Upon a Time

by R. L. Stedman

  Well, Beauty, it was the longest darn driveway I’ve ever seen. Went on and on, like it was winding its way into a forest. But eventually it ended at a brick wall with a gate in it. Behind the wall was the outline of the roof of a much larger house. I thought I’d go up to the big house, see if there might be anyone there, but when I got out of the car I couldn’t see any bell or knocker. So I shoved the gate open.

  ‘Hello?’ I called.

  Well, Beauty, the strangest sight ever! Beyond the wall lay a courtyard, containing a dried-up fountain. The courtyard was chock-full of roses, surrounding the fountain like a battalion.

  Just then the moon came free, silver above the clouds, the prettiest darn thing ever, and lit the place with this white light. Never seen so many roses in one place, Beauty, not even in our glasshouses. I wished I had a camera on me, just so I could show you a photo of the place.

  But the strangest thing? You know that normally roses don’t have much scent in the cold? Well, that night was real cold but let me tell you, the scent of those roses in that courtyard was strong enough to stop an elephant. While I was searching for a path I kept thinking how much the old man would like these plants.

  Your grandfather always had a thing for scent. It wasn’t what customers wanted; back then folks were after color, the brighter the better: orange, yellow, pink. But your granddad was always mighty stubborn and wouldn’t listen. He had his mind set on fragrance. Turns out he was right, because nowadays perfume is all the rage. Often thought it was a pity I didn’t listen harder to him.

  A path led through the roses to the old house beyond. Once that house must have been really something. Three stories high, with an ornate carved roof and shutters closed tight across every window. Not a peep of a light out of any of them. Dammit, I thought, and I’ve come all this way.

  By then I was so tired I was almost hallucinating. It had been a hell of a long day; perhaps there hadn’t been any light. Maybe I’d just imagined it. But instead of getting back into my car and driving back to the highway, I wandered up and down, shining my flashlight at the roses. Most plants looked to be in good condition, and even though this was winter, they were still in flower. It was too dark to be sure of their colors, and anyway, a flashlight changes the way things look. But the most leafy and fragrant flowers seemed to be red.

  I kept thinking, could we have a new variety on our hands? Then I thought, why not cut some? No one about, and there’s plenty going spare. So I picked as many flowers as I could. I went back to the car, laid them on the rear seat.

  I thought, why not go for broke and grab a plant? You know that feeling, when everything becomes dreamlike? Told you I wasn’t thinking straight. I grabbed my shovel from the trunk, went back to the courtyard. I marked out a good shrub and, careful not to damage the roots, began digging under it.

  Well, Beauty, no sooner had I tugged it free than I heard an almighty shout. “Hey! What are you doing?”

  Above me, on the balcony overlooking the courtyard, stood a dark figure. I don’t mind admitting it, Beauty, I was terrified! I dropped my shovel and stood there, quivering. The night was so dark and so quiet, just me and the scent of roses; it had never crossed my mind there might be an owner about.

  ‘Thief!’ he shouted. ‘Thief!’

  Beauty, I took off! Dropped the shovel, but not, for some reason, the rose bush, and legged it toward the gate. Seemed like every rose in that courtyard was after me, trying to stop me leaving, because my coat ripped and snagged on every darn thorn it passed.

  Finally, I reached that gate. I ran to the car, threw the plant in the trunk, got behind the wheel. When I turned the car lights on I nearly had a heart attack, because there in the gateway stood a dark figure. He was as wide as a quarterback and his face was in shadow, but his eyes, how they gleamed! I really thought he was going to murder me.

  I tried to start the car, but you know how it is when you’re in a hurry, the engine wouldn’t catch. I locked the doors so he couldn’t get in, and I thought of you, worrying for your Daddy, and I felt real sad that I wouldn’t get to see you again.

  But the man – at least, I thought it was a man, although from what I could see he looked more like a walking lion – didn’t come out from beyond that gate. He said something, so I wound the window down, just a crack, to hear him.

  ‘You’ve taken something of mine.’ His voice was real deep.

  My own voice was shaking. ‘I’m sorry, sir. I was lost.’

