Hunting Memories

by Hendee, Barb

  She held her free hand up to silence him and sank down beside Eleisha, her eyes searching Eleisha’s face. “You can see my memories?”

  “If you drop any mental barriers and think back, remember what happened, we can all see them. After that, Wade can keep your memories linear. But . . . it can be painful, like reliving it as it happened. Are you willing to try?”

  Rose offered one slow nod.

  Wade dropped down on the floor, cross-legged, and then Philip finally joined them, glancing a few times at Seamus. But Philip’s expression was curious and intense, and he seemed to be losing his conviction that Rose was working for Julian.

  “Just think back,” Eleisha said softly, “as far as you can.”

  Carefully, she reached out with her thoughts and connected to Rose’s mind, finding access easier than she expected. Then the room dimmed, and that was the last conscious act she remembered for several hours.

  chapter 5

  Rose

  Rose de Spenser had always been considered a strange child: big-eyed and serious and old beyond her years.

  Perhaps it was because her mother died giving birth to her.

  Perhaps it was because her great-great-great-grandfather had been French—and everyone knew the French were mad.

  Perhaps it was because she stepped into the role of housekeeper for her father and brother by the time she was seven.

  But whatever the reason, most people agreed that Rose was odd.

  She was born in Loam Village, just south of Inverness, Scotland, in 1790, but were it not for the fact that Mary, Queen of Scots had become a young widow all the way back in 1560, it’s quite possible Rose would have been born—with a different face—on French soil . . . or never been born at all.

  Queen Mary had been living in France for most of her life when her husband, Francis, suddenly died, and having no more use for her, the French royals sent her back to Scotland in 1561, along with a large retinue of servants and stewards.

  When Rose was a child, her brother, Gregor, had sometimes mused that their migrating ancestor had been one of the noble envoys accompanying the queen, but her father insisted this was not the case. Although little else was known about Alain de Spenser, he had been only a minor wardrobe steward in the queen’s retinue. This was not important. What was important was that he’d remained in Scotland, married a local girl, and founded a line of de Spensers.

  Having some access to Scottish land owners, Alain’s eldest son made a name for himself in estate management—and he founded the family trade.

  By the time Rose was born, her people had been living in Scotland for more than two hundred years, and yet she was still singled out for her French surname.

  She grew up cooking and cleaning and sewing for her father and brother, knowing the only way she’d ever get rid of her surname was by marrying into another family, but this idea hardly appealed to her. She liked her home, she loved her father and Gregor, and most important, she was poignantly aware that marriage led to pregnancy and pregnancy often led to death.

  But she was fascinated with the process by which people arrived into this world—another element her neighbors found odd. She could always be found snooping around when a village baby was about to be born.

  Her father made certain that she and Gregor were well versed in their letters and numbers, but Rose showed little interest. She loved herbs and gardens and animals, and she always seemed to know when one of the local women was close to giving birth.

  Then one day, when Rose was fourteen, their closest neighbor, Miriam Boyd, came pounding on the front door. She was pregnant and had gone into labor while her husband was away. Gregor ran for the midwife, while Rose took Miriam inside and put her in a bed.

  Later, Rose considered this the most important day of her life because on this day, she finally caught Betty’s attention.

  Betty was at least sixty years old—ancient in their world—and had been delivering babies since she was seventeen. Rose longed for her notice. Shortly after Betty arrived at the house that day, she could see how capable Rose was and began giving her instructions.

  Rose wiped Miriam’s sweating face and held her hand when she screamed, and Betty allowed Rose to remain for the entire birth: a wriggling, blood-covered baby girl. Rose was in awe of Betty’s power, of her knowledge, of her position among the people.

  In addition, Rose’s father was so relieved that the birth had gone safely—and Miriam hadn’t died in his house—that he paid the birthing fee himself.

  Betty was a woman earning her own living.

  Rose followed her outside.

  “You have the gift,” Betty said.

  “Teach me more.”

  And Betty did.

  But things changed, as things must, and the following year, Rose’s father developed a sharp pain in his right side one night, which grew agonizing in a matter of hours. Rose and Gregor did everything they could to try to help him, but he died two days later. This loss was hard, and the house fell quiet.

  Gregor, who was five years older than Rose, took over his father’s position, managing two separate estates. The nature of her brother’s profession kept him away from home a great deal, but she managed his absences by continuing to increase her skill and knowledge as a midwife—and Betty grew a little weaker each year.

  Then Gregor met a fresh-faced young woman called Briana, and the house magically came alive again. Briana was built like a small bird with a long, black mane. She laughed and smiled and sang. Rose welcomed Briana into their home when Gregor married her in 1806, and the couple was expecting a child soon after.

  Rose was only seventeen when her nephew, Seamus de Spenser, came screaming out into the world, and she was the first person to touch him with her hands, to hold him and wash him, and to experience something besides the satisfaction of a safe delivery. She looked into his eyes and knew that he was her blood and kin.

  Two years later, Seamus’ sister, Kenna, arrived, and Rose delivered her as well. The house had become full . . . and happy once more.

  One night, Betty died quietly in her sleep, leaving Rose to take her place.

