She'd been embarrassed not remembering Fiona right off, because when she'd first met Fiona at the Children's Aid fundraiser, Fiona had made an impression on her, though they hadn't spoken long. Perhaps it was because she hadn't expected to see her at the dressmaker's shop.
And when her mother had dragged her off to yet another stilted conversation with another eligible male, she was disappointed. Later that evening, however, she heard whispering among the other ladies about Fiona, about how odd she was, even though she was friendly and funny. Odd because she was so pale and seemed never to enjoy the warmth of spring days. And she didn't behave like a proper woman should. She was independent, and seemed never to have a man hanging about. Whispers and rumors never bothered Rose. She was sure that she had been the subject of catty gossiping herself. But in this case, she couldn't disagree. There was something odd about Fiona. But was it a bad thing? On the contrary, Fiona was intriguing and she wanted to know more about her.
More than that, though, Rose had been flustered by something else entirely...Fiona's beauty. Her hair had been neatly pulled back and weaved in a thick plait, the tip of which hung over her right shoulder. Almost a wine color. Green eyes, almost cat-like, peered out from a sharply angled face with high, round cheeks, full lips, and long, thin eyebrows. These stood out all the more because of Fiona's fair, almost pearlescent skin, which explained the big-brimmed hat.
She was so startlingly unusual, as was Rose's reaction to her. All the way home from the fundraiser, Rose had thought about Fiona, and harbored a fluttering in her abdomen.
She'd not seen Fiona since then until the dress shop, but the encounter had had lasting effects. Which made it even stranger that she had not recognized her. Maybe it was the large hat Fiona had worn that had partially hidden her features. Yet that was familiar, too. As if she'd seen Fiona before partly in shadow.
And what she felt during this encounter was much like what she'd felt on another occasion
The day she had met Ursula.
Rose put away her purchases and hung her new dress in her wardrobe. She moved to her desk and opened the drawer, but what she hoped would materialize was not there. She scanned her bedroom and went to her dresser and checked the drawers there, although she knew it was futile.
"What are you looking for?" her mother asked from the doorway.
"Nothing." Rose quickly straightened and faced her mother.
"Is it that journal of yours? You know, you should be careful what you write in that thing. You never know who might get their hands on it."
Rose blanched but retained her composure. Marianne turned to walk away, but stopped and turned back. "What do you write in there, Rose?"
"Nothing important," she hedged. "Just thoughts about the weather and things I see on shopping excursions. Events of the day. That sort of thing."
Her mother walked out silently, but threw her a glance. Rose knew that look well. It meant, "Don't waste time on such foolishness."
When Marianne stepped away, Rose was surprised to see that Melissa had been standing behind her, holding a tea tray. Again, she had that startled look on her face, like a scared rabbit.
"Melissa, what are you doing? Come in."
Melissa stepped into the room as if afraid that a ghost would jump out at her. She put the tray down on a table. "Will that be all, miss?"
She was about to dismiss her when she thought of her journal again. "Melissa, have you by chance seen my..." She swallowed, embarrassed at admitting to the maid that she kept a diary, and afraid that she had found it and dared to peek inside. She knew the girl had rudimentary reading skills. She shuddered. "My journal?"
The blood ran from Melissa's face and she stood frozen in Rose's doorway. She shook her head. "N-no, miss. I haven't."
Rose studied Melissa's face a moment. "Is there something wrong?"
Melissa stared at the floor. "No, miss. Nothing at all."
Rose hesitated, but then said, "Well, all right, then. You may go. Thank you." Melissa left, never looking back at her.
Rose wondered if she should press Melissa further, but decided that she had her own worries at the moment. Her stomach was unsettled and she hoped the tea would help.
It was her mother's statement about someone finding her journal that had upset her. If anyone ever read the things she'd written'¦she chewed her lip. It had been a whole day since she'd discovered it missing, and she'd exhausted herself looking for it. She desperately hoped that it would turn up soon because the anxiety it was causing her was making her ill.
Oh, where was that journal?
