"I wish I'd never come to London. I wish i'd never under taken to restore English magic! I should have stayed at Hurtfew reading and doing spells for my own pleasure. None of it is worth the loss of forty books!"
Rosie's fingers slid through the dark, auburn hair like scissors cutting fabric in one clean move. She would begin at the scalp, massaging the skin with her gifted yet laboured hands. Every sensation of the fingertips worked to unknot the tension caused by ill health and unrest in her patient. The tears had passed, the woman's chest did not quite heave as it did before, indeed she was quieter now. The fingers worked on, skimming from root to tip before returning every few strokes to attend the scalp once more. She was creating a hypnotic pattern beneath her hands. Yet though her ministrations were slowly working, the body leant against her was still tense and fighting the urge to give in to the comfort she offered.
Rosie was doing all she could to ease the burden of this woman, who now nearing her time was wrought with the affliction of an absent husband and a baby that raged inside her causing her to often be ill. Isa had a pale pallor and shadows under her eyes, yet somehow it seemed the lustrous hair, now calmed into submission by Rosie's attention still kept some life yet. From the shadows Childermass watched her work her own kind of magic on this woman, the kind found in the heart not books, the kind that was not to be championed by many in the world. Indeed he had kept watch over Rosie since finding her half frozen on her lowly bed. Now here she was attending to a poor woman only a few doors down. Isa's own state did not command too much of Childermass' attention, he only looked upon her to see the work of Rosie. This remarkable young woman, still not long in full health herself sensed that Isa was not quite at relenting to rest as of yet and soon the soft, smooth tones of her singing voice quietly filled the room.
Come all you fair and tender girls,
That flourish in your prime.
Beware, beware.
Keep your garden fair.
Let no man steal your thyme.
Let no man steal your thyme.
Rosie's voice was like a soothing balm, somewhere he had heard said that the singing voice was the emblem of the soul. Childermass did not believe such nonsense, but a voice like Rosie's could well convert a legion to thinking so.
For when your thyme is past and gone,
He'll care no more for you.
And every place
Where your thyme was waste
Will all spread over with rue
Will all spread over with rue.
As she sang the fingers worked now at creating a braid using six or seven sections, her hands working like the loom that was being heralded as the devil here abouts. Somehow she held sections until it was their time between her fingers and gradually she wove a pattern like the scales of a fish into Isa's hair, keeping the pace steady and gentle as she sang.
The gardener's son was standing by
Three flowers he gave to me.
The pink, the blue,
And the violet true.
And the red, red rosy tree
And the red, red rosy tree.
Isa's head drooped forward just a little and snapped back just as quickly, fighting the sleep that had been denied her these last nights. Childermass watched as Rosie unwove some of the fish scale threads and then softly began again, still singing.
But I refused the red rose bush
And gained the willow tree
Now all the world
Can plainly see
How my love slighted me.
How my love slighted me.
Isa's head drifted back, the weight of it becoming heavier in Rosie's hands, the temple resting against her waist as she stood working. Gently, Rosie took the upper body weight of Isa in her arms and slowly laid her on the low ticking bed. All around spoke of the bare poverty of the tenement, the smell was unmistakable, yet the look on Isa's face now could not have been serener than the monarch himself as he slept. Seating herself for a few minutes, Rosie waited and watched the heavily pregnant woman then seeming satisfied she moved away and tidied the few possessions of this woman into some semblance of order. As this was done, so was Rosie's work and she moved quietly to the door, taking one look back at the sleeping Isa before stealing out.
The night after this was the first time Childermass had kissed Rosie, though there were a handful of memories he could recall of observing her offering the little comfort she was able to others. Isa herself had gone on to need her more and when her time came, Rosie and another local woman who knew about birthing stood in the poverty stricken room and helped bring the defiant boy into the world. That twelve hours had remained with Rosie even to the present day that he knew her, it caused one haunted line to faintly spread upon her forehead as no other care had ever shown itself. Yet that first sight of her lacing Isa's hair and giving up the skills she had to bring some small comfort showed no carelessness towards life, though Rosie was no saint herself and had then still been prone to the weakness of believing drink to be a comfort when required. Though no longer did she make merry in a drunken stupor with false friends, only steal away moments of solitude in the dimness of her own rooms to while away a streak of sorrow she could not help but bare. Despite all this though, he had admired how self pity did not rule the kingdom of her existence, for he had seen her rise from having to take the odd man home to earn a living to working and fighting for her own small life in the city of York. That, more than anything is how he found himself attached to her and taking her into his own life thereafter. Kissing her on the very bridge where had fallen only months previous in her inebriation. It wasn't beyond him to become fond of people now and then, he was a closed book but far from stone, it only took something unique and prevalent to command his attention enough to root fast in dedication. So far only magic had seized him thus, though she had long intrigued him as his feelings manoeuvred themselves to allow her a fixed place in his mind and heart.