  Years passed.

  Life fell into a comfortable routine of meals and work. Gregor still handled two large estates—but he somehow managed to be home more often—and Briana kept the house. Rose earned a reputation as the most skilled midwife between Inverness and Elgin. She even purchased a pony and cart so she could travel farther in her profession. It pained her whenever she lost a woman or a baby, but childbed was a dangerous place, and she did her best to save everyone she could.

  Her record was even better than Betty’s.

  Besides daily work, the de Spensers also enjoyed each other’s company and celebrated holidays together in grand fashion: Christmas, Easter, Imbolc, Beltane, Lammas, and Samhain.

  Kenna was the small image of Briana in looks and manner, but Seamus had little in common with either of his parents. He showed no interest in his father’s profession and spent a good deal of his time watching other men in the village train horses.

  Then, one day, shortly after Seamus turned nine years old, he came running into the house, breathless with excitement, his shaggy brown hair in a tangled mess.

  “Mother! Rose! Get Kenna and grab a few coins. A troupe of actors has arrived. All the way from London! They said they’re going to do Desdemona’s death scene in the market square. Hurry! They’re setting up now.”

  Briana looked up from the dough she was kneading and laughed. “Calm yourself, boy. And what do you know of Desde mona’s death scene? Those actors are not going anywhere soon.” But then she seemed pleased at the idea of an afternoon’s entertainment. “Rose?” she asked. “Shall we take the children?”

  The mood was infectious, and Rose bundled up Kenna while Briana washed her hands, and they all trekked off into the village.

  “Oh, look,” Rose said, pointing at the brightly painted wagon and makeshift stage. Seamus ran ahead, pushing into a place out fr
ont, and not to be outdone by her brother, Kenna let go of her mother’s hand and ran after him.

  “Mind your manners!” Briana called. “Don’t be pushin’ folks.”

  Rose had a difficult time bringing herself to discipline Seamus. She loved him so much and he was just . . . high-spirited.

  “Briana! Rose!” Miriam Boyd called to them. “Come and find a place here with us.”

  The air crackled with the excitement, almost like a festival, or at least an event outside the daily routine.

  A vendor who traveled with the troupe was working at a cart near the stage, selling questionable-looking meat pies, and some of the villagers were buying them as fast as he could take their coins.

  “Don’t let the children eat any of those,” Rose said with a slight frown.

  “Of course not,” Briana said, trying to see over the crowd. “I wish I was as tall as you.”

  The crowd fell silent as the stage’s makeshift curtain parted. A woman in a long blond wig and wearing a pale blue gown lay sleeping on a bed. Othello stepped out into view, tall and impressive with his blackened face and leather armor and fur robes.

  But he nearly tripped, as if his boot caught on a board. His eyes were glassy, and a feeling of unease began building inside Rose.

  “It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.” The actor’s voice rang loud and deep, reaching the very back of the crowd. “Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!”

  He took another step and faltered again. “It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood. Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster.”

  He unsheathed his sword and dropped it. The audience was en raptured, but Rose spotted a few lines in his makeup. She focused her eyes, trying to see his face more clearly, and she realized he was sweating in the cold day.

  Her feeling of unease grew stronger.

  “Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.” Othello’s voice rang out. He wavered during the next line. “Put out the light, and then put out the light.”

  He collapsed onto the stage, his head hitting the floor with a thudding sound.

  For the span of a few breaths, the audience remained quiet, thinking this part of the show, but then the woman on the couch rose up and cried, “Henry?”

  She ran to him, and the crowd began to murmur in confusion. Seamus was at the edge of the stage, his face concerned, and he grabbed the side to swing himself up.

  Rose’s feeling of unease exploded into fear as she remembered his earlier words at the house.

  All the way from London.

  “Seamus!” she shouted, shoving her way toward the stage. “Don’t touch him!”

  Rose was strong, and she reached the stage in seconds, but Seamus was already kneeling beside the sweating, unconscious actor.

  “Don’t touch him,” she repeated. “Get back.”

  “What is it?” Briana asked, rushing up behind and grabbing Kenna, lifting her off the ground.

  “Fever,” Rose answered.

  Two days later, the actor died.

  Four days after that, Seamus fell ill, along with others in the village. Soon after, half the town was moaning and sweating. In the de Spenser house, only Rose did not contract the sickness. She worked day and night to care for her family.

  In a matter of weeks, a quarter of Loam Village was dead. Nearly everyone had lost family members, but the de Spenser house was hardest hit. Gregor, Briana, and Kenna all passed over, leaving Rose and Seamus too shocked to even mourn.

  Worse, Seamus blamed himself.

  Rose had survived the untimely death of her father, but this was almost too much to bear, and at the same time she was forced into dealing with business matters—as there was no one else. Seamus was too young to take over his father’s profession, and yet he inherited the house and his father’s money. Old Quentin, one of the village elders, helped Rose to sort these matters, and she was surprised to learn the size of her brother’s wealth. She and Seamus would want for nothing . . . except for their lost family.

  Sometimes, later, looking back, Rose did not know how she and Seamus survived the cold, empty sorrow of those first few years together. She loved him, but she was not his mother. She was not even the mothering kind.

