The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  "This Seth—" Rose replaced the parchment in the box "—what does he look like?"

  "Unfortunately, I don't know. I’ve never seen him. I've been told he spent the daylight hours sleeping and the night hours keeping pretty much to himself."

  Rose felt a chill race down her back. She remembered her dream of the previous night, when she had faced Seth on the other side of the iron gate. She hadn't seen his face, either. But she remembered him as being tall, lean and dark-haired. Was Taylor really Seth in disguise? Then she remembered the narrow shoulders and dry voice of Seth Bastyr. Taylor had a well-developed physique and a voice full of rich baritones. Could they be the same man? Or were they two completely different people? And if Seth went abroad only dining the night, he would have had to change habits in order to appear as Taylor, who was quite visible during the day. To make matters more complicated, Seth Bastyr could have sent a courier in his place.

  Rose frowned, uncertain of her own logic. Her intuition—her heart, if she truly admitted it to herself—told her that Taylor was not a Bastyr. But could she listen to her heart? She had no experience in such matters.

  Yet could she trust the fantastic story of the Bastyrs? The man who came to her at night told her that everyone had fed her lies. Could Bea still be lying to her? The letter could be false. The emerald could be glass, for all she knew. Who was telling the truth? Whom could she trust?

  "What's the matter, dear?" Bea questioned. "You're as white as a sheet."

  "I—I— This is all too strange!" She stood up and brushed a stray strand of hair off her forehead. The glow she had felt only moments before had suddenly shriveled to a cold flicker of distrust and doubt.

  "I know it must be hard to take all this in at once, but you must."

  Rose turned at the doorway. "I must finish the scarf. That's what I must do.''

  "But, Rose, you can't!"

  "My birthday is Saturday. That gives me two more days. If I work all day today I can probably finish. Then we can leave."

  "No, Rose!"

  "You said yourself that nothing will happen to me until my twenty-first birthday." She put her hand on the doorknob. "Besides, we have my mother's emerald and her instructions. If what you've told me is true, we are safe."

  "Not necessarily. They've never been put to the test—"

  "One more day, Bea. That's all I'm asking." She opened the door and looked back at her grandmother. Bea's face was full of doubt and worry, which deepened the lines around her mouth.

  "One more day, Bea."

  Bea sighed heavily and clutched the box to her chest. "All right. But I don't like it."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  By the time dinner was over, Taylor was in the mood for companionship. His books had arrived that morning. He had spent the entire day reading about the human eye and had discovered some odd information in one volume. He was eager to share his news with anyone but Bea Jacoby, who made an art form of avoiding him and cutting off all conversation with a hard stare. He really wanted to tell Rose what he had found out about his eyes, but she had been busy all day, and he hadn't had a chance to talk to her. Maybe she was avoiding him because of the morning fiasco, when Bea Jacoby had found her in his room. She might be too embarrassed to face him. Yet he couldn't imagine Rose hiding from anyone, not with her spirited streak. He smiled slowly as he finished his coffee. He liked that streak in her. In fact, there wasn't much about Rose Quennel that he didn't like.

  Taylor rose and pushed back his chair. He was going to find Rose and talk to her, no matter what objections Bea Jacoby raised.

  He hobbled up the stairs and knocked lightly on Rose's bedroom door but got no response. Next he checked in the study, wondering if she might be in there. But the room was empty. He glanced out a window that overlooked the back gardens but saw no evidence of her there, either. Just as he had decided to give up and go downstairs for another cup of coffee, he saw Edgar soar up to the third story and through an open doorway.

  "Ah," Taylor mused to himself. "The workroom."

  He limped up the stairs and passed over the threshold of the workroom. The place was huge. It must have been the ballroom in the old days when his aunt had entertained. A fairy-tale quality still pervaded the room due to the festoons of hand-painted cloth that Rose had hung from the ceiling and over the tops of the tall windows. Four tables, each at least twenty feet long and covered with vinyl, made up her workspace. Wooden drying racks took up another corner. Shelving filled with plastic gallon containers and a jumble of glassware sat in the shadows of early evening. Rolls of fabric, more tables, stacks of laundry baskets, a hot plate and an assortment of plastic utensils lined the far end of the room. An old roll- top desk littered with papers and books guarded the doorway nearby.

