Briar Rose

by Caroline Lee

  From behind her, she heard the stranger’s grandiose announcement. “They’re a very unique strand of rose. It’s vital that they be planted immediately. They can be replanted when Briar reaches her new home, but they need a spot of honor—I mean, sunlight—by her current home immediately. I would suggest by the front porch.”

  “Of course!” Briar heard her grandmother titter. “Briar has three strapping brothers who would be happy to get them in the ground this very afternoon. What a lovely, unusual gift!”

  It certainly was an unusual gift, but Briar loved it. She found herself wondering what Gordon would think of it, after the way he’d teased her about her name. But it hurt too much to think about Gordon at that moment, when she was sitting among women who were so happy that she was marrying another man. So she pushed the thought away and turned back to the group of gaily chatting women.

  The last stranger—honestly, Briar knew every other woman in the room at least by sight—caught her eye, and smiled directly at Briar. She was a smallish woman, with little round spectacles and a gray bun with a pencil stuck in it. She looked…delightful, and not at all like the sort of women Nana Rose normally associated with. Of course, her friends—the grumpy red-headed one and the flamboyant gypsy-looking one—didn’t exactly look like Nana Rose’s sort of people, either. Maybe they were Ma’s friends.

  Still holding Briar’s gaze, the stranger spoke to the group. “My gift isn’t quite as unique, but I’m sure it will prove to be very useful to Briar.” She stepped aside to reveal a gift that caused a gasp to sweep through the gathered ladies. It was the most beautiful antique spinning wheel, made from a dark wood that had been polished until it shone with a strangely intense light. From the spindle on the top to the elegant wheel with the imp

  ossibly thin spokes to the intricately carved legs, it was a work of art.

  Briar hated it.

  How many times had Ma tried to teach her to sew, while Nana Rose insisted she was going to marry rich and had no need of such skills? How many times had Ma insisted that every farmer’s wife should know basic skills outside of the kitchen? And how many times had Briar’s plump fingers stumbled over the stitches or caught on the thread or lost the needle? No, she wasn’t a seamstress, and this gorgeous spinning wheel wasn’t for her.

  And if these women—these guests of her grandmother, invited to celebrate a marriage that wasn’t going to happen—knew her even a little bit, they’d know how utterly wrong this gift was for her.

  But, as the rest of the ladies ooh’d and ahh’d over the wheel, Briar accepted the truth. With a sigh, she admitted that these women—with the exception of maybe Arabella, Ella and Meri—didn’t know her well enough to celebrate with her. They were here to celebrate with Nana Rose, to acknowledge her marriage coup in catching Roy DeVille Jr. with Briar’s baking.

  And wasn’t that just the truth of the last nine days? The last nine days that had gone by entirely too quickly, and too much had been planned? Who ever heard of a couple getting married this quickly? Only someone who was worried her granddaughter would find a way out of it would plan a wedding in such a short amount of time.

  Well, Briar would. She wasn’t marrying Roy Jr. and that was final.

  Sniffing, Briar forced her chin up and her shoulders back, and with one last glare at the strange lady who’d brought the stupid spinning wheel in the first place, she slipped out the back door.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  She’d snuck a plate of chocolate eclairs up to her bedroom. Well, actually, what had happened was that Pa had been surprisingly intuitive; after the rest of the Jorgenson family had helped unload the wagon of all the wedding-tea gifts and leftover desserts while Briar sulked on the front porch, Pa had passed her the plate of chocolate treats with a wink. She wasn’t sure if that was his way of apologizing, or if he was just letting her know he knew she was upset, but she wasn’t going to ignore the gesture. So, giving him a glare to remind him that she wasn’t going to let him off so easily, she dashed up the stairs and locked the door to her room.

  The house was big enough to reflect Pa’s success as a farmer; with three bedrooms on the second floor. Briar’s brothers shared one, her grandmother had another, and her parents were in the third. Briar’s room was in the attic above. It was smallish, with sloped walls, but it didn’t matter. It was all hers, and she could eat as many chocolate eclairs as she wanted in the privacy of her room.

