by Emma Beaven
Rose lifted the dripping tartlet to her face and inhaled the scent of overly tart lemons.
But Maggie nearly gagged at the dessert before her. She could taste half-digested lamb stew push its way back out the way it had gone in, filling her mouth with a disgusting sour taste that made her even more nauseated. “Ugh.”
Rose beckoned across the table. “Give it to me.”
“Fine.” Maggie passed her plate to Rose. “Are you really going to eat both?”
“Yum.” Rose sighed. “I love lemons.”
“Well, you hardly ate dinner.” Instantly Maggie regretted saying it, as Rose turned cold again. She set Maggie’s plate beside hers and folded her hands in her lap.
“Perhaps some after-dinner wine?” Maggie asked quietly, nudging her plate slightly closer to Rose.
Without waiting for an answer, Maggie got up and went to the kitchen. If only she hadn’t said anything, then it would be fine, and Rose would be happy. And Maggie did not want to return to the coldness between them, the silent stares.
Rose would be Rose, and despite it all, Maggie loved her sister and wanted everything to be the way it was. Before Mariotta. Before Sarah.
A breeze swept through the passageway and chilled Maggie. She hastily fled to the kitchen, leaving Rose and the darkness behind. When she returned, Rose was sitting up pin-straight, her eyes already locked on Maggie’s.
“Perhaps it’s time we go to the sitting room,” she said, standing up and moving her gaze pointedly toward the door.
“Okay,” Maggie said, nodding because she knew no other way to react to her sister’s strange behavior.
The lamps were still lit as they stepped out, flames bobbing and dancing in the dim entrance hall. Rather than following Maggie into the sitting room, Rose headed straight up the stairs to her bedroom.
Her heart pounded as the doorway came into view. She knew it was silly, foolish even, but what could she do? How could she stop the stream of fear that left her feeling weak and shaky?
Rose stopped in front of the door. She wondered if her father would bring more packages. Again she thought of how much she had wanted the dress, pined over it. The blue-and-white silk damask with its flowers and stripes, the matching silk petticoat. How perfect it would look when she attended Mrs. McCann’s party.
She shook her head and pushed at the door, distracted. Her step faltered for a moment as she searched out the wardrobe. The door was closed, just as it should have been. The right edge was not flush with the frame, but it showed no creeping dark either. Rose relaxed slightly. She turned and made her way to the heavy, hulking oak dresser, its darkness seeming to suck out a little of the light from the room. Her image was reflected in the mirror, its expression nervous, fingers sliding along its skirt, smoothing it over and over.
An involuntary cackle broke the silence of the room. She whipped her head around, fixing her eyes on the wardrobe. She giggled nervously. Silly.
After pulling out the top drawer of the dresser, she lifted out her sewing. She didn’t really enjoy sewing, but at least it would occupy her until bed. Her needle was knotted into the string, and Rose snatched it up as she took a last fleeting glance at the girl in the mirror. Without thinking, she stuck her tongue out at the image and raced out the door.
She took the stairs quickly and clattered back down into the downstairs hallway. Faint voices issued from the sitting room as Rose walked deeper into the interior of the house. Why couldn’t they sit in the parlor? The sitting room or sewing room or whatever it was—Rose hated it. She hated staring at the paintings of the dead. The figures, locked in time, seemed to glare at her. Even her own portrait as a child looked down wickedly at her.
Despite her reservations, Rose made her way to the sitting room. Her sister looked up questioningly from her chair by the cold fireplace. Mariotta sat in the chair on the other side, directly below the portrait Rose hated most. She was smirking, her fingers rubbing together as if she’d just touched something dirty.
“Ready to sit with us, are we?” Maggie asked. “It took you long enough to arrive.”
Mariotta gave Rose a look that was impossible to interpret.
Rose crinkled her mouth into a tight knot to keep from speaking. She dropped into a brown armchair and fixed her gaze on Mariotta. Rose’s eyes drifted ever so quickly to the portrait she so despised. Did Mariotta sit beneath it purposefully? Did it make her feel closer to the girl who rotted beneath the earth? Her growing irritation slowly coalesced into an icy fury that was much easier to keep inside herself.
