Despite his promise, Childermass had gone back to her lodgings that night. A strange compunction overcame him. All the things his cards were telling him plus the refusal of Segundus and Honeyfoot to let him see Lady Pole seemed to be flowing in an unfamiliar direction. He had to see her, feel her and speak to her this one last night. Yet on arriving he found her lodgings empty, every modest item associated with her having gone too. Had Rosie guessed that he would break his promise? This was to be it then, solely magic for the present, perhaps also for the future. As he was leaving however, he noticed a small letter perched on the mantel piece and he snatched it up and opened it with greedy impatience. There was only once sentence and its meaning was plain enough.
Root yourself like a tree, John, where you see fit.
With wording like that, she had the means to be a little of a philosopher herself. Rosie had been right, he was doing no good returning her at this moment, they had agreed as much. Yet he was human after all. As he held the letter in his hand he considered the wisdom of her words and his own gut instincts. Today he had ventured to find out the truth but had been rejected, but the trail did not end there, there was never just one road anywhere. Norrell had begun this story, but Childermass realised that Rosie had not meant him to consider Norrell… Strange then? No, him neither, something greater that enveloped them both… the truth. Yet at this moment, the truth was blurred like a murky glass, he would need to keep his eyes and ears to the ground, for something was coming.
In the months that followed fate swept in trials as the wills of Norrell and Strange cracked until every last fibre joining them splintered entirely. Childermass had not been in the room when the men parted, but he had heard no raised voices, no stomping of feet and no great quarrel. Yet the fallout shined a light on both men's humanity, the good and the ill-judged and it was just a matter of waiting. Whilst Childermass tried to encourage Norrell to bury the hatchet with Strange, Lascelles dripped salt into the wound until it festered and ran deeper.
As the stage of English magic played out, Childermass watched on, stepping in where he could and investigating all he was able, taking insights from his cards. Though surprisingly, he never once consulted them about Rosie and her wellbeing, amid all this magical feuding, his mind was equally drifting to her and the lack of her. Rosie's whereabouts were unknown to him, was she still in York and if so had she returned once more to the squalor of that tenement? Childermass knew that she would compromise and be thrifty, not knowing when he might appear again to support her. He only hoped it would not reduce her to her old environment. When he at last visited Strange following the death of his wife, Arabella, Childermass talked only of magic. Yet deep inside he had sympathy for the man, he could see it written of every line and dark shade on Strange's face. The loss of Arabella ran deep, right to the marrow of Strange's bones and though their circumstances were different, Childermass understood that feeling. He however had to bury his own, Rosie's existence was unknown to anyone except two of the maids.
Childermass had sent a letter to Rosie by the way of Isaac Wessle nearly two months ago in the hope it would be passed on to her. There had been no reply and on the fourth day since visiting Strange – who had now disappeared, he wrote to her again. Making sure he was discreet about it, he sat in the corner so he would go unnoticed. But he kept half an ear still on the poison and fear Lascelle's dripped into Norrell's ear as he wrote. The letter spoke volumes, yet very little of the current affairs he was taken up with. Childermass only hoped that like its predecessor, it would reach the hand of the woman he loved. Strangely, when glancing up, he saw Lascelle's happened to be observing him. The man always regarded him with mistrust and found him akin to a bad smell about the room, but this seemed a little different. As soon as the noticed the glance, Lascelle's returned his attention back to Norrell who had continued talking all the while. When the occasion arose for him to naturally leave the room, Childermass handed the letter to Dido to be sent out.
Rosie had lost count of the weeks since their parting, it was now running into being nearly half of the year since she had last seen or received anything from Childermass. On leaving him that note, it seemed she had inspired him to focus solely on his role within English magic, severing contact with her until the time was right -if at all. It gave her pain, great pain, the loss for a time was like weights on her limbs and she carried it with her everywhere. Yet she could not stall where there was absence, be inactive where there seemed to be no life. Realisations came upon her that she had agreed to this, cost what it may and that the fallout was on them both. Whilst circumstances were favourable and opportunity was kind, she laboured, saving the money he had given her for a greater time – a time when it was sure he would not return to her.
By day she walked, even in dewy mists or cheek chilling breezes and she took pride in making her small, affordable quarters pleasant. Visiting old faces that she once offered and received mutual support and good society from was taken up once more, though she did not speak a word of her time away in London. Indeed, she did not account for her whereabouts at all. At night she would return and help Isaac Wessle, though she never served anyone in the back parlour where she had once frequented small periods with Childermass on his ventures away from Hurtfew. Only twice had she set foot in it and it had given only painful nostalgia. Rosie was determined to only think of past times with fondness. After a time she was called on to sing again and she did, revisiting old melodies that she knew warmed the hearts of those drinking their ales and gins.