  Which is what made it completely strange—and a little terrifying—to turn around and see someone already in the room. It was the third woman from the Tea, the one who’d given her that useless spinning wheel, the one with the spectacles and the bun with the pencil in it. Nana Rose must’ve let her into the house and sent her up to Briar’s room.

  “What do you want?” Only, it came out “Maaa ooo oooo aaamm?” since Briar still had a mouthful of éclair.

  The woman just smiled. “I wanted to talk to you, Briar.”

  “Ahma aaaa?”

  “About this.” The stranger stepped aside, and Briar saw the spinning wheel behind her, tucked into a place of honor in front of the garret’s only window. Right where it would be placed, if it were something Briar cared about. But she didn’t. No matter how pretty the thing was, it was just a symbol of a life she didn’t want; a lovely little domestic life that her mother and grandmother wanted for her, and she didn’t give two hoots for.

  So of course she was scowling when she finally swallowed, not even having the chance to taste the chocolate. One more thing to be angry about, she supposed. “What about it? I don’t want—” But no matter how irritated she was—by everything that had happened in the last week—she still had her manners. There was no need to offend a stranger by telling her how little Briar valued her lovely gift. A lovely gift that represented everything that Briar didn’t want.

  But she hadn’t cut her words off quickly enough. The stranger smiled. “You don’t want it, I know.” A glance down at the finely wrought spindle. “It is lovely, though, isn’t it? Just not for you.”

  Mulishly, Briar set her jaw and tried to think of a way to answer without offending the woman further. But the stranger just waved her hand dismissively, and crossed to sit in the little chair at the little desk Briar used to record her favorite recipes in her journals. “Please relax, Briar, dear. I’m not here because of that dreadfully painful Wedding Tea. I thought that your grandmother was going to start crowing, didn’t you? She’s so proud of the match she made.”

  Confused now, Briar sank to the edge of her bed, and glanced at the locked door, wondering if Nana Rose had, for some odd reason, put her friend up to this. The Tea had been awful, but to hear this guest insult it and Nana Rose…? Something was wrong.

  “But really, who can blame her? She’s had a singular goal since she came out here to live with you, hasn’t she? And she just fulfilled it, by convincing Roy DeVille Jr. that being married to you will mean a constant supply of those cookies he likes. And honestly, there are worse reasons to marry than a shared love of baked goods.” The older woman peered over the tops of her spectacles then, pinning Briar with a sharp gaze. “But there are much, much better reasons, aren’t there, Briar?”

  What was going on? Briar’s whispered, “Who are you?” caused the woman to smile.

  “I’m Doc.”

  She was a doctor? “Did my family send you?” Did they expect her to be examined or something? What a lousy way to end a terrible day.

  “No, dear. I’m Doc.” Briar stared. “The Doc, Briar.”

  It was something about the way she’d said Briar’s name that clicked in the younger woman’s head. “Doc?” The author of the mysterious letters!

  “Yes, dear. I’m your godmother.”

  Briar’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have wings.”

  “Happy reported that during your last encounter with her and Zelle, having wings did seem as if it were important to you. I’m sorry, dear. Would you like me to wear wings next time? We have one set we all share,
but they’re dashed inconvenient.”

  “We?”

  “The Guild, dear. The Guild of Godmothers. We’re based here in Everland. I’m sort of the leader of this chapter, but only by dint of being the smartest, if I do say so myself.”

  “You’re really a doctor?”

  “Of course!” The woman’s smile was a little too bright to be believable. “Now, I promised you a Happily Ever After, and—”

  “Wait. Those women at the Tea today? You’re not my grandmother’s guests?”

  “No.” Doc’s smile turned smug. “We did a good job fooling everyone, though. Your grandmother assumed we were your mother’s guests, and your mother assumed we were yours. The gifts made everyone forget that we’d never introduced ourselves, I think.”

  “Yes. What about those gifts?” Briar lifted another chocolate éclair, and took a more ladylike nibble. “What were you doing there?”

