The Curse at Rose Hill

by Camille Oster

  Emmeline and Mrs. Thornton hadn't spoken much since her return from the Cresswell estate. With everything she had learned, Emmeline did feel real sympathy for the woman and could understand how she was a little acerbic at times. Mostly, Emmeline tried to stay out of her way. She'd noticed a certain tightness to the woman's mouth when she was around.

  It was a surprise that the woman hadn't sent her packing, considering that they weren't exactly hitting it off.

  A small carriage came up the road, a sleek vehicle with four red wheels and a small deck on the back. The mail service was delivering letters. Emmeline walked down the steps to meet the man, accepting a small bundle of envelopes. There would be nothing for her. Who would write?

  Her only friend, Mary, was married now and had moved to St. Louis. At first, they had corresponded, but as her children grew in number, there had been less and less letters from her until they'd stopped entirely.

  How Emmeline wished she had someone to correspond with. At times, she wondered if it was her that was so disagreeable. She didn't seem to amass friends like some did. For the life of her, Emmeline couldn't think why. Well, she was sometimes curt, but she was never purposefully disagreeable. Then again, as she'd spent most of her time with twelve-year-olds, it wasn't perhaps surprising that she didn't encounter a great many people that could be her friends.

  Returning inside, she delivered the bundle to Mrs. Thornton who was sitting in the parlor. Emmeline sat down on what was unofficially her chair and placed her hands on her knees. At times, Mrs. Thornton would give her random disapproving looks to say she was still unhappy with the circumstances of Emmeline's recent absence.

  "An invitation to the Governor's evening. How lovely," Mrs. Thornton said, her voice light and pleased. "He throws a marvelous evening. I think we will go. Joseph, bring me some parchment and a pen." Joseph appeared and moved over to the writing desk in the corner of the room. "No, not that one, the finer one. It has a more yellow tint to it. Yes, that one. What is this?" Mrs. Thornton turned the letter over. “It’s from Percy.” With eagerness, she ripped it open and started reading, her eyes frantically racing across lines. “He’s coming. Soon. Very soon.

  Hurriedly, she scribbled a letter and folded it up. “My Percy is coming. Isn’t this exciting? Joseph, ask the girl to air my blue dress," Mrs. Thornton said when she had finished writing her response to the invitation. "And ask someone to deliver this."

  "Yes, madame. I do believe we have a visitor," he said in his usual, steady voice. His gaze was out the window to the stretch of the road they could see from the parlor.

  "Who?" Mrs. Thornton said and rose. Her expression darkened. "That dreadful man. What is he doing here? Are we forever going to suffer his imposition?"

  Mrs. Thornton marched toward the main entrance and stood on the top of the stairs with her arms crossed as if guarding the house against him.

  Lord Cresswell was riding up the road. The tails of his burgundy-colored jacket sat on the rump of his horse as he rode with a straight back. He had a good seat and he looked handsome, but then he was an extraordinarily handsome man. His waistcoat and cravat were both black. Emmeline didn't know much about fashion, but she knew the man dressed well.

  "Mrs. Thornton," he said, bringing a gloved finger to the brim of his hat. He didn't dismount, which said he wasn't intending on staying, or didn't expect to be invited in.

  "Cresswell. To what do we owe this honor?" There was an edge of sarcasm to Mrs. Thornton's voice.

  "It seems your lovely companion has been parted with something of hers."

  Mrs. Thornton's eyebrows rose. Twisting in his saddle, he unhooked something from the far side and brought it around. It was Emmeline's satchel full of shells. Color rose up her cheeks, wondering what he must think of it.

  "It seems you left your prize behind," he said and Emmeline reluctantly walked down the steps toward him. It made a grinding noise as she reached her hands up to it, taking some of its weight. "A paltry prize to risk your life over," he said in a low, smooth voice. He didn't fully drop it into her hands and she looked up at him. There was that enigmatic look in his eyes he sometimes had, when time just seemed to stretch. He was studying her again and it made her uncomfortable. As a rule, his eyes on her made her tense up and she was also aware that Mrs. Thornton was watching, probably noting an overfamiliarity. Or perhaps he acted this way with everyone.