  ‘You were lost and so you stole?’

  ‘I’ll pay you.’

  He laughed.

  My clammy hands clutched the wheel tight, as if by some miracle I could steer the car away. ‘I’m real sorry.’ I knew it was lame. I couldn’t think of what else to say. Blood dribbled down my cheek from a thorn cut.

  ‘Actually,’ he paused, then sounded almost surprised, ‘you do have something I want. You have someone at home, don’t you?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘Of course you do.’ He answered himself. ‘You wouldn’t take all these flowers otherwise.’

  ‘I’m a rose breeder.’ The words tumbled over themselves. ‘I was heading home, and I took the wrong turning. Some of your plants, they’re real interesting, sir. I really didn’t think there was anyone here. I thought this whole place was deserted.’

  ‘It is deserted.’ He stepped back from the gate. ‘Except for me. All right,’ he added. ‘You can go. Make sure you tell her.’

  ‘Her?’

  ‘You’ll know. She’ll meet you at the door. As she always does.’

  I couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Your daughter. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? I can see it in your eyes.’

  ‘I do have a daughter.’ God forgive me, I admitted it to him.

  ‘Of course you do. No wife, of course. If you had a wife, you would be home by now.’

  I stared at him like an idiot. ‘How? How do you know?’

  ‘Mind you tell her about this place. Mind you tell her about me. She’ll want to know where you’ve been.’

  ‘Sir? What does my daughter have to do with this?’

  He shouted suddenly, and deafeningly, and thumped the edge of the gate. ‘Just GO!’

  I started the engine, took off as fast as I could. He called something after me. I could barely hear what he was saying, only fragments of words. I believe I reversed down the entire driveway. Somehow I made my way back to the main road and pulled over into a rest area. I slept in the car that night, badly, troubled by dreams of howling beasts. And I drove home as soon as it was light and found you waiting for me, and as usual you met me at the door.

  I disobeyed him; I never told you about the strange man and the house with the rose bushes. I began calling you a different name (for some crazy reason I thought that might help) and I stopped traveling.

  I often wondered if that whole night was just a dream, and the man-beast was a figment of an overtired imagination. But sometimes I thought about what he called to me as I drove away. It had sounded something like: ‘Thief, your payment has already begun.’

  I tried hard to be a good father. I gave up smoking. I thought you needed a mother, so I looked around for a wife. Becky and I got married and when Leah left, I tried to comfort you. After your grandfather died I took over the business. Days went by, turned into years. I worked with the stolen specimens, grew them into new varieties. Jamie thought they had potential. Hell, he still thinks they have potential. But after I took sick I lost interest, I guess.

  Beauty, I’ve been sick for a long, long time. I’m real sorry for you; sorry for Becky too. Not been easy for either of you, has it? But hell, I’m sorriest of all for me. If you’d asked me when I was a young man, how my life would end, I’d have said doing something foolish. Driving off a cliff, perhaps, or being run over by a car. Not being tied to an oxygen concentrator. Not this gasping for breath.

  Still, it is what it is. And my sickness is the point of this long, long
letter to you. I am sorry it has taken me so long to reach it; you must have wondered where I was going with this tale.

  Beauty, the plants I stole are dangerous. The doctors told me that my smoking caused the emphysema. I reckon that’s partly true. All those cigarettes sure didn’t help. But Beauty, I think this illness is something else. I looked it up online. Most likely it’s a fungus called sporotrichosis, also known as Rose Gardener’s Lung. Now isn’t that a nice sense of irony? I would laugh, if I had breath. I probably contracted it in that courtyard. You remember how scratched my face was? You remember how long those cuts took to heal?

  It wasn’t those thorns that did the real damage; it was the soil in which the plants had been grown. That soil contained a fungus. It isn’t harmful to plants and mostly it’s harmless to people, provided we don’t go breathing it in. But on the night of the rose, what with the digging and the running and the yelling, I reckon I must have breathed in plenty.

  The fungus spores floated down my windpipe, right into my lungs. Doctor says there’s no evidence to support my theory and either way it don’t matter what caused the damage; emphysema or a fungus. Typical doctor. Treating me like an idiot. But you know I’m right, don’t you, Beauty?