Chapter Six
THE FIRST THING that struck Fiona when she entered the Godwyn home that Sunday was its primness. The conservative decor of Edwardian furniture and simple accents of glass vases and silk flowers spoke of upper-class temperance. Constraint hung in the air like the blue chintz curtains hanging over the windows.
Fiona followed Bridget down a tastefully decorated corridor, at the end of which Bridget gestured toward the parlor. "Please wait here, Miss Keane. I'll fetch Miss Rose." Bridget cast her a small frown before she turned and left.
In contrast to the foyer, the parlor was adorned with valuable objects and paintings to clearly assert the Godwyns' wealth and distinction. The blue silk damask of the divan and ottoman shone with such newness that Fiona couldn't imagine sitting on them. Too jittery to sit anyway, she studied the artwork on the walls. In the middle of the Renaissance paintings was a crucifix. It had been quite a long time since she'd seen one, probably since before she'd been turned into a vampire. Crucifixes did not have untoward effects on vampires...that was a myth. She simply had not encountered any, as she had avoided churches. Entering houses of worship or walking on any holy ground made her feel unclean, like a hypocrite.
While studying a Botticelli painting, Fiona sensed Rose's presence. She turned toward the doorway and almost gasped. Rose wore a simple pale yellow dress with stiffly starched white lace at the wrists. Her hope of catching a glimpse of soft white bosom were dashed by the collar, which came to the base of her neck. Fiona's love for Rose was not just physical, but she wanted, just once, to see some of that flesh forbidden to all eyes but Rose's, and perhaps her maid's. But her clothes were always concealing and modest. All in good time. Just seeing Rose, though, demure and sensual in her own sweet way, was enough to arouse Fiona almost beyond control. She was so close now. So close, she could taste her.
"Welcome," Rose greeted her with a delicate hand outstretched.
Rose was not wearing gloves and for a moment, Fiona froze. The prospect of touching Rose's bare skin made her heart flame, even though her heart had been dead so long. The only other person who had made her feel this way had been Susanna, who had stopped her heart in more ways than one. First by kissing her, then by hurting her. And then by killing her.
Her nerves were dead inside, yet she trembled. Unaccustomed to nervousness, it took her a few seconds to collect herself. She calmly took Rose's hand and gave it a slight squeeze.
Rose's gaze stopped on Fiona's face and oh, yes, her pupils dilated. Her hand hung suspended for a moment or two after it unclasped Fiona's. As careful as she always tried to be, Fiona did forget sometimes to curb those traits too overwhelming for mortals. Her handshake had been overly powerful. She could see it on Rose's face.
"I must apologize," said Rose, her voice soft but strong. "My mother won't be joining us for tea after all."
"I'm sorry. I hope she's well."
"Oh, yes. My parents received an invitation for tea from a client of my father's and because of a very delicate business situation, they felt they couldn't refuse. Mother sends her apologies."
"Send her my regards, as well."
Rose motioned for Fiona to sit as she herself gracefully raised her skirt with her forefingers and thumbs and glided down into a seat.
"Oh, but perhaps that was rude of me to tell you that. Please don't be insulted."
Insulted? Fiona felt exultant at just being i
n the presence of her beloved.
"Oh, no. Not at all. I understand how matters of business are akin to matters of politics." It was too perfect. She would actually get to spend time alone with Rose.
Before any real conversation began, Bridget entered the room with a tea service. She set the tray down on the oak coffee table and poured from a silver teapot. She handed the cups to Fiona and Rose. Little flowered plates and mint green napkins matched the tea service, and Bridget set one of each in front of the two women for their biscuits and cakes. "Is there anything else, Miss Rose?"
"No, thank you, Bridget. I do hope those are the little raspberry biscuits I love." Rose pointed to little sweet treats with red oozing out their sides.
"Yes, miss. Greta knew you wanted them. And the almond cakes, too."
Rose smiled a girlish smile of pleasure. If Fiona's heart could beat, it would've stopped.
Just before Bridget turned to go, she gave Fiona another odd look, then slipped out.
