Red Grow the Roses (10 page)

‘Thank you,' she whispered, and burst into tears as the strain found release at last. He rescued the glass from her grasp and as she pitched forward against him he laid a hand lightly on her hair and stroked it.

‘There, there: you're safe now.'

‘I'm sorry!' she wailed. ‘Oh, I'm so sorry!'

‘Don't worry. Don't worry.' He rocked her ever so slightly.

‘I've got you all wet!'

‘It's nothing.'

Choking down her sobs, she sat up. She knew the mascara she'd applied so thickly that morning would be tracked down her cheeks and she tugged at the bright blonde tresses of her hair, trying to make them look less dishevelled and succeeding not one whit. The man was studying her, his brows knotted.

‘Now why were you on that bridge? Don't you realise how dangerous it was?'

Lilla lowered her eyes and looked up at him through her wet lashes. His face was set in a look of sympathetic concern, but his gaze was drifting all over her: throat and breasts and hands and back to her throat. Possibly he wasn't even aware of it. Her heart juddered, quickening. ‘That was the point,' she answered with a tremulous smile.

‘My poor girl …' His voice was low and pleasant despite being so weirdly formal: a voice made to whisper in maidenly ears and make suggestions to turn their owners pink. ‘Is it that bad?'

She covered her mouth with her hand, unable to answer.

‘A man?'

‘My boyfriend. He threw me out.' The words were inadequate to express her feeling of betrayal, but the wobble in her voice and the quiver of her lip made up for them a little.

‘Are you … in trouble?'

‘Not in that way.' She shuddered. ‘I'm cold.'

He glanced apologetically at the fireplace which, behind its guardian chinoiserie brass lions and its polished grate, was empty. ‘I'm sorry, I haven't lit a fire in months …'

Lilla thrust her hands into his, searching for warmth, but they were as icy as her own. He jumped a little at the contact, and his eyes widened. ‘Please light it,' she whispered: she really was shaking now, the waves of trembling rippling across her shoulders. ‘I'm freezing here.'

He frowned. ‘The boiler is on in the rose house. Do you think you could make it there?'

Lilla didn't want to move but nodded, but then when she tried to rise her legs gave way and she sagged against him. He caught her deftly, as chivalrous as he had been on the bridge, and hefted her into his arms like a bride with a muttered ‘Oops-a-daisy'. Though he wasn't a broadly built man her weight seemed like nothing to him. She looked up with wide eyes and parted lips, responding instinctively to his strength.

‘Do I know you, young lady? Have we met?'

Oh, thought Lilla: no one had called her ‘young lady' since junior school. And then it had always been a term of disapproval. ‘I don't know. Have we?'

‘What's your name?'

‘Lillabet.'

He shook his head and carried her out of the room.

‘What's yours?'

The corridor walls were stone, the plaster stained and bulging with damp, the floor beneath his feet bare boards that creaked alarmingly. Lilla caught glimpses of doors opening on to small empty rooms with barred windows. He hesitated before answering her. ‘Robert Wakefield.'

‘Wakefield's Roses?' she asked, snuggling up ever so slightly against him, pretending an ease she didn't feel. She hadn't relaxed in days, had barely even slept, her skin crawling restlessly at the touch of her clothes. His clothes, old as they were, smelled a little dusty, and that was all. ‘Is that you, Mr Wakefield?' She thought he would like being addressed as ‘Mr' by a young woman and she was right: she saw the slight, proud lift of his chin.

‘That's right. We supply flowers right across the country. As you'll see.'

Down through the twisting bowels of that house they passed, through wafts of damp and patches of darkness where there were no windows at all, until they came to a big room which though equally bleak contained the first signs of modernity she'd seen since entering the building: stacked cardboard boxes, rolls of cellophane and labels. Robert walked straight through, his stride and his grip no less easy now for having carried her this far, and shouldered open a large wooden door. He carried her over the threshold and they were outside.