  Beauty, I’m trusting you with this. You will find the stolen roses in a sealed bin in the small glasshouse. Those roses MUST be burned. (And mind you wear a mask and long gloves).

  And, Beauty, I guess if there’s any point to this letter at all, beside warning you and of course to say one more time, I love you, it is the warning: Do Not Steal.

  Turns out, in taking those plants, I probably signed my own death warrant.

  Your loving father

  Charles Cuttriss”

  Chapter Four

  Ebony

  Gossip

  Ebony opened the newspaper to the society pages. Yes, there was his name. He was never sure how he felt about this. At some level he would be disappointed if he was not mentioned, yet each time he read his name in print he felt a slight terror, as if he was calling attention upon himself, or, worse still, that it was only the printed typeface that made him real.

  “A successful dance was held last Friday at the Summerfields Ballroom. Miss Amy Carmichael, newly arrived from London with her cousin, Miss Daphne Possett, was undoubtedly the belle of the ball. The two ladies wore delightful ensembles: Miss Possett a gray figured satin and Miss Carmichael a red silk. Sir Roger Lacey-Smyth, who returns this week to his home country, appeared most appreciative of the young ladies’ charms but it was Mister Ebony Black who danced most frequently with Miss Carmichael. Which leads this writer to wonder: Will there one day be a link between land and money in our fair city?”

  Giles coughed. “Sir, your horse will be ready for eleven.”

  Ebony pushed the newspapers away. “Excellent! Although I wager Amy won’t arrive until at least twelve.”

  Today was going to be a good day; he’d managed to persuade Amy to go riding. Ebony had plans for that little heiress, some even honorable. The Manterory Chronicle had, for once, been correct: land and money would make an excellent combination. Not that it was all about the money – Amy Carmichael was a tidy armful. A man could do a lot worse for himself.

  “She has her cousin with her, sir,” Giles said. “And, I believe, Sir Roger.”

  “Sir Roger!” Ebony clambered out of bed. “Apparently he’s taking near ten thousand pounds in gold to England. Man’s a fool, spreading a rumor about like that. Hasn’t he heard of pirates?”

  Giles retrieved the breakfast tray, placed it outside the door. “His mother’s with him, did you know?”

  “His mother is coming riding?”

  “Ha! No, sir. Very good, sir! His mother came to the New World with him.” Giles poured warm water into the washbowl and stepped back for Ebony to splash his face and neck.

  “What sort of a man brings his mother across the world with him?”

  “Apparently she doesn’t trust him.”

  “A sensible woman, then.” Ebony frowned at his reflection. Thick eyebrows, blue eyes. Neat figure, or so he’d been told. He turned slightly, presented his profile and smiled. Yes, he was a fine-looking man! Nine and twenty, prosperous in land and trade; things boded well for him.

  “Sir Roger has his own horse, sir?”

  “I believe so.” Ebony frowned. Sir Roger Lacey-Smyth, what sort of a name was that? Skinny weasel of a man, with his affected pointed beard. Dashed Brit had been after Amy all evening. At least the fellow was returning to England shortly.

  “Giles.” Ebony ran a towel across his face. “Send word to the gardeners. They’d better keep up the watering; in this weather the soil dries out quickly.”

  Giles nodded, and went to the door. Ebony heard him passing the message along.

  Last night, while dancing with Amy, Ebony had been smugly conscious of the stares from the old women. (And the glares from the men. He wasn’t the only one with his eye on the bank owner’s daughter.)

  When Ebony suggested to Amy that they take a riding party to the Mission, a trip they had both enjoyed as children, she smiled and clapped her hands. “Oh Mister Black! What a wonderful idea! My cousin must come with us. Daphne’s never seen the missions. I’m sure she will love the native children and the dear priests. Daphne?”

  Miss Possett, who had just stepped from the dance floor on the arm of Sir Roger, smiled at her cousin. With her quiet manner, gray dress and pale skin, she seemed almost invisible beside the vibrant Amy. Ebony smiled and bowed.