  Taylor walked farther into the room and looked around the desk. He found Rose standing at the end of another long table, her fingers curled loosely around the shaft of a paintbrush. She wore a spattered bandanna to keep the hair out of her face, but the rest of ha russet tresses tumbled down her shoulders and back in a river of fire.

  For a moment his eyes went out of focus and he heard a faint whirring sound at the same time that a rainbow-colored shimmer appeared around Rose's head. Startled, Taylor blinked, hoping his vision wasn't going to give out on him again, and in an instant the shimmer disappeared.

  "Mr. Wolfe?" she asked.

  "Hi," he replied, relieved that the vision incident had been so brief. He limped to the end of the table.

  She looked at him expectantly and twirled the paintbrush between her thumb and forefinger. An awkward silence stretched between them. To break the tense moment, Taylor directed his attention to the fabric stretched over the table by a series of staples. "This must be the scarf you mentioned."

  "Yes."

  He moved down the side of the table in order to see the design from a better position. The jumble of colors and lines suddenly took the shape of an unusual mosaic in indigo and peach, a depiction of a man and woman embracing, their robes falling together as one, much in the manner of a Gustav Klimt painting. Tiny swirls of silver that reminded him of galaxies scattered over the night sky decorated the robe of the man. Squares of salmon, peach and the barest hint of lavender made up the robe of the woman. The indigos and silvers shimmered in a fantasy motif that seemed utterly magical. Taylor lost himself looking at it, captivated by the detail of the design and the graceful nuances of color, and amazed that a woman as young as Rose could create such a masterful work.

  He knew how many years it had taken him to acquire the patience required to build a model ship. To control dye in such intricate lines on a piece of fabric must demand a steady hand and a concentration that would put his accomplishments to shame.

  Gradually Taylor became aware of Rose's gaze. He looked up to find her watching him. She blushed again, which turned her blue eyes to luminous pools of cerulean.

  "Do you like it?" she ventured.

  "It's incredible."

  She rubbed the small of her back as she came forward. "It's to be a gift for someone. That's why I have to get it done by the end of the week."

  "Ah."

  She strolled up to stand beside him, apparently forgetting her distrust of him. "I only hope my client will share your enthusiasm. He's getting anxious to see it."

  "He'll love it."

  "Do you really think so?" She looked up and raised her fine eyebrows.

  "I have no doubt. Where did you learn to draw like that?"

  She shrugged. "I grew up here at Brierwood and spent a lot of time alone. I filled my hours with drawing."

  "Time well spent." He reached out to trace a silver swirl with his finger. "Where did you get the silver paint? I've never seen anything like it before."

  "My client sent it to me, insisting that I use it. When I asked him what it was, he couldn't tell me."

  "It shimmers." Taylor wiped his fingers on his jeans, trying to rub off the silver residue on his skin. His fingertips tingled from the contact
with the paint. "You sure it isn't toxic?" he asked.

  "It could be." She picked up a jar from her desk and inspected it. Taylor glanced at the jar, which looked old and asymmetrical, as if it had been made by hand.

  "It's the strangest stuff," Rose continued. "Rather gooey and insoluble. I had to experiment for a while, trying to come up with the proper amount of washing soda and water in order to get it to spread. I finally managed to get it to work, but it took up a lot of my time." She put the jar back down on the table.

  "It reminds me of the trails left by slugs and snails."

  She stared at him, then glanced down at the scarf and back again, incredulous.

  "I realize the comparison isn't very flattering—"

  "No, you're right," she replied, her eyes shadowed with disbelief. "You are absolutely right, Mr. Wolfe. I should have recognized the similarity long ago." She walked around the table, lightly touching the silver patches. "Strange, isn't it?"