  Emmeline drew herself together, refusing to cower or be intimidated. "Very kind of you, sir. As you said, a paltry prize. You needn't have brought it back. It is only a satchel of shells, after all."

  "One man's trash is another's treasure."

  Finally and seemingly unexpectedly, he dropped the string of the satchel and the weight fully dropped into her hands. His eyes released her and he looked over her head. Emmeline felt the release from his attention with a measure of relief. "I hope the storm wasn't overly burdensome for you," he said to Mrs. Thornton. Emmeline watched his face as he spoke. He had dark features, elegant eyebrows that framed dark eyes. His lips were shapely and firm. Everything about him was handsome, but there was that intensity in him that was uneasy to bear.

  "We manage through such things well, Lord Cresswell," Mrs. Thornton said tightly. "Although I understand your crop suffers from poor drainage."

  Cresswell's eyes moved to Emmeline again as if she'd been tattling on him. She couldn't stop the blush from staining her cheeks.

  "My crop is doing fine enough," he said, his eyes pinning her for a moment, before releasing her again.

  Mrs. Thornton snorted. "Perhaps if you paid some attention to your responsibilities, you would understand what a thriving crop looks like."

  A half smile tugged on his lips as he narrowed his eyes. "None of us thrive here, Mrs. Thornton, and well you know it."

  He threw her a last look before urging his horse around. The beast turned sharply and he was on his way without looking back.

  Emmeline walked up the stairs to where Mrs. Thornton was still standing with her arms crossed, watching the man as if to make sure he didn't deviate from his path off her property.

  "Good riddance," Mrs. Thornton said with a shudder. "You should have nothing to do with that man. Who can tell the kinds of evil he is involved with."

  "Surely,— " Emmeline started.

  "Don't let that handsome face fool you, that heart is as black as they come. Corrupted, he is. What is that, anyway?" Her eyes were on Emmeline's satchel.

  "Just shells I collected from the beach."

  "All this for some shells. You are a uniquely stupid thing."

  "I didn't expect things to go so very wrong."

  "Well, I hope you've learned your lesson." With a sigh, Mrs. Thornton relaxed slightly. "In the future, if you get stuck in the jungle, it is best to stay where you are. Someone will come for you. It is easier for Joseph to find you roughly where you are supposed to be, than have you wander through the jungle of the island to God-knows-where. There are some places you shouldn't end up."

  Emmeline wanted to argue that it was raining quite heavily and no sane person would simply just stand around in it, but she held her tongue. "I won't wander so far again."

  "If you want shells, you can send Joseph down to get them."

  I should wonder if he had time for waiting on you for even the simplest thing, Emmeline thought, but then reminded herself that she needed to be kind.

  When Lord Cresswell was out of sight, Mrs. Thornton walked inside again. Emmeline stayed for a while, the satchel hanging off her wrist. The man was curious, but there was something about him that was jarring. If it was the direct way he looked at her, she didn't know. According to Mrs. Thornton, her dislike for him ran much deeper—beyond simply objecting to a man with vices. Mrs. Thornton's reactions and statements suggested something much darker. Evil, she had stated.

  Evil didn't exist. Not the kind one of the priests that visited the orphanage exalted, that which existed all around them, ready to claim the unwary if they didn't with st
rength and purpose fight against it. But Emmeline had never seen any evidence of such evil. The devil didn't hide under her bed, waiting for her to fall asleep. Darkness and gloominess were perhaps uncomfortable, but it didn't amount to evil. In her time at Cresswell's house, he might lack etiquette and standards of behavior, but she hadn't observed anything that was otherworldly, or intentionally cruel.

  Evil did exist in people's acts. Cruelty did exist; she had seen it herself in small measures. It hadn't reached into her life to any degree, but she had seen hints of it. Perhaps Mrs. Thornton had some evidence of such unkindness in Lord Cresswell. Cruelty could be the reason for Lord Cresswell's failed marriage, but that was mere speculation, and it was unkind to speculate without any kind of proof. Still, there had to be something behind Mrs. Thornton's determined hatred of the man. Without a doubt, there was more than simply him choosing someone other than her niece for his bride that had resulted in such vehement rejection.