No, not outside. It was a cloister, she thought, like in a monastery, but triangular not square. It was the area enclosed by the complex's forbidding outer walls. Robert paused, giving her time to look around. The whole area was roofed in with glass upon which the rain was drumming, and the glass was supported by the most elaborate wrought-iron frame held up by white-painted iron columns. All around them sounded the chuckle of water being channelled away down drainpipes. It was also warmer here; not quite a hothouse warmth, but after the dank chill of the building it seemed almost muggy. Growing under the glass were ranks and ranks of rosebushes in full leaf, their buds as full and crimson as pouting lips, the air fragrant with their scent.

With a shift of her weight Lilla indicated that she wanted to try and stand, and Robert left her slip down and set her feet on the floor. The paths between the rose-beds were of soft flaked bark, mounded so deep that she felt like she was standing on cushions. She filled her lungs with the perfumed air.

‘Roses! – in April?'

He acknowledged her surprise with a tilt of his head. ‘A unique variety, grown only here. It's a talent of mine.' He smiled thinly. ‘A gift, you might say.' From his pocket he produced a hooked pruning knife, a gesture which made gooseflesh prickle Lilla's forearms. ‘Green fingers.'

She turned slowly on her heel to scan the glasshouse. ‘It's amazing.'

‘This land used to be all marsh once. Sour grass and reeds and rushes, rough grazing in the summer and duck-hunting in the winter.' The way he said it, so melancholy, sounded as if he remembered it personally and she gave him a searching look. ‘They built this place out here because it was isolated in those days. It was a private asylum,' he explained.

‘For madmen?'

‘For the better class of madmen. This area was the exercise yard, where the patients could take the air in safety.' He shrugged. ‘Then they built the railway along the embankment and the City grew out eastward to surround this place, and the land was drained and the river tamed. And I bought the building because … because here I could grow my roses.'

‘May I?' she asked, indicating the bushes.

‘Please, be my guest.'

Still a little unsteady, she walked a few paces to the nearest bush. It stood as tall as she did, the young leaves bright green and the older ones so dark they were almost black. The blooms, mostly still in bud, were a deep vibrant crimson but with a black stain at the base of each petal, and when she bent to sniff one that was half-open she inhaled not the strong musky perfume associated with red roses – a reek that always made her think of bathroom air-freshener – but a wild and spicy scent that reminded her of patchouli and caraway and melted muscovado sugar.

‘They're beautiful.' They were almost perfect, in fact; not one overblown or misshapen flower head or discoloured leaf. The blossoms were borne on tall straight stems, and the only flaw seemed to be that these were clad in wicked-looking red-tinted thorns. ‘What's the variety?'

‘Rosa “Sanguine Heart”.' He went to a nearby bush and cut a flower on a long stem.

‘And what does “sanguine” mean?'

There was the slightest of pauses. ‘Optimistic,' he answered, with such inapposite chill that she bit her lip, not wanting the tension in her breast to burst out as laughter. ‘They've won RHS awards, if you know anything about that sort of thing.'

‘Sorry, no.' Rubbing her arms, she returned to his side.

‘Would you care for one?' He offered her the rose, its dark-red petals so charged with colour that it seemed to throb. ‘Be careful of the thorns. They have to be cut off before shipping.'

She smiled up at him, taking the stem with care. ‘Can I sit near the boiler?'

‘Of course.' He offered his arm and she fell in beside him as he walked her through the mass of plants. Under his worn sleeve the limb was hard with muscle, but the fingers he rested on her wrist were long and delicate. She imagined those hands trailing drifts of cobweb finer than lace and the unexpected image made her shiver. She pressed closer to his arm to reassure herself of his solidity and felt him respond with an intake of breath.

‘What's this?' In the centre of the strange garden was a stone sarcophagus, knee-high, with a slate slab for a cover. There were lines of script carved into the stone. Robert didn't reply. ‘Is it a grave? Why've you got a grave in your garden, Mr Wakefield?'

‘This way, Lillabet.' He tried to lead her past but she dragged from his arm enough to read the inscription: no name or date but a verse of poetry.

‘Swinburne,' she said. She'd had to set a Swinburne poem to music for one of her college projects and she recognised the rhythmic cadences and the bleak sentiment.