Fiona adjusted her position. This would not do, if the servants had misgivings about her. Rose's smiling face made her quickly forget Bridget's expression. She dropped a lemon wedge into her cup and stirred her tea, a habit she'd picked up for appearances. She never ate or drank mortal food.
"Please, help yourself." Rose gestured at the sweets. She was eyeing a raspberry biscuit longingly but was obviously being a good hostess and waiting for Fiona to take one first. She didn't want to deny her. "Thank you but I find that fruits sometimes don't agree with me. Please do enjoy them yourself."
She stirred her tea and watched Rose reach for a biscuit, and without bending over or even curving her spine. The top of Rose's head inclined toward her. Her hair was so black and shiny, like the deposits of obsidian Fiona had encountered in Argentina on a South American excursion to study volcanoes...one of the many things she'd done over the years to alleviate her loneliness and give her mind a respite from the thoughts that tormented her daily. She restrained an urge to touch Rose's hair.
When Rose sat back up, biscuit in hand, Fiona picked her cup off the saucer slightly and put it back down to create the illusion that she'd just taken a sip. "Tell me. How do you like working for the Society?"
"I rather enjoy it. It gets me out of the house and I feel as if I'm doing something useful." She took a bite of her biscuit, and placed it on the saucer, which she balanced gracefully with one hand.
"It is frustrating when one wants to do something with oneself that is outside of the limits placed on us as women, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is." Rose sighed, and it spoke volumes.
"My parents passed some time ago and I have no other family, so I enjoy a little more freedom than you do, perhaps." Her statement was actually a question, which Rose evidently picked up on.
"Yes, it is difficult when one's mother..." Rose seemed to ponder her next words. "It's difficult."
Fiona nodded. Of course she remains respectful of her mother, even if she resents her. She cleared her throat. "Yes," she said, intimating that she understood perfectly.
Their conversation continued, as they compared notes on various members of the Society, the work they did, and the latest music. Throughout it all, Fiona fought the urge to touch Rose, to take Rose's hands and kiss the tips of her fingers. Everything about her told Fiona that she needed her. Every one of her disciplined movements...the elegant way she drank her tea, the dainty way she bit into her biscuits...screamed out her desire to break free, to be led with a gentle hand into another kind of life. To be loved.
She wanted to fall at Rose's feet and tell her how much she loved her and beg her to go away with her. She could promise...and deliver...so many things. The freedom that she knew Rose craved. Loving devotion. Faithful companionship.
And eternal life. She stared into her cup. Would Rose want that, or would she be horrified? Fiona was counting on her being so lonely, so frustrated, she'd gladly take the bite if it guaranteed Fiona's undying fidelity and passion. It was right to turn Rose... Fiona just had to be careful about how she did it.
She looked up and caught Rose's gaze scanning her body. Not in the judgmental way that "proper" ladies sometimes did, but in an appraising way. An advantage was opening up. She'd learned over the many years of her life that when someone was attracted to you, you could get them to do almost anything.
"So, my dear," she said, "I believe we have a mutual friend. Ursula Lundberg."
Rose visibly started and her hand stopped in the middle of stirring. "You know Ursula?" Rose's eyes gleamed. She rested her spoon on her saucer and placed the tea cup on the table before folding her hands in her lap.
"Not very well. We met once or twice at the Society's affairs." It didn't matter that this wasn't true. Even if Rose went to Ursula to ask her about it, Ursula couldn't possibly remember everyone she'd met at the various functions she was obligated to attend for the Society. After all, Rose hadn't remembered Fiona either.
"We must have Ursula join us, then," Fiona continued. "I found her to be a delightful person but, regrettably, I've never had the opportunity to get to know her."
Rose stiffened, and Fiona knew she'd hit the right chord. "Don't you think Ursula is delightful?" Fiona made her voice as silky as she could.
"Oh, uh, yes. She is delightful." One of Rose's eyebrows lifted ever so slightly and her nostrils flared a bit. She picked up her tea and sipped it. Her lips were pursed so tightly Fiona wondered how she was getting any tea through them.