  Chapter 13

  Their carriage weaved through the traffic until they reached the white picket fence of the churchyard. It was a lovely church, Emmeline had decided, although perhaps a little small for the size of the congregation. It must have been built at a time when the population of Anglicans was smaller.

  Some of the gravestones were old and unattended, others large with layers of stone. It occurred to her that some of Mrs. Thornton's family was buried here and that coming here had perhaps a more bittersweet feeling for Mrs. Thornton—a fresh reminder of what she'd lost. A shiver worked up Emmeline's spine.

  Although she knew that some people were born and bred here, it still felt foreign to her and she wouldn't like to be buried here so far away from… Well, that was another story. As an orphan, she didn't really have a home as such. Boston was more home than anything, but you couldn't really count a city as home, not truly.

  It wouldn't be that she came from a long line of orphans. There had to be a heritage somewhere, a village where her family stretched back generations. English, or perhaps even French. But that link had been broken and she would never know where she truly came from. That was common, though, in the colonies, as well as in the Caribbean, that link with history being dismissed and lost. How many of these people would truly go home to where they belonged, where their family had dwelled for generations back? There was something lost there, something important. Emmeline sighed. She would never know hers.

  The idea that she would meet a man one day, who would be her family, was both exciting and confrontational. On some level, she couldn't quite imagine belonging with another person. It seemed such a strange notion, even if she saw it in others every single day. Having always been alone, she couldn't imagine not being so, even as she ached for that companionship she didn't know or understand.

  Lord Cresswell was alone. He had no one as far as she could see, with his absent wife and abandoned plantation. Mrs. Thornton had Percy, and on some level, Joseph. The relationship between Mrs. Thornton and Joseph wasn't one Emmeline understood. Servants were commonplace and had longstanding relationships with the families they served, and technically, he was a servant in every respect—except a crucially important one where Mrs. Thornton owned him. How could one human being own another?

  How could the vicar here preach Christian values of all men being equal under God when just outside these doors, the reality was different? When inside this church, did these people not own slaves? How were those discrepancies tolerated when they were diametrically opposite?

  Emmeline couldn't understand. Economics was at the root of it all, John Wilkins, her fellow passenger on the ship sailing here had said. The economy in the Caribbean ran on the back of slaves, and that apparently made people ignore the teachings, even as they sat here every single Sunday.

  Then again, Reverend Magnus had effectively sidestepped the issue on a couple of occasions. Everyone was complicit, it seemed.

  The man stood on the pulpit, speaking of forgiveness. Forgiveness was divine and it was a concept she had struggled with all her life—forgiving her parents. It was her duty to forgive. Just like she owed Mrs. Thornton forgiveness for her gruff behavior at times.

  The sermon ended and Emmeline blinked. She was feeling introspective today, lost in her own thoughts. There was a confusion in her that she couldn't entirely put her finger on, related to the idea that she was here, unwanted in this house with her mistress, confused about the things she had seen, the subjugation and hatred from a people, and the discrepancy of values being both black and white at the same time.

  Nothing appeared to be simple around here, and everywhere she looked, there was a deeper and darker story underneath every surface—masked and disguised by ‘good Christian values.’

  Mrs. Thornton rose and walked toward the entrance and Emmeline followed. "You're quiet today, girl," she said as they queued to exit, Reverend Magnus taking his time to speak to everyone.

  What could she say? "It has been a busy week with much to think about."

  Mrs. Thornton turned to her with cool eyes. "What have you to think about? No family, no responsibility, no worries."

  "We all think, Mrs. Thornton."

  With a snort, the woman turned, clasping her hands ahead of her. "Thinking of dashing men and future prospects?"

  Emmeline frowned, wondering what went through Mrs. Thornton's head sometimes. "Actually, I was thinking of Christian values," Emmeline said, her response a little on the tart side. She didn't like Mrs. Thornton insinuating what thoughts were in her head. They did not know each other well enough for such speculation.