  "It's still quite beautiful." He limped behind her, hoping he hadn't offended her. "Are you nearly finished?"

  "Yes, except for setting the dye and hemming the cloth. I'll meet my Friday deadline, though. That's when my client is coming for the piece."

  Taylor looked down at the scarf. He knew women who would kill to possess such a work of art. Rose Quennel should be living in New York, not in Brierwood. She could be making hundreds of thousands of dollars with her scarves, given the proper exposure. All she needed was some encouragement and protection, both of which he could give her. His mother had hundreds of contacts in New York, not only in fashion, but also in real estate. And Taylor had met quite a few artists over the years. He could find her an apartment, a studio, and introduce her to the right people.

  Suddenly Taylor caught himself in mid-thought. What did he think be was doing? He had never considered taking a woman under his wing before, especially when the process would include cooperating with his mother. That he could even consider the concept made him break out in a cold sweat.

  Flustered, Taylor leaned his hip on the edge of the table. "How's your back?" he ventured.

  "Fine." She averted her gaze. "Thanks to you."

  "That Mrs. Jacoby has you on a tight leash, doesn't she?"

  "She’d just trying to protect me."

  Taylor crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you think you need protection from me?"

  Rose glanced at him, from his hair to his belt buckle. Amused, he noticed that her gaze didn't stray any lower. Then she looked back at his face.

  "Do I?" she asked, reaching for a screwdriver.

  "You tell me."

  She blinked twice, regarding him from the corner of her eyes as she began to remove staples from the long edge of the table. "I'm not sure."

  "Does Mrs. Jacoby hound you like this with every man, or is it just me?"

  Rose paused at the question and then resumed her task. "Actually, there hasn't been anyone else."

  "No boyfriend?" He straightened and ambled up behind her. "No senior prom date? No college beau?"

  "No."

  "I find that hard to believe."

  She rose up and turned to face him. "I've led a rather secluded life, Mr. Wolfe."

  Taylor could tell that she was surprised to find him standing so near to her. Her eyes grew wider as he stepped even closer, trapping her between the edge of the table and his body. He reached out and tilted her chin up with his forefinger. "When are you going to drop the Mr. Wolfe business?" he asked lowly, staring at her full red lips. "I told you, I'm not one to stand on formalities."

  "It's just that I don't know you very well."

  He felt something brush his shirt and looked down. She was holding the screwdriver between than. For her, the screwdriver probably represented a weapon. For him, it was a blatant sexual image that spoke of a bridge between them, connecting their bodies. A vision of her holding him in her graceful white hand swept through his mind. Taylor's body responded immediately with a sharp surge of desire. He shifted uncomfortably, chiding himself for his lack of control in the presence of this woman. He longed to press her against the table and kiss her into surrender. But by all appearances she intended to run him through if he so much as laid a finger on her. He released her chin.

  "I take it you don't trust me," he said at last. "Do you?"

  "No, Mr. Wolfe, I don't."

  "Why?"

  "Bea thinks you are connected to my past."

  "Why would she think that?"

  "Because you knew about my family, the Bastyrs."

  "Who?"

  "The Bastyrs. Don't you remember? When you first arrived, you stood in the study and told me I was the spitting image of the Bastyr women."

  "I didn't talk to you in the study that night."

  "Yes, you did." She frowned, and her nose wrinkled pertly. "You arrived early. I heard you shut the door, and I came down to the study. That's when you told me I could stay at Brierwood. And that's why I thought it was so peculiar when you acted as if you didn't know who I was later that night."

  "Wait a minute." Taylor backed up, knowing his chance to kiss her had vanished. "I didn't get here early."

  "You got here at about nine o'clock, as I recall."

  "No, I didn't." Taylor paced to the desk. "It was more like half past ten."

  He turned and frowned at her. She returned the puzzled frown with one of her own.

  "You're lying," she declared.

