A Bouquet of Thorns by Tania Crosse

so happy until her wedding night, when she had learnt what marriage was
really
all about, and though Charles behaved like an utter gentleman during the day, even in her ignorance Rose realized he treated her unfeelingly in their bed. And within six months, her father was dead. The only thing that had kept her sane were her mad flights of freedom on Gospel’s back, and now he, too, was gone. She had lost everything she had sacrificed herself for by marrying Charles Chadwick, and her world lay in broken pieces at her feet.
    â€˜I did it for all of us,’ she told Florrie now, her voice quiet and trembling. ‘For you, for Father. So that I could keep Gospel. But I also did it for me.’ She lifted her head and her glistening eyes fixed on Florrie’s compassionate face. ‘I honestly thought Charles and I would be happy together. I’d never had a sweetheart before, you know that. I’d never known what it was to love a man. And now . . .’ She smiled wistfully, and even as she spoke the words, she wondered if they weren’t quite true, for hadn’t she felt about Seth . . .? ‘And now I never will. And I can never forgive Charles for what he’s done. Not ever. And if ’tweren’t for this child, I’d be gone from here for ever.’
    And because there was something else she had to do as well . . .

Four
    D r Power crumpled the letter into a ball in his fist and launched it into the fire, since that was the best place for it. He watched pensively as its edges scorched, then it uncurled a little before it finally fell victim to the hungry, licking flames.
    Rose Maddiford. Her maiden name – for like so many of those who knew her of old, he could never think of her as Mrs Chadwick – suited her well. She truly must be mad. The letter was a full written confession of how she had willingly helped Seth Collingwood, saying that she believed unequivocally in his innocence, and that the story that he had terrified her and threatened to kill Amber’s puppies was a complete and utter lie of Collingwood’s fabrication told in order to protect her. She knew that he would almost certainly be flogged for his escape, but he was already so ill and could the doctor please do anything to prevent it, especially as the poor man had been wrongly convicted in the first place and didn’t deserve his incarceration, let alone the terrible punishment. Dr Power had been so good to her in the past, especially with her father, and she trusted him to do what was morally right.
    The good doctor slumped back in his chair and tapped his joined fingertips against his pursed lips. Ah, Rose . . . The vision of the very first time he had clapped his stunned eyes upon her crept unbidden into his brain. What was it, six years ago, when he had taken up the position of prison surgeon? It had seemed a good way to provide a roof over the heads of his growing family, and also offered him the opportunity to help the working classes of the area who could not afford the normally expensive charges of a private doctor. He was given a house of almost equal standard to that of the governor, and was paid a reasonable wage to care for both the inmates and the prison staff, so that when the local community requested his attendance, he could do so at a fee they could afford. Among them were the workers at the Cherrybrook gunpowder mills. The first time he had been summoned there, it had been at the behest of a captivating, mettlesome young girl so slender she appeared quite ephemeral, like some fanciful painting from one of his children’s fairy-tale books, perched atop a massive, prancing, long-legged steed whose coat matched the shining ebony of her hair. She could have been no more than sixteen then, and at more than twenty years her senior, he was old enough to be her father, but he could not deny that, had he been younger and not already long and happily married, his heart would have been strongly