Cherrybrook Rose by Tania Crosse Page A

Henry’s dog cart and Polly, the gentle cob that pulled it. And even that put another burgeoning idea into her head . . .
    Ellen Williams puffed up her flat chest, and her mouth worked into a partly livid, partly gloating sneer, for the young hussy was getting her comeuppance, though at Ellen’s cost. Of course, she knew about the tragedy of the girl’s father and she was sorry for that, but it was about time the flibbertigibbet was taken down a peg or two.
    â€˜I’m afraid I can’t serve you, Miss Maddiford,’ she announced through tight lips.
    Rose’s neck stiffened and she blinked at the sharp-featured woman in astonishment. Had she heard right? She was aware of the chatter of the two other customers behind her coming to an abrupt halt, and her brow puckered into a frown. ‘I’m sorry?’ she questioned in bemusement.
    â€˜I’m afraid I can’t serve you,’ Ellen repeated with satisfaction, ‘not until your account be settled. The cheque you gave me from your father has been returned by the bank.’
    â€˜What!’ Rose’s eyes narrowed with indignation, for she had always sensed that the shopkeeper resented her, but somewhere deep inside, a cold fear began to slither into her blood.
    â€˜Here. Take it, if you doesn’t believe me.’ Ellen flicked efficiently through the wooden till, and waved the cheque, with its ugly red bank stamp, in front of Rose’s nose.
    A wave of disbelief, of horror, washed from Rose’s throat down to her stomach and her shaking hand took the cheque that Ellen was dangling distastefully between her finger and thumb as if it was something evil she had picked up on the street. The writing, her father’s signature, danced before Rose’s eyes. She really couldn’t believe . . .
    â€˜Thank you,’ she mumbled incoherently, shame burning in her cheeks as she made for the door, the eyes of the other customers boring into her back. Outside, the biting cold stung into her body like a million piercing arrows. She was trembling as if her very core had been frozen, tears of humiliation turning to frost on her eyelashes. Surely there must be some sort of mistake? And yet the proof of it lay crumpled at the bottom of her pocket. She shook her head. An error. It must be! Some new clerk at the bank. Yes, that must be it.
    So . . . what should she do? Well, if Miss Williams refused to serve her, there were two other grocers in the village. Her father didn’t have accounts with them, but she had some coins in her purse, not many, but enough to buy some tea, flour and yeast, and a couple of pounds of potatoes. They could manage on that for a few days. Until the matter was resolved. With some chops and a joint from the butcher’s, for she had settled that account with a cheque from her father on the same day as . . . Oh, good God! Would it be the same there?
    She left Polly between the shafts of the dog cart tethered to the rail with the horse-blanket thrown over her back, for she could not leave the animal standing still without protection in these temperatures. Her feet crunched in the snow as she made her way to the other shops, the butcher’s first, her hand quivering as she opened the door and a horrible sinking feeling in her stomach.
    Mr Roebuck looked up with his usual kindly smile. ‘Ah, Miss Rose, how be your father?’
    His sympathetic tone restored her confidence. Oh, yes, definitely a mistake at the grocer’s. ‘No better, I’m afraid. But thank you for asking. Now, I’d like a hand and spring of pork, if you please,’ she asked cautiously, for though it was an awkwardly shaped joint and therefore cheaper, there was usually plenty of meat to be found on it.
    Mr Roebuck cleared his throat and glancing round the shop as if someone might be listening – though there were no other customers – leaned confidentially towards her. ‘I’m sorry, Miss