“Mariotta, don’t you know yellow doesn’t go with red hair?” Rose jabbed.
Mariotta sighed. She drew in a deep breath and pulled herself up. “I think I’d better get ready for bed.” With that, she stalked out of the sitting room, leaving Rose to sit in silence with Maggie and the portraits.
Rose shifted in her seat and let her eyes be drawn back to the portrait. It was not unlike the one of herself and Maggie, really. It was only one girl, though, in this one. Rose shifted uncomfortably as memories of her stepsister drifted back into her consciousness.
Sarah’s hair, although red-tinged, was a bit different than her mother’s, more like copper. She often sat on the green couch against the far wall to sew, her mouth always pursed in perfect concentration. Rose had mocked her the same as she had Mariotta. She could see Sarah now, like a ghost, pink-and-white striped cotton brocade in a floral print, hooded linen shawl wrapped around her.
Rose saw herself too, a bit younger. She was holding a tray of hot chocolate from the kitchen for herself and the other girls. Sarah did not look up as Rose approached to place the tray on the table. Instead, she seemed to shrink in upon herself, her shoulders hunched, the shawl drawn protectively around her.
The ghost Rose, in her memory, wore a simple, unadorned dark orange bodice with a deep green skirt. She wore her bonnet for some reason, as if she were about to depart. Ghost Rose stood directly in front of the other girl, glaring at her. Still the other one refused to acknowledge her presence. Finally, the ghost Rose spoke. “Sarah, why do you always look so poorly in your lovely dresses?” Her voice was a hollow echo in the present Rose’s mind.
Sarah’s brown eyes, filled with pain too deeply embedded to be caused by the snide comment, met Rose’s as they turned to icy black. “Leave me alone.” The emotionless words hung in the air with the silence that ensued. She saw her ghost contemplating this, her hands flexing and then reaching toward Sarah.
A muffled “No” tried to spill from Rose’s mouth, her hands reaching out toward the image. Rose did not hear or care, so focused was she on tormenting the girl. The hands connected, shoving Sarah back against the couch. Sarah’s hand flew out and clipped ghost Rose on the side of the head. Rose jumped, throwing herself on the girl and yanking her hair, tearing at her dress. “You stupid little cow. You don’t deserve any of these things! Do you hear me?”
The image of herself was nearly unrecognizable in her fury as she gave another sharp yank on Sarah’s hair. Sarah mewed like a kitten and tried to push Rose off, but Rose, fueled by hate, continued in her mad assault.
Present-day Rose gasped as Maggie flew through the door, the Maggie of then. She dropped her forest green skirt in shock as she saw the spectacle. Words dropped from her mouth, each one colliding with the next so Rose couldn’t make out—nor remember—what she said. Maggie pounced onto the pile, yanking hard at Rose and finally forcing her off Sarah. Rose fell backward, knocking her sister to the floor and landing directly on top of her.
“Rose, what have you done?”
The scene in front of her faded, but the voice continued to call.
“Rose, what are you doing?”
Rose turned, confused. The space in front of her was empty, present-day Maggie now beside her, pulling on her hands. Rose tried yanking her hands away only to see a bit of blood was staining them. “What?”
“Rose,” Maggie said, horror written on her face. “What in the world are you
doing?”
Maggie loosened her grip, and Rose drew her hands back. Under her nails lay dark red clumpy material, and spots of deep red like the juice from blackberries colored the creases in her hands. A little farther up, scratches along both forearms led up to the lace at her elbow. Some were only superficial, but others looked like gouges.
“How could this be?” Rose asked, rubbing fiercely at her now stinging arms.
Maggie placed a hand on her shoulder, her eyes still fixed warily on the wounds. “What were you doing?”
A slow creep of horror ran down Rose’s spine. “I… I was just standing here. I don’t know. I….” She peered at the empty couch. Turning back to Maggie, she held up her arms. “I didn’t do this! I didn’t!”
“Here,” Maggie said softly. “Let’s wipe off your arms. It’s time for bed.”
