The Secret Rose Read Online Free PDF Page B

Dublin as soon as Liscarrol had been sold to the Gilliams. Her mother had lost yet another child and been sent to recuperate with relatives in Waterford.
    “May I be excused, ma’am?”
    Miss Burke nodded “You may have the rest of the day to yourself. But no dawdling come the morrow. The Gilliams have indicated to me that they are well enough pleased with your progress to continue to sponsor you for another term. They feel it is their Christian duty, particularly since your mother is in poor health, to provide for you until you are of an age to earn your own keep. Count yourself lucky, Alice . You might be alone in this world.”
    Aisleen stared out of the window of her room. It was past the dinner hour, and she did not doubt that the girls had eaten without her. She did not care.
    After three years of waiting and praying and despairing, her mother had written at last, to say that her father was dead.
    Dead. Done to death under the wheels of a Dublin dray horse.
    Aisleen bit her lip. Why now, after three years of silence, had her mother written to her? Where were all the answers to the dozens of letters she had written over the years?
    She opened her hand and allowed the letter to fall to the floor. She had read it over and over until every word of it was imprinted in her brain, and yet it explained very little.
    Me dear, darling daughter,
    I write ye not for the first time, but I fear that these may be the first words ye’ve received.
    ’Tis sad I am to say this letter brings terrible news. Yer da, God bless him, is dead. Run over on a Dublin street, he was. The constable says he was killed instantly, the iron shoes of the horses being the murderous things they are.
    ’Tis me hope that ye’ll be forgiving him his hard heart these last years. And that ye’ll be comin’ home where ye belong.
    Yer loving mother
    “No,” Aisleen whispered defiantly. She would not go home. Home? She had no home. Her father had sold Liscarrol out from under her in the same stroke with which he had exiled her. She was an orphan in fact now, but in her own mind she had become one three long years ago when her father had betrayed all her hopes for happiness, permanence, and security. Even her mother was a stranger. The letter had not said so, but it must be true that her father had blocked the letters her mother had written. Another betrayal, another instance of his hatred of her.
    “I am alone, no more or less than I have ever been,” she murmured resolutely to the night. For three years she had managed alone, and survived. Only in being strong, in relying on herself alone, had she existed. Nothing had changed with the news she’d been given. If the letter had never reached her, she would not have cared. It brought no sadness or gladness. She felt nothing on learning of her father’s death.
    So why did her heart hurt? Whence came this aching rift that threatened her world? She did not want this pain, this sorrow for what might have been if only she were loved. It hurt too much to care, to care when her caring was not returned. She felt torn by tongs, buffeted by desires that could not be met, starved for that which could never be hers.
    She bent and picked up the letter and carried it to her chiffonier, where she placed it in a drawer. In the morning, when she had recovered, she would write to her mother, the stranger who had borne her, and be the dutiful daughter. Perhaps, in time, they would become friendly once more. But she would not seek her mother’s love. That way led to pain, this shattering, splintering ache that made her catch her breath sharply.
    No! She felt nothing. Nothing!
    She tasted blood and realized that she had bitten through her inner lip. The metallic taste of blood was quickly joined by the saltiness of tears as they streamed down her cheeks and into her mouth.
    “Da! Da! Why could you not love me?”
    September 1850
    “A post?” Aisleen repeated. “Here at your school, Miss Burke?”
    Miss Burke nodded.