  "I'm not, Rose." He never lied—only that once so long ago when he had let his father make his decisions for him. Ever since then he had told the truth with a vengeance, as if to compensate for the pain he had caused.

  For a long moment she studied his face, her eyes dark with questions and distrust. He withstood her scrutiny, hoping she would see that he really was telling the truth.

  "Then who did I talk to?"

  "I haven’t the faintest idea."

  She brushed a stray hair off her forehead and glanced around the workroom, distracted, as if she thought she might find the answer to the mystery written in the wallpaper or scratched on the glass of the high windows.

  "Could there be someone else here at Brierwood?" she asked, her voice quavering. "Someone who is hiding from everyone but me?"

  That night Rose lay awake, worried that a stranger walked the halls of Brierwood. She had confided her fears to Bea and promised to leave first thing in the morning. But she would not, under any circumstances, venture out in the night, especially when the dogs might still be around. She also hadn't mentioned the nocturnal visitor to anyone, because she was too ashamed to admit that she had let the man touch her.

  Soon Rose fell into an exhausted sleep, only to be awakened by a silken voice calling her name and a hand caressing her hair. Try as she might, however, she could not open her eyes.

  "Roselyn, my beauty. It is time again."

  Time? Time for what?

  "To look back and tell me what you see."

  No. Leave me alone.

  "You must do what I ask. And this time, dear Roselyn, you mustn't scream. You must face the visions and face the truth, so that you will quit living a lie."

  I'm not living a lie.

  "Roselyn, you know so little of the truth that you wouldn't recognize it without my help. Your mother told you nothing but lies."

  That's not true. My mother never lied to me.

  "Has she told you of your family? Of the father who has tried to find you all these years?"

  She said I didn't belong to them.

  "A lie, Roselyn. Deborah told you that so you wouldn't try to find your kin. She didn't want to take the chance that you might discover what kind of woman she really was. Or what kind of man your father was. It wasn't right of her to rob you of your heritage.''

  Rose felt him lift her hand and kiss the palm with lips that were moist and hot. She murmured in protest, but the effect of the kiss trickled all the way up her arm like hot summer rain on a windowpane.

  "Roselyn, let me help you see what y
ou have missed—the closeness, the love, the devotion of your father."

  She had missed that. What would it be like to have a mother? A father?

  "Let me help you fill the void that has always darkened your heart, Roselyn."

  It was true. She had always felt empty inside, never having known her family and her father.

  "But you did know him at one time."

  No, never.

  "Yes, you did. Before you were kidnapped by your mother." He held her hand palm upward and slowly circled her flesh with his fingertip, until she could barely keep her mind on her own thoughts. The movement created a sensual whirlpool that drew her farther and farther from her room at Brierwood to a place of darkness and fear.

  Please, no—

  "You must remember, Roselyn. You must relive it and see your father. Allow him to speak with you. Allow the truth to come out and make you whole again. Then we can go on."

  Round and round went his fingertip on her palm. Deeper and deeper she spun, until complete darkness enclosed her, and the musky smell of nightshade and damp earth overwhelmed her senses.

  Rose found herself standing at the wrought-iron gate outside the Bastyr house.

  "Roselyn!"

  "Let me in!" Rose glanced over her shoulder in fear that some night creature would pounce on her from the bushes. If she could just get through the gate to the safety of the yard, she would feel safer. "Please let me in. I'm scared."

  "As well you should be, running away."

  "Open the gate, please!"

  "You are a bad girl, Roselyn. You have violated the rules."

  "But I couldn't help it." She grabbed the cold metal bars. "Please don't make me stand out here."

  "You were supposed to stay in your room."

  Sweat broke out beneath her knee-length coat. "I couldn't stay there anymore! Uncle Enoch kept—"

  "Your excuses are useless. I know what kind of girl you are. A bad girl, just like your mother."

  "She isn't bad!"

  "Yes, she is. She lies and cheats. And no daughter of mine will lie and cheat, so help me God."