Rose followed Maggie, her head hanging meekly. Confusion ran rampant in her head. It was just a memory, wasn’t it? Just a memory. Did she really scrape herself like that while standing there? She hadn’t even noticed. She felt no pain until Maggie woke her from her awful reverie.
No. This was not like before. And it would not—could not—continue. Rose couldn’t bear it if Father sent her away again.
Five
Rose picked at the muslin skirt of her dress. Where is Maggie? She shifted in her chair and smoothed the skirt as she looked toward the stairwell. If she didn’t get the dress today, she wouldn’t have time to have it fitted before the party, and then she just wouldn’t go. There was no point if she couldn’t look at least as stunning as her sister.
Overly anxious, Rose got up and wandered into the dining room. The table was covered in a long white lace cloth, the chairs pulled to the side of the room. A silver tea setting dominated the long table. She snuck carefully into the servants’ hallway and into the kitchen. There, Violet was already working, trying to put together dinner in the already sweltering room.
Rose picked her way to the far counter, trying to keep as quiet as possible. “Miss Rose, you get away from there. I’m trying to fix dinner.”
Rose frowned. “I’m starving, Violet. Let me have a little cobbler.”
Violet shook her head, her hands, coated in flour, glued to her ample hips. She wiped her hands on the discolored apron she wore and shuffled over to Rose. “You get yourself out of here, Miss Rose. I got work to do.”
Rose cringed as Violet’s dirty hand neared her freshly cleaned dress. She grabbed the older woman’s hand and pushed it lightly out of the way. “Come on, Violet. You know I can’t resist your baking.”
Violet’s thick eyebrows drew together, creating another set of lines on her already wrinkled and worn face. “Don’t you try to flatter me. I ain’t falling for it. Your daddy don’t like you wandering around in here, thieving food like you a little beggar girl.”
Rose stuck her tongue out at Violet and scampered over to the counter where a cobbler was cooling. “Just a bite.” She smiled devilishly as Violet tried to grab her. She danced lightly out of the way and snickered.
“Miss Rose!”
Rose’s grin fell. “All right, all right. But you know I’ll faint in the heat on the way to town with no food in my stomach.”
Violet sighed. “Miss Rose, stop laying that phony guilt on me. I’ll give you a little bit, just this once.” She opened a drawer and pulled out a serrated knife. “Get yourself a plate, then.”
Rose raced over to the other side of the room and drew out one of the servants’ dishes from a cabinet. Violet moved slowly, shifting her heavy weight from side to side as she carefully cut into the cobbler. “You know you making me work hard.”
Rose smiled sweetly. “You always work hard, darling.” She accepted the food and, rising on tiptoe, planted a quick kiss on Violet’s forehead.
“Don’t get any on that dress. It won’t come out for even the good Lord.”
Rose, about to respond, paused as she heard footsteps just barely muffled by the carpet descending the stairs. She shoveled a bite of cobbler into her mouth and hurried out, anxious to get to Maggie and leave before the worst heat set in outside.
When she got to the stairwell, she saw no one. Sniffing in annoyance, she rushed up the stairs, about to call out to her sister. As she reached the front window, she noticed fresh wheel tracks in the drive. She paused, lingering at the window silently, then turned back to the stairs.
She headed toward her father’s study where, sure enough, the familiar scent of bourbon and cigars alerted her to Father’s return. Rose had always been the first to greet Father, and she wanted to keep it that way. She put a wide grin on her face and walked into the study.
The room faced the front of the house, drinking in the sun. Bits of light sparkled on her father’s large desk, creating dusty trails on the dark wood. Behind the desk, a large bookcase towered over the room, casting a massive shadow along the farthest corner.
When she was younger, she would rush in to see him, and he would put his arms out to her, a smile dancing across his face.
“My favorite girl,” he would say as Rose rushed to hug him, sliding her fingers into his vest pocket to see what new jewel or treasure he had brought back for her. The last time he had brought her something had been ages ago. Hadn’t it?
She remembered drinking in that same scent, hearing the soft clack of melting ice chips in his glass. But he had been looking behind her that time, hadn’t he?
“Daddy, what have you brought me?” she had called as she held him close, drinking in the scent of his shaving cream.
“Rose, my love, where are your sisters?”