  And then, if you can credit it, Amy had added Sir Roger Lanky-Bones to the guest list! “Sir Roger! Why, you are leaving for England shortly, aren’t you? Really, you mustn’t leave America without first visiting the countryside.”

  Of course, Ebony had smiled at Sir Roger, but really he could have throttled the man. “Certainly. You will be most welcome, sir.” Another bow to the cousin. The woman was as white as a corpse. “And Miss Possett too, of course.”

  “Excellent!” Amy clapped her hands together, the sound muted by the lace of her gloves, and smiled so her dimples showed.

  And that was it, a pleasure ride planned with the town heiress (and her cousin and a British lack-wit). Although with any luck Ebony would contrive to separate Amy from her entourage.

  “You’d better shave me, Giles. And did I mention something about a picnic?”

  “The kitchens are preparing it.” Giles picked up the shaving kit, unfolded the razor. “Let’s hope the weather stays fair, sir.”

  From the Diary of Miss Daphne Possett. 26 April 1852.

  We rode for about five miles over sandy country covered with oak bushes and scrub. Amy rode between Sir Roger and Mister Black, and I followed some way behind. I had not left Manterory town before, so at first I was fully occupied just looking about. Eventually we entered quite a pretty valley, in which was a village, set beside a river. The buildings were all adobe, such an unfamiliar style that for a moment I felt a fresh awareness of just how far I am from home.

  At present I have Lady Fatima and Sir Roger to keep me company, although they will be returning to England any day now, and then I will be quite alone. Cousin Amy and Aunt and Uncle Carmichael are most welcoming, but still, their speech is not the same as mine and when I am with them I have to be careful not to give offence, or to mispronounce words. With Sir Roger and his mother I can relax. And of course, there can be no secrets between Lady Fatima and I; we are far too alike. How I will miss her!

  Lady Fatima, Sir Roger’s mother, is truly the most colorful character. Part gypsy, part Arab, she had an adventurous youth, but after marrying Sir Arthur Lacey-Smyth (Sir Roger’s father) she transformed into a pillar of Society. (So she says, but I confess I have my doubts: She is a powerful witch, and generally witches do not conform to society’s rules.)

  Lady Fatima came to the New World with her son partly for adventure, but partly because she has a foreboding about the outcome of this journey. I asked her: Why allow her son to travel at all
, if that is the case?

  She shrugged in her foreign manner. “My son, he is very stubborn, and what can a mother do?”

  Which means, I think, that she plans to stay by Sir Roger’s side and turn all ill to good. This is proving very vexatious to Sir Roger! Quite frequently I have seen them arguing.

  Seeing I was riding alone, Mister Black dropped back to ride beside me, which I certainly appreciated, as many times gentlemen are not so courteous of my feelings when Amy is present. Mister Black told me about the oaks. They are a different variety to our English beauties. They are faster growing and more beautiful in autumn (except here it is termed fall, which I think is very poetic, as it describes the ending of the year so well).

  Mister Black is quite a botanist. He is breeding roses, he said, and is on a quest for a perfect red rose. This seemed such a romantic pastime that I questioned him about it at some length. I hope he did not think I was monopolizing him.

  I know why Amy invited Sir Roger – she is trying to persuade Sir Roger to speak to Lady Fatima on Amy’s behalf. She wants Lady Fatima to change her mind when it comes to Amy’s future. I have told Amy she would be better to save her breath; Lady Fatima reports only what she sees. That is the problem with asking a witch to tell one’s fortune; one must be prepared for the reply.

  Although I suppose it might have helped had Lady Fatima not been quite so honest. But at nearly seventy years of age, a seer is unlikely to change her ways.

  I write this while the others are taking the horses to water. This is an idyllic spot. I am glad Amy suggested I came with her. We sit on a terrace overlooking the village and the valley below. Behind me is the mission, a white building surrounded by the remnants of a pear orchard. I think its official name is The Mission of Saint John the Baptist, but Monseigneur Alvarado, the priest, has such a strong Spanish accent that I have the greatest difficulty understanding him.