The tight line of Robert's lips relaxed. ‘Yes. A fine poet, much underestimated in the modern age.'

‘Is it a grave?'

‘Not yet. There's no one in it at the moment, anyway.'

‘Is it yours?'

‘I imagine you think I'm morbid,' said Robert, sounding a little uneasy. ‘But it doesn't hurt to be prepared in advance.'

‘You sound like you're looking forward to it. In the poem, I mean.'

‘Do I?' He looked away.

Lilla gave him a conspiratorial smile. ‘You're a bit of a goth, aren't you, Mr Wakefield? The clothes and everything?'

He frowned. ‘A goth? Oh – oh, yes, I see …'

‘Don't worry. I have a lot of goth friends. And I love the clothes.' She indicated her own: a black velvet coat-dress, very fitted to the waist but full below, that buttoned all the way down from the neckline to the hem. It showed off her figure admirably despite displaying not a hint of skin. ‘Especially the women's underwear, don't you think?' she added with a sweet grin.

A flush mounted in his pale cheek and he set off again, leading her with a firm grip on her arm. ‘Let's get you to the boiler.'

‘Oh, yes. I need warming through.'

He stumbled ever so slightly.

‘I am grateful, you know, Mr Wakefield. It's so kind of you looking after me like this.'

‘Think nothing of it.'

‘No one else cares. No one else would have come and saved me the way you did. So quick. So strong.'

‘Here we are,' he mumbled. They'd reached the far wall of the cloister, where a great black cast-iron boiler stood. It looked Victorian, with ornate brass dials and levers, but from the quiet hum it was giving off the interior fittings were very modern. Pipes snaked away from it, disappearing into the earth. Robert released her and bent to look intently into the inspection panel, then tap some of the dials. ‘It's gas-fired,' he said, clearly trying to focus on the new topic. ‘I had it converted. It's on a low setting now we're into spring, but if you stand close it's quite warm.' Straightening up he glanced back at her and his eyes opened wide. ‘What are you doing?'

While his attention had been on the boiler, she'd been opening the buttons up the front of her coat – or to be precise, her dress, since she had nothing but underwear on beneath it. The sodden velvet buttons oozed water under her fingertips as she slipped them one by one. ‘I have to take it off to dry it out,' she said softly. ‘You don't mind, do you?'

He stared. ‘What is this?'

Not as dumb as he might seem, she thought: he was starting to guess. That Dickensian scene on the bridge: the rescue of the swooning maiden – now this, her costume. How long would it take him to work it out? ‘Haven't you ever seen ladies' underwear before, Mr Wakefield?' Slipping off the long-sleeved dress, she laid the rose coyly across her chest while keeping her expression one of wide-eyed innocence. She was wearing reproduction Victorian-style lingerie: a sleeveless chemise with lace ruffles and pink ribbons about the deep curve of the neckline, long cotton drawers, and underneath them opaque silk stockings gartered above the knees. Over the chemise was a satin corset, laced in matching pink, that narrowed her waist and lifted and cupped her generous breasts. Of course everything was soaked through from the rain: the thin cotton of her top and pantaloons was quite transparent where it clung to her, offering immodest glimpses of her dark gold pubic fleece and her pink nipples which were poking out against the cold fabric like boiled sweets.

‘This is quite improper,' he said hoarsely, but his eyes swept up and down her figure.

‘But how else am I to warm up?' She walked slowly toward him, dropping the dress, crossing one booted foot carefully in front of the other so that her hips swung with every step. ‘Unless you can think of another way?'

His mouth sagged. The front of his trousers stirred as something very improper indeed flexed beneath.

‘What about it?' she whispered, standing right in front of him, lifting her mouth. ‘Would you like to warm me up, Mr Wakefield?' Softly she laid a hand on his chest, sliding it under the edge of his waistcoat.

His jaw clenched. His hand moved. Without warning he had a hold of the back of her hair and he wrenched her head back, making her gasp at the blossom of pain. ‘Don't,' he snarled, his other hand hard on her waist, his fingers digging in despite the boning of the corset. ‘I am a gentleman but I cannot be held responsible for my actions, girl, if you provoke me.'