Rose

By Amanda Armstrong

This is the story of Rose. Follow her life, through her teenage years which are marred and tarnished with a tragedy that should not befall one so young.
When Rose falls pregnant at just fifteen, it seems her whole future is mapped out for her. However a shotgun wedding to the charming but cruel Henry results in many sad and miserable years of marriage for Rose as she is subjected to cruel and violent abuse.
Despite the pain and suffering inflicted on her, Roses love for Henry endures for some time, until the promise of a kinder love beckons.
Can Rose ever find true love, and if so, at what cost?
Read one girls heart rending tale of a tragedy that can either make or break you.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Aug 16, 2011
• ISBN: 9781456788308

Amanda Armstrong

Amanda has been writing short stories and poetry ever since she could hold a pen. She has been published in the International Society of poetry and this is her first novel.

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© 2011 Amanda Armstrong. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

First published by AuthorHouse 8/8/2011

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8828-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8829-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4567-8830-8 (e)

Printed in the United States of America

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

This book is printed on acid-free paper.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To my aunt Christina who has been the inspiration for my writing over the years, with her own wonderful work.

To my fabulous parents, Mary and Ed, for the love, support and encouragement they have given and still give, unconditionally. You have made this possible. Thank you.

To my husband Dave who has worked tirelessly to bring in an income while I slaved over a hot keyboard. (Most of the time!) I love you.

And to my beautiful Mia, this is for you darling.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Chapter Thirty Three.

Chapter Thirty Four.

Chapter Thirty Five.

Chapter Thirty Six.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

Chapter Thirty Nine.

Chapter Forty.

Chapter Forty One.

Chapter Forty Two.

Chapter Forty Three.

Chapter Forty Four.

Chapter Forty Five.

Chapter Forty Six.

Chapter Forty Seven.

Chapter Forty Eight.

Chapter Forty Nine.

Chapter Fifty.

Chapter Fifty One.

Chapter Fifty Two.

Chapter Fifty Three.

Chapter Fifty Four

Chapter Fifty Five.

Chapter Fifty Six.

Epilogue

Prologue

The day I walked out was the day my life was to begin. Henry had been what I thought was my whole life for twenty years but I could no longer endure life with him. The touch of his gnarled hands on my increasingly wrinkling skin and the smell of his cigars were now enough to make my stomach churn, alas not with the flushes of love and affection that had once been the cause of such affliction. This was with the sickening realisation that I no longer desired or even liked him any longer. That, after so long of yearning for the slightest attention or affection from him, I now dreaded any such contact, emotional or physical. My name had been Rosemary Arkwright before I became his wife, Rosemary Blythe and it had suddenly all seemed like such a long time ago. Indeed it felt like a very sad long time ago. I had lived with my Mother and Father in a place called Kent with a brother Richard who was just a year older than me and a sister Charlotte who was two years my junior. Kent was a nice enough place for a child to grow, with beautiful unspoilt green fields and tiny villages dotted around at random. A twenty minute train ride could take you to a bustling town in one direction or a sleepy remote village in the other.

It was 1974, and I was just fifteen when I first laid eyes on Henry Blythe. The school concert that had been arranged was to include a choir from a nearby Grammar school, one that my brother Richard had tried yet failed to enter a few years previously. It was with much amusement that my whole family attended the concert to witness my humiliating rendition of a fifties song by Connie Francis. Of course I thought I was wonderful, however I gathered from the faces of my own and so many other avid parents, that I was probably pretty average. Then suddenly I lost my confidence. I had felt myself, right at that moment, under the bright stage lights, with the sound of precocious giggles from the side of the stage, growing hot with humiliation and shame. And then I caught the eye of the darkest, most handsome boy I had ever laid eyes on and with a tingling feeling deep inside me, I was struck dumb. My eyes grew wide, whether in disbelief at such male beauty or with complete terror at what this boy-man was making me feel, but for that moment in time, I was transfixed. For Henry, although I did not know his name then, was beautiful. Tall and strong, with eyes so dark they were almost black. Set off by a shock of dark blue hair (this was the Seventies after all) and he was lean, oh so lean. I gazed at him, mid song, from centre stage where I stood, as he stood in the wings waiting to perform whatever he and his school choir had been brought along to sing. And I faltered. Yes, I missed a note, a word, perhaps even a chorus, so transfixed was I. Do you know what he did? He smirked, then he winked at me and all at once I felt his arrogance hit me full pelt and do you know how that made me feel. Bloody wonderful!

