made a displeased face, feeling as if she'd been singled out for punishment. Beside her, Jane yanked Hannah's sleeve enthusiastically. "I've an idea. We'll have lots of vegetables from the garden as summer goes on. Perhaps we could take a load of them to London, to the market in Covent Garden, and try to set up shop in one of those quaint little stalls."

"Mix with that rabble?" Lucie said, horrified. "Mr. Smythe would never glance my way again if he saw me in such a place, selling things out of a barrow."

"But we can hardly cater to Mr. Smythe if we're starving to death," Jane pointed out, abandoning the usual forbearant tone she used with Lucie. "We have to do our share. Hannah has carried the burden too long. Perhaps ... perhaps it's time for me to go out and find employment somewhere."

Lucie rolled her eyes at Jane's naïveté. "What could you do? Write poetry? And who would pay you for that?"

Hannah held up her hands for peace and asked her sister gently, "What sort of employment, Jane, dear?"

"Well, I could go into service." The words were awkward, as if Jane's tongue could barely get around them. "I daresay Mr. Smythe knows of some family in the city who could use a lady's maid or ... or a cook's helper."

"What do you know about such work, about having to please some high-nosed lady?" Hannah asked gently. "While you were serving her you'd doubtless have to fend off the advances of her lecherous husband as well. Mother would fly from her grave and haunt me day and night if I allowed you to go into service. Besides, we aren't in such dire straits yet, are we now?" And even if we were, she added privately, I would never permit it. Jane is not one to labor in a city clearing grates or lugging hot water up to milady's scented bath. She is a creature made for secret woods, imaginary moors, and the painted seas in books. "We'll think of something. Let's not spoil the afternoon with our fretting. You girls go out into the sunshine. I'll put away the tea things and then get on with my watercolors. Besides, I'll be glad to be rid of your long faces and gloomy talk for a while. Now run on."

As Hannah spoke she rose from the table and went to the stone sink, where she used the ball of soap Jane made from lavender to wash the teacups and plates. She heard the sound of her sisters' quick footsteps on the porch; they did not hesitate to take their chance for a few hours of freedom. "I'm too easy on them," she muttered irritably to herself. "Allowing them to believe that they're genteel ladies instead of ordinary country girls. Mama was genteel--much too well bred for her own good. Look where it got her."

Hannah thought about her mother, the woman for whom she had secretly always felt a measure of contempt. Georgianne Whitechurch had died when Hannah was still in her adolescent years, but Hannah remembered her vividly, remembered the mother who had not appreciated the man she had married. Poor Papa. What a gentle soul he had been, soft-voiced and hound-eyed. Even after Georgianne's waspish words, he had gazed at this wife worshipfully, as if she were a fragile and unapproachable queen. He had been a traveling minister and rarely home during Hannah's girlhood, for his duties called him away most of the year. Hannah had always considered Papa's forced absences a pity, for Harold Whitechurch had adored the cottage. And just as her father had anxiously anticipated his quarterly homecomings, Hannah had anticipated her papa's arrivals with barely concealed joy. Each time, after the travel-weary Harold had stepped through the door and greeted his family, taken supper with them, he had solemnly held out his hand and invited Hannah to take a walk. It had become a ritual never to be broken. Together father and daughter had strolled through the woods and fields where they breathed in the sweet wood scents and the damp green moss that colored the stones beneath the elm trunks. And yet, although their footsteps trod the same paths and their fingers stayed entwined, Hannah felt that Papa was never entirely with her, attuned instead to the wind sounds and the cloud shapes, the flickering of bird wings in branches. He had given the cottage and its surrounding woods its curious name, a name he had chosen from a line by his favorite poet.

"'I have never found a companion that was so companionable as solitude,'" Papa often recited as they wandered along. He would gaze up at the sky after he quoted, then smile wistfully and add, "Mr. Thoreau understood. Understood completely."

By the time Hannah was three she could quote the lines herself. "But what do they mean, Papa?" she asked. "What do Mr. Thoreau's lines really mean?"

Her father only gave his soft smile. "They mean just what they say, child. Just what they say. Only think about it. Solitude never wounds you, never betrays or disappoints. It's always there, waiting silently, just what you expect."

Now, as the last spoon was dried and put in the cupboard, Hannah recalled the conversation. Pensive, she returned to her study and, after seating herself behind the rickety, paint-stained desk, stared at the opposite wall. Absently she fingered the sable-hair brushes, the old quill pen, the mica-flecked pebbles and assortment of odd shells she used as models for her drawings. Her father had shot himself with a borrowed pistol after discovering Georgianne's affair with a titled gentleman. Hannah had never forgiven her mother for it. Jane and Lucie didn't know the details of the tragedy, and Hannah protected their innocence. At the time they had been too young to understand either their father's untimely death or the reason for it, and throughout the years Hannah had continued to keep the ugliness from them. Even now, she made it a policy never to allow distress to show in front of her sisters, for they hadn't the strength of mind to endure undue anxiety. Until today, Hannah had done no more than hint at the direness of their financial situation, hoping that she could continue to sell her illustrations, that the money she earned would be adequate to provide Lucie with new gowns and Jane the freedom to wander. But now that the money was slowly drying up...

Lifting her head, Hannah ran a finger over the diamond of sunshine shimmering on the scarred desk, her eyes softening when the white cat jumped to the casement and sat watching her, his eyes blinking in their lazy way, his tail curled about his body like a long silk rope.

"Ah, to be a creature like you," she mused, pointing her pen at him. "To laze about in the valerian all day dreaming, sunning, waiting for the bowl of fresh cream to be set down in the evening. You're fortunate, my friend," she told him, "not to know what it is to be afraid of the future, not to know what it is to feel fear even in the midst of a little paradise like ours. Stare at me then, as if you think I'm mad. Perhaps I am mad. But be still, at least, so that I can do a sketch. The dairyman's nieces like cats. Perhaps, if I'm lucky, he'll accept my drawing for a week's worth of milk."