"I had the most interesting conversation with her about the suffragists. She's so knowledgeable. But, truly, I had a difficult time concentrating on the topic, I was so taken with her blue eyes. They were simply the bluest eyes I've ever seen. And such flawless skin! She must have suitors beating down her door."
Rose held her teacup flat in the palm of her hands and seemed to find the steaming liquid fascinating.
Fiona continued her assault. "And her hair is so incredibly golden, I couldn't help but desire to touch it. I wonder what she might use to make it so beautiful."
At this, Rose looked up at Fiona sharply, spilling a little of the hot brew.
"Are you all right?" Fiona quickly dabbed the spot on Rose's dress with her own napkin.
"Yes, I'm fine. I don't know why I'm so clumsy today."
"Probably the change in the weather. It happens to some people." Fiona patted Rose's leg.
Stirring her tea for emphasis, she spoke again. "I think the three of us would have an awfully good time together. Don't you? She's so intelligent and her laughter is musical. And she's quite beautiful, too. Don't you think?" Fiona gave this a moment to sink in. The color in Rose's face deepened to a bold pink and Fiona allowed herself only the faintest smile.
Without waiting for a response, Fiona said, "I say that we should make a date, then." She put down her cup and clapped her hands together in enthusiasm. "Why don't we invite Ursula for a picnic in the park? Next Sunday?"
Rose's eyes fixed on her for a moment. "Yes. That sounds lovely."
"Good. I'll invite Ursula and I'll let you know the time." A fourth person was needed. Without one, Fiona would not be able to do what she planned. Besides, the day would be a complete disaster if the three of them just stared at one another.
"And I'll invite that lovely Johanna." She knew about Johanna from Rose's diary.
"You know Johanna?" Rose seemed a bit disturbed by this. "Oh, through Ursula, I suppose."
Fiona nodded, then stood and ran her palms over her skirt. "I must be going. I hadn't realized the time. Thank you so much for tea, Rose. I'm so happy we got to spend a little time together."
Rose stood up as well. "You're welcome. Thank you for coming."
Rose led the way out of the parlor. "Bridget," she called.
Bridget appeared from another room.
"Miss Keane is leaving."
"Yes, miss." Bridget began walking toward to the front door, but before Fiona followed, she extended her hand to Rose. "So, if Ursula is free, I'll see you next
Sunday."
"Yes," Rose responded, and gripped Fiona's hand tentatively before Bridget ushered her out. Fiona walked down the brownstone steps and turned east. She stopped briefly and looked up at the sky, then looked back down and pulled the rim of her hat down over her eyes. She grimaced at the burning sensation in her eyes and on her skin. Just before she walked on, she glanced up at the front door. The sight of Bridget peering down at her made her go cold. Bridget quickly shut the door.
While she still felt elated that her plan looked like it was actually going to work, the uneasiness that she'd felt earlier returned. Her instincts told her that she needed to be careful. But, if necessary, she'd kill Bridget, too. The housekeeper would be a necessary casualty. She only hoped that it would not come to that.
Chapter Seven
WHAT DID SHE mean by delightful?
Rose went to the window of the upstairs sitting room, which faced the street, and watched Fiona walk down the block.
What did she want with Ursula? All those compliments Fiona had paid Ursula seemed more than just niceties. The thought of losing Ursula's friendship to Fiona made her stomach lurch. The last thing she wanted was to witness the shift in Ursula's loyalty.
Yet, it would have been rude to refuse Fiona's request. Rose wrung her hands as she sat down and got up repeatedly, trying to figure out what to do. Tears began to threaten the thin layer of fragrant powder on her cheeks. There was nothing she could do to win Ursula's loyalty but this woman could easily do it...she was too beautiful and provocative for anyone to resist.
There was something about her, though, that made Rose's stomach tighten. Fiona had fidgeted with her cup a lot, but when Rose got up to escort her out, she looked down and saw that Fiona hadn't touched her tea, or taken so much as a nibble of her cookie, still perched on the saucer next to the cup. For all that she had stirred the spoon, lifted the cup to her lips, and blown the steam, it was all still sitting there, now cold in the cup, a lemon wedge floating at the top like a dead fish.
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