Rosie passed a quiet life for herself, industrious on the small scale but it made every minute matter. Where those fingers no longer threaded though hair they threaded needles instead, and they kneaded bread rather than the scalp of those that needed comfort. All in all she required very little for herself and could pass and spend both time and money moderately and usefully, such was her life now. So different was it from before, grasping for every penny, frequenting men and drinking gin. Childermass had saved her from that and though their courses had separated, hers was far better now for having known him.
Then her own time came and those few who had known her comfort and support in past days now came to her. Isa who thanks to her was healthier in mind and with a thriving child held her hand tightly as she pushed through every struggle. When the pain swept through her, contracting and pulling every muscle to a tautness that Rosie believed was beyond human durability, Isa was there. The child fought but eventually arrived crying and writhing, demanding and needing and the world changed. When fever took Rosie for several days she knew a handful of neighbours like Isa came to and fro to help. Isaac even sent food from the inn via her old drinking compatriot Lucy who had come upon the ghostly looking Childermass the night of her fall. On the third week after the birth of her child, strong enough almost as she had always been, she would swaddle him and tie him about her and go about her day. All this was a matter of continuing, she could not sit and dwell, this new arrival had brought about a new life.
The love felt was indescribable, she could look at the ghostly pale epitome in her arms. The dark hair sprouting in soft patches on his scalp and the large green eyes like her own learning to see about him. His arrival brought memories of Childermass, it was only natural when the child had some of the look of his father. Some nights Isa would take the child and Rosie returned to the inn, rebuilding her physical resilience and singing the songs she was called on to do. Frequenters cheered when they saw her, she was it seems, an important part of their revelry now. On one particular night she was called to serve a gentleman who had taken the back parlour for the means of refreshing himself. Rosie entered and served his needs for food and drink as she was able but irked by the uptight and rather rude manner he addressed all about him with. His face was pale, haughty and high cheek boned and he was clearly a man of some fashion and wealth though lacking in warmth and handsomeness. His hat remained in his lap as well as a small package, even when eating. Rosie noted he seemed concerned he might be contaminated by some none existent stain or dirt and he was clearly mistrustful of all those about him. As she was pouring him another drink, Isaac called her by name from the door and suddenly she seemed to finally receive his notice. Sharply he glanced up at her and adopted a manner of affected indifference, yet she knew he was interested in her, just not why.
"Have you worked here some time?" He asked, a thin, nasal voice that sounded put out by every word he had to utter. Rosie finished pouring before she answered and only then did she nod. "Don't you have a voice?"
"Yes, sir."
"Then how long have you worked here?"
"Several years, sir."
"I see." He drawled, taking in a slow audible breath and then she seemed to become invisible to him once more. Once the gentleman had taken his leave, Isaac approached Rosie and then pair remarked on his rudeness.
"His arrival gave some news though; he said he was making a stop here particularly before going to Hurtfew Abbey. I told him Mr Norrell had been absent for well over a year and was in London… he said he was to meet him there directly." Wessle explained.
Rosie absorbed his words and forced herself to receive them calmly and without betraying any emotion. She gave a nod of perceived interest and went back about her business, though she sang no more that night. On returning to her lodgings and left once more with her son, she looked at him sleeping for a long while and resolved what to do.
Rosie knew she could not go there, she only hoped that Childermass would happen to look in on her. Though she worried that the change of circumstances may prove inconvenient to him, she had resolved after all, that he may no longer feature in her life. On the following morning, clear enough to venture out, Rosie swaddled her son once more and placed her about him. Setting off walking at a steady pace, a small amount of vittels strapped equally to her back, she made for the hill where Hurtfew could be observed. If Norrell had returned, there would be evidence even from a distance of the house being lived in.
Though she had regained her strength, it had been some time since she had walked this far and she had to pause several times to rest and feed her son. The incline of the hill itself was the next challenge, a greater one than she had imagined and she had no choice but to take a slow, steady ascent. Reaching the top, she was breathless yet her son slept contentedly to the sound of his mother's thumping heart.
Rosie's eyes travelled down the other side of the hill, over the grounds of Hurtfew Abbey and her blood ran cold. The sight of the jet, swirling tower engulfing the premises filled her with terror. It stretched endless into the sky and encased everything within the deep black of its presence. Every hair on her body stood on end, the sound of her now racing heart thundered in her ears. Rosie's legs slowly gave way and she sank to her knees with shock onto the grass, her eyes never leaving the ebony nightmare before her. If Norrell was in there, that meant that Childermass was in there too. Helpless, all she could do as the sickening chill of dread spread over her, was wait.