  Surprise registered on Mrs. Thornton's face, but she didn't say anything else.

  There really was no hope for them as companions, was there? This venture had been an utter failure, and now Emmeline didn't know what to do. Should she seek other employment? How? She had no means to here, and such a short employment would look unsatisfactory. She really had to try harder to be a good companion. Perhaps it was the fact that she was an orphan that made it so hard for her to establish a relationship.

  Mrs. Thornton spoke sweetly to the reverend and then it was time to return home. Mr. Hart was there again. Emmeline saw him take his horse and ride off toward the township. Like Lord Cresswell, he preferred to spend time away from the plantation and its business when he could.

  Joseph sat waiting on the carriage driver’s seat, sweat beading on his brow. It seemed they'd been too late for him to find a shaded spot. "Madame," he said and jumped down, helping Mrs. Thornton into the carriage, who quickly grabbed her lace umbrella to shade herself with. With a smile, Emmeline supposed masculine pride would forbid Joseph to resort to using a lace umbrella to keep himself cool.

  "Take us home, Joseph," she said. "Did the parcel arrive from England?"

  "Yes, madame," Joseph said, navigating them through the traffic. "It's already been sent to the house."

  "Excellent. We shall have scones and cream with our tea this afternoon." Mrs. Thornton seemed pleased with the prospect.

  The drive back was pleasant. It was nice to be away from the house. Emmeline had stayed close to home after the storm, and it was lovely to have some new sights.

  The water was gone now, although it rained every other day—not like it had during the storm, instead more gentle patter on the foliage of the garden.

  During the journey, Mrs. Thornton became increasingly fussy, straightening her skirt, picking on her gloves, the pleasure of scones giving to a scowl.

  Her fingers clawed into a tight fist as they turned into the road leading through the plantation. There were people, slaves, milling by the house and Mrs. Thornton sat forward in her seat. "What are they doing, Joseph?" she asked, her voice tight and strained. "I don't want them here."

  They stood still and silent in their worn and torn clothes, about thirty of them, both women and men. Their gazes followed the carriage as it pulled up by the stairs, but they didn’t move.

  "Tell them to leave, Joseph," Mrs. Thornton demanded, her voice even higher.
"They have to deal with Mr. Hart. Tell them to speak to Mr. Hart. Now, Joseph."

  Joseph hopped down, but Mrs. Thornton refused to move. Emmeline opened the carriage door on her side and stepped down. As she closed it, she saw that Mrs. Thornton resolutely looked straight ahead, but her hands were shaking like leaves.

  Joseph spoke to one of the men, so quietly nothing was heard. In fact, it was eerily quiet as no one spoke or moved. After a moment, Joseph returned. "They have an issue they wish to discuss."

  "They can't come to the house," Mrs. Thornton screeched. "It is Mr. Hart they have to deal with. Tell them to go away. I will not listen, not like this. They must go."

  Emmeline tried to smile as she stood there between the carriage and the visitors that frightened Mrs. Thornton so much, feeling utterly awkward, not quite knowing where to put her hands. What was this issue they felt they had to come and raise? If they came, it had to be something important. Or did they know they were unnerving the mistress? It was hard to tell by the blank and expressionless faces. They had to know Mr. Hart was not here.

  Most were watching Mrs. Thornton, but one woman, an older woman, was staring at her unblinkingly. Emmeline continued to smile, in some way trying to be conciliatory.

  Emmeline didn't exactly know what this was, but it felt like a confrontation.

  Joseph returned, again speaking softly to one of the men. Not a single voice was heard, but the man huffed, and with narrowed eyes he started walking away. The others followed, throwing looks as they walked through the canes in the direction of the sugar mill.

  "They are not allowed to come here," Mrs. Thornton stated firmly as Joseph helped her down. The woman was clearly distressed, her voice having a breathy and thin quality. "Why is Mr. Hart not here?"

  "It is his day off," Joseph said calmly.