Twenty years later, on a cold winter’s morning, I decided to leave him. He wheeled himself into the conservatory where I sat contemplating my dilemma. I sipped at my camomile tea, wondering at the beauty of the ice tipped dew on my lawn and watching a small bird, a sparrow or maybe it was a thrush, hungrily pecking at the nuts hanging on the big oaken bird table that occupied a corner of our garden. The squeak of his wheelchair approaching sent a chill up my spine as the hairs on the back of my neck stood up knowingly.

When do you think Daniel will arrive? he asked, not looking at me, instead gazing at the garden himself. I sighed deeply. Daniel was our eighteen-year old son, the only remaining good thing to come from our marriage, but a rare sight to us now in his final year at college.

Did he say he would come? I enquired, knowing full well, as did Henry that Daniel had made no such promise to us that he would be home for Christmas. Henry made no comment. He simply continued gazing at the garden. I took in his balding crown and the wiry hair creeping from his strawberry red nose, gained from too many of the ports and wines that he was now so fond of. I looked at his crippled legs, shrunken and thin after such inactivity and yes I pitied him.

Oh how I wished that the man I now despised so, was the handsome smart brute I had once loved with a passion. Perhaps then, this feeling of utter dislike for him would be exonerated. However, the guilt I felt was too strong, for it would be a very remarkable woman that took on this man, as he was now, a bitter angry lonely man. This was a man raging at life’s injustices and blaming every being that dared to darken his door. Henry Blythe was as much use dead as he was alive and he knew it. And I knew it too, which is when the sudden realisation came to me right then and there that were I to stay with him, I would be very much in the same position. I would be waiting for something to happen and should anything happen at all, the likelihood being that as the years rolled by, it would simply be death, and suddenly, more than anything, I wanted to live.

Chapter One.

Rosemary Jane Arkwright was not beautiful at an early age. At ten, although she had soulful dark brown eyes, her brown hair was dull and lank, and no one would have called her pretty. Perhaps, if she’d been old enough to wear eye make up to accentuate those beautiful eyes, she would have been considered stunning, but it didn’t matter, for she seemed to glow with some inexplicable inner beauty, perhaps, it was her innocence. Her face was almost pale enough to convince any well educated doctor that she were anaemic, and she was as thin as the proverbial rake, tall and shapeless. By comparison, her younger sister Charlotte was a doll of a child, with beautiful shiny blonde hair inherited from her mother, Anna. They both had tiny features and a petite little figure so unlike Rose’s. Rose’s brother Richard was also good looking, he was the spitting image of their father Patrick. From an early age, because of Rose’s lack of similarity to either of her parents she was often referred to as the black sheep of the family and sometimes her sister, Charlotte, said she must be the milkman’s child! Patrick, Rose’s father, was a kind, hard working man. He was well respected at the bank where he worked in London, but often, the long hours he spent there along with the hour commute to and from the city meant he spent little time with his family during the week. The children would long for the weekends when he would take them swimming at the local baths or to a football match which Rose and Richard loved. Charlotte however, so like her mother, Anna Arkwright, who didn’t like sports, would decline the football in favour of the shops where she could admire the delicately cut women’s clothes in the boutiques that she and her mother visited. Patrick could care less about fashion, but would smile tolerantly as his wife tried her best to coax Rose into accompanying her and their youngest daughter on the little shopping jaunts. He could see that Rose was just not interested in pretty dresses or lipstick or anything that was typically feminine. Rose preferred the more physical pastimes. If she wasn’t attending a football game with her father and brother, she would stroll to a nearby riding centre with her best friend Sarah Cooper and they would help out by grooming the beautiful horses and ponies there. In school holidays they would spend whole days from early morning through to late evenings mucking out the stables and wheeling manure to the heap. Often, at the end of the day, her back would ache and her arms would hang heavy but her heart would be flying and her eyes bright with the wonderful sense of achievement her hard work had given her. The owners in return would reward the girls by allowing them to ride their many horses once in a while. This was when Rose was at her happiest, at one with the huge beast as she cantered through the acres of green field, in all weathers. She loved the heavy wind and the whipping rain in the dark winter months as much as the peaceful contentment she felt when, in the summer, the sun beat down on her, making her feel drowsy and heavy. Here, nobody cared that she was plain, plain Rosemary Jane, as her sister sometimes teased her. No horse cared that she wasn’t physically beautiful either for they sensed her real beauty within, her kind caring heart and her soft gentle touch. Occasionally, her family would accompany her to the stables and would watch proudly as she showed off her riding skills to them. She would make transitions from walk to trot, trot to canter and canter back to trot with ease. Rose had no care for frills and fancy lace for she was carefree and it was all her poor mother could do to persuade her to put a comb through her hair. You’ll make it shine more, Anna would implore. I don’t care though mum, would be Rose’s simple reply and eventually her mother soon gave up pestering her so.