  “The two other ladies were godmothers as well, of course. Grunhilda and Bashful, although we call Grunhilda ‘Grumpy’ for obvious reasons.” And Bashful must’ve been the flamboyant one who dressed like a circus performer. Briar refrained from rolling her eyes at their sense of humor. “I recruited them to help me on this project. The Rule of Threes, you know.”

  “Rule of Threes?”

  Doc sighed. “You really do need to get out of your kitchen more, dear. The Rule of Threes, you know…?” When Briar took another bite of the éclair and stared blankly, the older woman continued. “In any self-respecting fairy tale, a mysterious stranger doesn’t just give the heroine one gift, does she? It’s always three. Narrative causality, don’t you know.”

  Briar glared, and Doc sighed again. “Look, it really doesn’t matter. I’m here to help you achieve your Happily Ever After with Gordon, and these three gifts are part of it.”

  The way she’d said Happily Ever After made it clear to Briar that it was an important concept. “Because that’s what godmothers do, is it?”

  “Listen, dear.” Doc’s voice turned frosty. “I’m beginning to suspect that you aren’t really appreciating the situation.”

  “Well, what can you expect? A stranger turns up in my room and tells me that it’s vitally important that I receive a naughty nightgown, a set of gorgeous rose bushes, and an out-of-date household tool! What am I supposed to think?”

  “Happy gave me the impression that you believed in godmothers.”

  “Happy climbed into my best friend’s window with a ladder and cheered her up with a stern talking-to. There’s a big difference, I think.”

  “Only theoretical, I assure you.”

  Briar sighed, and plopped the plate of eclairs down on the bed again. “Alright, Doc. Convince me.”

  “First of all, you need to convince yourself.”

  “Of what?”

  Doc pushed her spectacles up on the bridge of her nose. “Of your future. You’re angry now, and that’s understandable. But I want you to decide what you really want. I’m about to expend plenty of godmotherly energy to bring you a Happily Ever After you deserve, dear. But we have to be certain it’s the one you want.” Well, that made sense, Briar supposed. “So close your eyes.”

  Shrugging, Briar folded her hands on her lap and closed her eyes. What could it hurt?

  “Good. Now, take a deep breath. Remember that I believe firmly in the healing power of deep breaths.” Briar did as she was told. “Aaaaand… let it out. Good, good. Again, please.” As she did that day on the sidewalk beside the inn, Briar did feel better after a few deep breaths. The anger she’d been carrying deep in her stomach seemed to chip away with each exhale.

  She could hear Doc’s smile when the older woman’s calming voice continued. “Good. Now, with your eyes closed and your heart open, picture your future. Picture a holiday meal. You’ve worked hard on it, at least the cake. Maybe it’s a birthday celebration. You proudly enter the dining room, bearing the cake on a platter, and there’s a crowd around the table. Maybe your children, maybe friends, but your husband is sitting at the head.”

  With her eyes closed, Briar allowed the images to form behind her lids. The imaginary dining room itself was vague, as were the people in the room, but there was one man, sitting with his back to her, his pale hair gleaming in the sunlight from the window beside him.

  “Yes, you can see it now, I know. And as you come around the table, your heart full of pride in your work and love for the man sitting at the table, he turns to you.” Briar imagined herself placing the caramel cake down on the white tablecloth, and stepping back to see his reaction. “Now, Briar Rose Jorgenson, who is he?”

  There were many men in her life with light hair—her brothers, her father, Roy Jr.—but only one who mattered. Even with her eyes closed, Briar felt her entire being light up when Gordon turned his smile on her. She saw his lips pull into that teasing half-grin of his and she heard his beautiful brogue when he mouthed, “Thank ye, my love.” And indeed, her heart swelled to know that he loved her as much as she loved him.

  She loved him. She loved him!

  Briar opened her eyes to see Doc staring intently at her. “Good.” The woman’s voice was almost a whisper. “You saw him. And you realized your love for him, in its entirety.”

  “It was Gordon.”

  A nod from the older woman. “I needed you to be absolutely certain.”