Rose shuddered, shaking the thoughts out of her head before refocusing on her father.
“Daddy!” she cried, rushing in and throwing her arms around her father’s neck.
He smiled stiffly and gave her a perfunctory hug. “Rose, you’re looking well.”
She propped herself up on the desk and stared at her father, unblinking. He brushed a hand against his chin before reaching for the bottle of bourbon on the marble stand behind him. Finally, when he didn’t respond, she said, “Did you bring me anything?”
As he took a drink of bourbon, Rose sat down on his desk, waiting impatiently. He sighed and gently pushed her off the corner of the massive mahogany desk. “I sent everything with your stepmother.”
Rose frowned. “You forgot, then.”
“Rose, I didn’t have time.” He looked at her pleadingly, his eyes still fierce and bright, even in his old age. Finally he put a gentle hand on her shoulder. Rose shuddered involuntarily but quickly plastered a smile back on her face. “Good thing Maggie and I are going to the city, isn’t it?”
He shook his head and looked down at some paperwork on his desk.
“I need to deal with some things right now,” he said. “Go get ready for your outing, and fetch Maggie. Your sister hasn’t even come to greet me since I got back.”
Rose nodded but said nothing, afraid of the emotions welling within her. She gave her father a kiss on the cheek and went to find Maggie.
Maggie was just making it to the bottom of the stairs, already fanning herself with a free hand. She was clothed in pale yellow silk satin, her sleeves, unadorned by lace, stopping just at the elbow. She wore her fanciest white hat, barely covering blonde curls that gracefully framed her oval face. A matching linen fichu draped over the bodice of her dress.
“Father is in his study,” Rose said, pointing.
“Oh! I’ll go and say hello quickly, and then we’ll be off.”
Rose tapped her heel on the rug. “I’ve been waiting for an hour for you. How long does it take to get dressed to go shopping?”
Maggie smirked. “I had some trouble sleeping, and I’m surprised you got any rest.”
Rose pulled on her bonnet and rose from the chair. “I don’t know what you mean.” Maggie doesn’t even know real trouble sleeping.
After greeting her father, Maggie passed Rose, moving swiftly to the door and turned the knob.
Sun filtered through the three stained glass panels flanking the stairwell, painting Rose a dull, sickly yellow. Maggie pushed open the door, letting in fresh air and sunlight. “Come on.”
Rose crossed the room, a faint tinge of excitement sweeping through her as she thought of the dress. She narrowed her eyes at Maggie as she passed her, annoyed at the way her sister was looking at her. Self-consciously, she rubbed at her cheeks and the back of her neck, which had been aching since she’d risen. Soft fragments of her dreams in the night tickled the corners of her mind. She reached for them but couldn’t quite draw the memory back.
The morning air gently caressed her skin, weaving its way under her light garments. Maggie took Rose’s arm suddenly and quickened her pace. In the distance, down the drive, the carriage was already awaiting them.
“What did you dream about?”
Rose jerked her head, startled. “What do you mean?”
“All night you tossed and turned and moaned. I’ve never seen you do that before. Normally you’re still as the dead.”
Rose sniffed. “That’s ridiculous. I doubt you were awake long enough to witness any such thing. All I know is we’re late since you took so long on your toilette.”
“Fine, you don’t have to talk about it, but I know something’s wrong.” Maggie released her sister and climbed into the coach. She settled herself into the dark upholstered material and waited as Rose paused in the morning sun. Turning back toward the house, Rose took a deep and somewhat shaky breath. Finally, she climbed in and sat beside her sister, folding her hands primly in her lap.
The wheels crunched loudly in the silence within the carriage as the sisters staunchly avoided one another’s gaze. Rose closed her eyes, feeling a wave of sleepiness drift over her. Maggie was right, she’d had a troubled sleep, but she could remember little of it. That morning she’d felt especially cold as she dressed, clinging to her morning jacket as she picked at garments suitable for her trip to town. Even now, she wore a green silk cape over her summer dress. It was as if the cold had infused her bones, and no matter how many clothes she piled on, it wouldn’t leave her. It had only dissipated when she left the bedroom.