She’s fine as she is, Patrick would say to his wife, placing a loving arm around her shoulder when he noticed her frown as she watched Rose climbing trees with her brother and his friends, whilst Charlotte sat with her crowd, plaiting each other’s hair. I know, Anna would smile softly, but she’s such a tomboy.

As puberty hit though and Rose became a teenager, things changed and she suddenly blossomed. Her body which had been gaunt and lanky became lean and shapely. Where once her brother’s friends had been pals that teased her mercilessly and she them, now she began to notice their muscling arms and their lean bodies. Her smiles became the shy kind, accompanied with the flattering of long lashes and a rose pink blush. She began to pay more attention to her hair and where it had once been the colour of mud, it soon became a shiny dark honey colour and her pale face, after so long spent outdoors took on a creamy gold complexion splattered with tiny freckles. All this, combined with those huge beautiful brown eyes, which, with even the slightest tear in them became pools of inky black, she became a real Rose.

And that is the sight that beheld Henry Blythe on that night in 1974.

I bet you a pound note, you don’t stand a chance, whispered Peter Crown in Henrys ear.

You bet I don’t stand a chance with whom? Henry sneered, always up for a challenge.

Her, Peter nodded to where Rose stood on centre stage and smirked at Henry, and raised his eyebrows suggestively.

What, do you seriously think I wouldn’t stand a chance with a little miss comprehensive girl like that? Henry countered. Peter sneered and said nothing as they both stared at Rose struggling with her high notes. Henry took in her shapely legs under the ill fitting navy blue skirt and her small but shapely breasts that were lightly covered by her white cotton blouse. As he stared, she turned to her left and by goodness, she stopped singing there for a second but as she did she gazed at him with huge puppy dog eyes that he had never encountered before. He winked at her and watched with amusement as a blush rose from her long smooth neck and engulfed her pretty face with tinges of the red and pink that exaggerated all that her name was. Make it two pounds fifty, and you’re on, came, Henry’s cold reply.

Henry Blythe was born into a very wealthy family, his father, James, understood too well the value of money for he had worked extremely hard for it and it had by no means been his birth right. Henry however, was of a very different opinion and to James Blythe‘s despair, so was his mother. Julia Blythe had been a bright pretty young woman when James had fallen for her, eighteen years ago. She had been sweet and honest and good and within a year of dating her, he had made up his mind that she was the woman for him. James had worked extremely hard to build his own fund management business after being left a large and unexpected sum of money from an old uncle whom he had met briefly once. With Julia’s help and support every step of the way, things had taken off. It was then, with the riches abound that had suddenly become available to them, that things had changed. Julia went from the caring and unassuming young woman James had fallen in love with, to a cold bitchy socialite. Nothing was ever enough anymore, she never had enough dresses, their car had to be the latest range and their house had to be the biggest. Julia’s biggest concern was keeping up with everyone else. James felt he could have probably coped with these changes if they had ended there, but the truth was Julia became a cold, unfeeling person in the bedroom. Where once she had loved him with such abandon, now she refused to let him near her often complaining of headaches or other such ailments. This coldness didn’t end there, for she had never shown any maternal instinct or warm feeling towards their son Henry. It chilled James to see how his son was growing up to become as cold as his own mother and so detached from his father, as the hours James put into his business meant he had little time for his son and could not even attempt to rectify the situation. It pained him deeply to see Julia spoiling Henry. Instead of giving him warm hugs, she would give him gifts, assuaging any guilt she might have felt for her emotional neglect with money.