When Jonathan Strange was sent to the Peninsula and Gilbert Norrell had won his books, there was a time of brief ease in the house and for several weeks, Childermass was able to come and go as he pleased. Their shared life in London was a far contrast from how it had been in York, first her rotten tenement and then the boarding house he aided her in affording after much heated discussion. Rosie had had her pride after all, but another brief relapse of a chill from her poor lodgings made her see things from his point of view. Now though, in this new bustling city so far from home they had a new shared confine when he was at liberty, they could even walk some places together in the privacy of anonymity.
Childermass recounted the amusement of seeing how flustered Norrell had been at Jonathan Strange's taking off with forty of his books. He had never spoken of Norrell to anyone before either in graveness or in humour, yet his dry, gruff recounting of Norrell watching Strange leave accompanied by his quiet complaints was a tale worth sharing. It worked, for Rosie had laughed as they had walked that first free evening following Strange's departure, the stars above them clean and visible.
"Will he go back to Hurtfew?" Rosie asked.
"I do not believe that is his path yet, and I doubt Lascelles and Drawlight will release their conniving grip on him." Childermass replied, guiding her past a rowdy looking crowd with a light touch to her elbow.
"Do you not ever feel tempted to join forces with Strange if their friendship should sour?"
"Mr Norrell and I are bound together on this path for the future I can see at the present."
"That's very mysterious, John." She laughed, linking her arm through his. "You sound quite serious."
"Magic is back in England, Norrell is trying to funnel it his way…" His voice trailed off and his words, usually so measured stopped and he considered. This was a thing few people saw, for generally when Childermass spoke, he had conviction in the words he imparted. Idle chit chat was not part of his makeup.
"Your loyalty to it will keep you right." She said, nudging him back to attention with a light gesture of her elbow.
"You said it, not he." Childermass said ruefully.
"That is because I so happen to have been listening to you all this time, John." She replied playfully. "I would have been bad company otherwise."
Times like this as he looked at her, reminded in of that quiet night on the bridge, how he had imparted in his own shadowed yet direct way some of his feeling for her. Rosie had stood and merely looked upon him as she did now, with an open temperament and welcoming gaze, the green of her eyes daring him to dive deeper into it. How could anyone say those eyes were mistrustful? His larger hands had circled her waist and drawing her close they had looked at each other a long moment, the moon shrouded behind thicker cloud and yet they saw each other plainly. There had been the time to relent, at last he had kissed her in a solitary moment of shared understanding and contentment between them. Now under the starry skies of London, he found himself remarking her with a similar stroke of fondness, he was always fond of her, loved her to be sure, but at times it could hit him so poignantly. It was always a private tenderness, an intense flush of feeling that rarely rose to his face but he owned none the less. Rosie was good for him, something of his hidden behind the magic yet with its own every day greatness, a thing not to be underestimated.
"You have a very fierce look on your face, Mr Childermass." She interjected, his silence having being a little too long as he looked at her. It was not the done thing in London society to kiss someone with affection or otherwise in the street, yet Childermass drew her off suddenly down a side street. Muttering something under his breath he seized her face passionately between his hands and proceeded to kiss her as he had that first night and many nights since. But only sometimes did some kisses betray a side of him so usually shrouded in a sense of mystery even to her. No moment between them went by when she wasn't aware of the fondness of his regard for her, but still there were times when the full depths of it could be revealed to her at odd moments. It was intoxicating and she was swept up within it like a powerful side along a shore. In their times together, they clung together, one way or another. Free to move as their own yet bound by a deep affection.
There was no way to marry her in all this and oddly to him at least, she had never enquired about it, she seemed to understand. His cards had told him enough over the years, however much Norrell disregarded them, then there had been Vinculus and the arrival of Jonathan Strange. Magic was taking a turn in England and how it would end Childermass was uncertain at this time. Yet the anxiety hidden in his master's eyes that he saw plainly and the events building around them were clear enough. One day perhaps he could marry her, yet until that day, she would never ask.