  Still, she did her best.

  They were both comfortable that he never called her “Mother” or even “Auntie,” and he always called her “Rose.”

  She went on working as a midwife, and he took over some of the household tasks. She continued teaching him his numbers and reading and writing—as his mother had. Day by day, they slowly created a life together.

  In his early teens, he talked her into going to a horse fair, and she let him buy two half-wild colts. He brought them home and put countless hours into training them, and then sold them to a young lord in Inverness for a decent profit.

  He had stumbled upon his own path, as a horse trader.

  One morning, Rose woke up and made their tea and walked out to watch him patiently training his newest acquisition, a lovely dappled gray. She smiled.

  “I’ll get breakfast,” she called.

  Two hours after washing the dishes, she had her first conscious painful thought that day of Gregor, Briana, and Kenna. But then she realized this was the first morning since their deaths that half the morning had passed before such pain hit her.

  The next day, she did not suffer their loss until midafternoon.

  And she knew she would recover.

  At seventeen, Seamus had grown taller than Rose. He was strong and honest and sure of himself. Between his house and his inheritance and his growing reputation as a horse trader, he was considered by far to be the best “catch” in the village, and several families approached Rose with possible offers.

  But she heard none of it.

  If Seamus wished to hook himself to a girl, that was his choice, not hers.

  As of yet, he’d shown no interest in taking a wife.

  Perhaps he was like her, and he never would marry.

  Staring into the looking glass one night, Rose wondered what had become of the girl who felt such joy at bringing him into the world, holding his squirming warm body to her breast. At the age of thirty-four, her face showed no lines, but her long, brown hair held streaks of silver.

  Just as when she was a child, she knew some of the villagers were beginning to view her as strange. A peculiar spinster, obsessed with new babies, but wanting none of her own.

  Why had she never married?

  Perhaps because no man ever stirred her.

  That all changed one night after supper when Seamus suddenly announced he felt like going to the pub.

  “The pub?” she asked. “When did you ever feel like going to the pub?”

  “Tonight.” He smiled. “Come with me.”

  She picked up his plate. “There must be some crowd from the horse fairs visiting?” she ventured, teasing him. “Some men you want to buy a colt from cheap? Or maybe it’s a girl you’re chasing?”

  He shrugged. “A few men from the horse fairs. I see nothing wrong with sharing a pint and starting a conversation.”

  She laughed and got her cloak. In truth, a pint and a little company appealed to her tonight. Spring was just around the corner, and the gray days of winter would soon be past.

  She did not remember what she and Seamus chatted about that night as they walked into the village proper and down the main path toward the Black Bull—one of only two pubs in Loam. She remembered going inside, feeling the welcome warmth, closing the door while removing her cloak . . . and then hearing a voice from somewhere across the room behind her.

  “This ale is first rate tonight, Gareth. What did you do, wash out the mug first?”

  People laughed.

  His accent was smooth—English, not Scottish. The sound of it melted into her skin as she turned around slowly to find its owner.

  A man she’d never seen before stood by the bar, chatting with the pub’s owner, Gareth. T
he stranger was neither tall nor short, with a medium build. He had dark brown hair and green eyes that she could see all the way from the door. He wore polished boots, new breeches, and a white shirt. His black jacket hung over his arm. Although well-heeled, he was not particularly handsome—at least not by Scottish standards—and yet everyone in the place was watching him, listening to him. She should have been warned by this, as the English were not well liked this far north.

  But even Seamus stopped and stared.

  “Ah, Edward,” Gareth said. “You insult me. You know I never wash my mugs. Kills all the flavor!”

  Edward. That was his name.

  She moved deeper into the room. He looked her way and froze. His green eyes locked into hers. His gaze slid upward, to the top of her head, and then down her long silver streaks. She could not read his expression, but he seemed so . . . interested.

  He glanced quickly at Seamus and turned back to his banter with Gareth.

  Rose’s heart was racing. She tried to recover.

  “So, where are your horse traders?” she asked Seamus.

  He looked around and then pointed. “Over there. I may have to pry their attention. Who is that Englishman?”

  “I don’t know.” Several tables were empty. “I’ll just sit here awhile. You go and do your business.”

  “You don’t mind?” he asked.

  “Go on.”

  In truth, she needed to gather her wits. Every time Edward spoke, his voice seemed to penetrate right through her skin. Seamus made his way toward a small group of men, and she sank into a chair, grateful for a moment to herself.

  But a moment was all she had.

  Then she heard Edward say, “Gareth, would you introduce me to that lady?”

  She looked up. They were coming to her table!

  Other patrons murmured disappointment as Edward left the bar.

  Dressed in a faded purple gown with brown laces and her hair hanging down her back, Rose hardly felt like a lady. Her thoughts were wild. Whatever would she say? But why did she care? In all her life, she’d never cared what others thought of her.

  “Edward Claymore,” Gareth said, arriving at the table with a sweep of his arm—like some foppish gentlemen. “May I present Rose de Spenser, Loam Village’s own midwife. And a good one, if I may say.”