It was therefore, that by the time James Blythe had built his business to a stage where he could afford to step away from it to spend more time with his family, he would instead spend many a night in the company of other, more obliging women. Anything in order to avoid the wife he no longer knew, who turned away from his every touch, or his son, who by now was close to ruination and who was of the opinion that the world owed him a living. It was an opinion that James fought very hard to change but unfortunately it looked like it was too late and Henry, at sixteen was already a very spoilt young man. Henry was arrogant and full of self-importance, he had made friends at the Grammar school he attended, but they were not friends by mutual respect, more hangers on. They were all too in awe of Henry to see that he did not care for them, but that he simply fed off their adulation and attention as they clung to his every last word. Henry excelled at sport, becoming Captain of the school Rugby team made him feel more powerful, but whilst he was an excellent student, for he was bright and astute, he was not popular amongst his teachers. They recognised in him his complete arrogance and abhorred his obvious contempt for the less bright students. However, they could not deny that wherever he went he turned heads and his long confident stride, even at sixteen, was overwhelming. They knew that Henry would make something of him self, not just because of the opportunities that his fathers business opened up for him, nor simply because he was a natural leader and exuded power over others but because Henry Blythe was a cold hearted bully. The trouble was, as the female staff agreed, his handsome face and cocksure charm would blind many to this until it was too late for them.

Chapter Two.

You were wonderful darling, Anna greeted her daughter warmly as she approached her parents who were mingling in the assembly hall with all the other families and their children. Brilliant, Patrick agreed wholeheartedly, embracing her in a tight hug and kissing her forehead gently.Rose was still flushed and looked around her self consciously, suddenly aware that she was being watched. She saw Sarah standing with her parents and gave a little wave as Sarah held up a hand to indicate she would call Rose later. Her sister Charlotte was over by the stage with two friends, giggling and whispering to each other, no doubt about some of their other so called friends. Rose noticed her brother, Richard, queuing up at one of the soft drinks tables, established out of a long wallpapering table draped with cloth and she made her excuses.

I’ll go and help Richard with the drinks, she murmured to her parents and ran off towards Richard.

Hi, She tapped Richard on the shoulder, ducking round to his left shoulder as he looked to the right.

Ha, ha, he smiled at her. You weren’t bad up there, he nodded at the stage. Don’t you start, Rose groaned and sighed, Mum and Dad don’t have the decency to be embarrassed for me. At least you could. Richard smirked, okay, you weren’t great.

Thank you, she breathed and then stopped suddenly, feeling those eyes on her again. She swung around and there he was.

Richard, Henry nodded to her brother, not looking at him but gazing at intensely at Rose

Henry, Richard coolly acknowledged and Rose glanced quickly at Richard, wondering at his frostiness towards this boy. She swept a hand through her hair, suddenly hot and flustered.

So this must be your little sister? Henry addressed Richard once more though he was still staring at Rose.

Must be, Richard intoned sharply, come on Rose help me carry the drinks he urged.

I, well I - Rose stammered, her head was telling her to follow her brother, but her feet just wouldn’t move.

Rose! demanded Richard through gritted teeth. Come on!

Rose won’t be a minute, Rich, Henry placed an arm casually round Rose and smiled pleasantly at Richard. Richard studied Rose’s face, a look of outrage consuming his own.

Fine, he growled before turning on his heel and marching off.

Well, he’s very protective, that big brother of yours isn’t he? Henry did not remove his arm from Rose’s shoulders and though she felt hot and embarrassed, she also found she liked it.

I’m Henry Blythe and I’m very pleased to meet you, he grinned.

Rose. Rose Arkwright, Rose stammered back

You were great up there, Henry smiled but you’re a hell of a lot better down here. Rose smiled, and suddenly the blush that she had been trying to