  “I am.” I am certain. Gordon MacKinnon was the man she loved, the man she wanted to spend her life with. “I want a Happily Ever After with him, no one else.” She couldn’t even bring herself to say Roy Jr.’s name.

  “Well then, dear…” Doc stood up and rubbed her hands together excitedly. “Let’s get down to business.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “First of all, get changed into that naughty nightgown you were disparaging earlier.”

  Briar could imagine all sorts of things that the nightgown might do to ensure her Happily Ever After, but none that involved an old lady claiming to be her godmother. “How exactly is that going to help?”

  “Well, it won’t hurt, will it? Grumpy made it for you especially—she’s been rather anxious to try her hand at sewing again, after she made Rojita’s cape—and it’s not all that bad. Why, it’s not even see-through.”

  Briar blushed, to think that there was such a thing as a see-through nightgown. “Oh, alright. It’s not like anyone will be seeing me in it…” She picked up the gown from the chest, and drifted toward the changing screen in the far corner.

  “Actually, dear, if everything goes correctly, quite a few people will be seeing you in it.”

  What? Briar popped her head around the screen to stare at the older woman. “What? Why? How? Does this plan of yours involve public humiliation?”

  Doc clucked. “I know it sounds unorthodox, but you’ll have to trust me.” She began to pace, ticking off points on her fingers, and Briar slowly resumed the unbuttoning of her gown. “We need a plan that will allow you to: one, break your engagement with Roy Jr.; two, marry Gordon; and three—this is the most important—live happily here in Everland as Briar MacKinnon. That’s the hardest part, I think you’ll agree.”

  Briar was caught up in her petticoat, but became distracted by the thought of becoming Mrs. Gordon MacKinnon. “How?”

  “Well, it would be simple enough to arrange for you and Gordon to run away together, or something. But that wouldn’t achieve objective Number Three. We need a way to prove to your—admittedly hardheaded—grandmother that Roy Jr. is not worthy of you, and Gordon is. That way, even if she doesn’t approve of the marriage, she won’t oppose it. And you two will remain here, running his restaurant, on pleasant terms with your family. Which is always important, as a young bride.”

  Briar came out from behind the changing screen, dressed in the not-quite-sheer nightgown. It actually wasn’t immodest, she had to admit; it was just much fancier than anything she had ever owned. The pink bows that held the neckline closed looked as if they were ready to be untied, slowly and deligh
tfully. Oh yes, it was a nightgown meant to be seen by more than just the woman wearing it.

  Gordon.

  She tried to focus on the here-and-now, rather than the future, or that delicious image of the birthday dinner she’d had earlier. “So, how are we going to do that?”

  “We’re going to kill you.”

  Briar blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Well, you won’t be dead, obviously. In fact, you won’t be even close to dead, really. But we need to make your family think that you’re so desperately ill that the wedding can’t happen.”

  “I already thought of that.” She’d considered eating green apples until she vomited. Her brothers did it regularly, to get out of going to church. “They’d just move the date until I was well enough to marry Roy Jr.”

  “Not, if by that time, they’re convinced that Roy Jr. is a terrible husband for you, and that Gordon is perfect.”

  Briar wasn’t sure if she liked the calculating look in Doc’s eye. “Yes? How do we do that?”

  Instead of answering right away, Doc moved to peer out the window. “Do you think that your brothers are done planting those rose bushes? Bashful was quite specific about where they needed to be placed.”

  What did this have to do with anything? “Bram and Brack aren’t so lazy that Pa wouldn’t have made them follow Nana Rose’s directions. The bushes are probably fine by now.”

  “Good.” Doc took one of her calming deep breaths, then turned to Briar with a smile. “Then we can get started.”

  “Not until you explain what you mean by killing me.”

  Doc’s smile turned bright again, like she was trying to convince Briar of something through sheer force of personality. “There are medicines, you see, dear. Drugs, chemicals, even, that can make someone appear dead, or close to it. Heart function slows, breathing becomes so shallow that it’s hard to see it. But then, when given the antidote, the person revives. Even if bystanders look closely enough to see that the person isn’t really dead, she will appear so ill that death must be close.”