Dark Splendor

by Parnell, Andrea

  Silvia lowered her lids a moment and rested her head against the back of the chair.

  “It was wonderful to get out after months on the ship.” She laughed lightly. “I enjoyed it in spite of being unaccustomed to the saddle.” For Morgan’s sake she did not tell Martha about his mishap, nor did she mention Roman’s invitation to ride with him again tomorrow.

  The moment her cup was empty, Martha poured a second cup of the fragrant brew for her.

  “You must drink another. It will help you sleep.” Martha smiled sweetly, and carefully returned the teapot to its tray. Her slender white hand patted Silvia’s arm. “I use it when I am overly tired.” Martha sipped daintily from her own cup. Tonight she had dressed entirely in pale blue satin. Even the dainty slippers peeping out from the hem of her gown were made of matching fabric. She twisted her head slightly, showing a pair of sapphire earrings that shone like starlight against her fair skin. “But it is Vivien’s cure that will do you the most good. She will be down soon to get it for you. Her liniment will take the soreness out by morning, if you can stand the smell.” Martha’s soft laughter had a musical ring, and as her head bobbled slightly, candlelight reflected in her pale hair, making it look as silvery as the elegant tea service before them.

  Silvia had not seen Vivien since morning. Now she mused over the strangeness of the dark, hawkish woman who was never in sight but appeared like a conjured-up spirit when needed or mentioned. She was, perhaps, Mr. Schlange’s nurse and stayed with him when he was not sleeping. Yet she seemed to have authority over the other servants. Was she the housekeeper or a member of the family, some distant relative like they supposed her to be? Martha would know, but Silvia thought it not prudent to ask her about Vivien. A moment later she pushed the matter from her thoughts as a drowsy warmth spread through her limbs.

  “The tea is wonderful,” Silvia said, draining her cup of the last swallow. “If Vivien’s liniment is equally as soothing, I am certain to sleep more soundly than ever.”

  The crisp rustle of taffeta skirts alerted her to Vivien’s approach, and she turned to see the stern-faced woman enter the parlor.

  “Anna said you wished to see me.”

  Silvia set her cup down. Vivien’s eyes were dark as a starless midnight sky and her face held the same grim expression as when she had first greeted Silvia at the door of Serpent Tree Hall. Instinctively Silvia felt that Vivien disliked her and merely tolerated her presence in the house. But possibly Vivien did not like anyone. She showed no more deference to Martha than to Silvia herself. Martha, though, apparently saw nothing disturbing in her manner. In any event, Silvia politely stifled a yawn; Vivien’s peculiar relationship to members of the family need not concern her for a little while longer.

  She covered her mouth, but try as she might, this time could not prevent a yawn. She was so drowsy, so sleepy. The tea had worked well to relax her, and she felt as if she would fall asleep if she closed her eyes again. Martha’s beautiful porcelain-lidded eyes glowed like candle flames in her hazy vision. She blinked and straightened up in the chair and with a fleeting smile turned toward Vivien.

  “I would be grateful if I could use some of your liniment, Vivien. I rode today and the experience left me sore and stiff.” Her words sounded thick and slow like honey pouring from the rim of a jar.

  Vivien’s eyes were shiny black beads fixed on Silvia, and as she listened she lifted her chin slightly in a slow, fluid motion like that of a perching bird raising its head.

  “Anna will bring it up when you go to your room.” Vivien stood ramrod straight. “Use it sparingly. It is strong.” She glanced once at Martha and made an almost imperceptible nod before she left the room.

  Silvia patted her cheeks, briefly chasing the sleepiness from her eyes. She stood cautiously, said good night to Martha, and made her way slowly to her bedroom. Anna was at her door almost as soon as she arrived. In her pudgy hands she carried a corked bottle of dark brownish liquid and a kettle of hot water. She took them into the dressing room, poured the water in a bowl, and set the bottle in to warm the liniment.

  “It’ll take a minute to heat it up right,” Anna said. “Nobody knows what she puts in it,” she went on. “She’s a wonder with cures.” Anna stopped abruptly as if she were about to say more but thought better of it. Instead she merrily added, “Do you want me to rub it on for you, miss?”

  “No, thank you, Anna, I’ll do that myself.”

  ***

  As Anna left, Silvia contemplated her maid’s stilted speech. At times everyone in the household held his tongue while in her presence. What could they possibly be keeping from her? Although each tried to make her feel at home, Silvia knew they all secretly wondered why she was here, and she sensed the uneasiness they felt. Yet only Vivien’s piercing glares bespoke her curiosity.

  In her lethargic state Silvia saw Vivien’s menacing looks as those coming from a bird of prey. She felt certain the woman disliked her, would prefer she had never come to Serpent Tree Hall. Silvia felt terribly uncomfortable when ever alone with her and hoped for little contact once her position was announced.

  Listlessly she undressed, wrapped herself in a robe, and painfully made her way to the dressing room. She took the bottle from the water and wiped it dry with a cloth, lifting it high to the candlelight and turning it curiously in her hand as she dropped the cloth to a washstand. She tested the temperature bare-handed to be sure it was not too hot to apply.

  The cork fit tightly and required a tug before separating from the bottle’s neck. Grimacing, she snapped her head back in surprise when it popped out, and just as quickly, her nose wrinkled in disgust at the overpowering medicinal odor. She laughed softly. It was stronger than any horse liniment she had ever smelled. If odor were any indication of its effectiveness, Vivien’s ointment would be a marvelous cure. Holding her breath, she rubbed it on her sore backside and thighs, feeling a soothing spread of warmth on her skin where she massaged in the potent liquid.

  A few moments later she climbed with agonizing slowness between the soft sheets. Martha’s tea had acted as a sleeping draft, and combined with the effects of the rub, took her into a deep, spiraling slumber where figures swirled and shimmied shadowlike in a thick green mist.

  She moaned softly. Her body floated like a loose feather drifting downward through heavy, warm air. At last she came to rest in a cavernous dark room where open-paged books appeared like large silent birds flying around her head. The sound of crashing ocean waves and the loud thundering hooves of running horses mingled in her ears.

  Dim figures swirled faster, rising from the floor as dancers, floating weightlessly in the greenish mist. One dark shape stepped apart from the others and moved purposefully toward her. Silvia stirred, tossing her head from side to side on the pillow. She cried out softly, whimpering like a lamb lost in the darkness. The figure stopped at the sound of her cry. Suspended, it hovered above her head until she was again still and quiet.

  She sighed helplessly as a weight pressed the mattress beside her. A dark shape sat at her side, its face hidden in the shading hood of a cloak. Rising up from the blackened folds of the heavy garment, a hand slowly reached out and touched her cheek, drawing a finger in slow rhythm across her lips.

  Another soft moan escaped from Silvia’s lips. Her hands moved listlessly to her face and brushed against the hair-roughened back of the hand that caressed her. She quivered once and stretched her arms above her head, sinking deeper into the soft pillow. Her body tingled pleasurably beneath the soothing touches that came against her throat. She lifted lightly to meet gentle, pliant fingers that moved the covers aside and stroked delicately over her pale shoulders and the graceful swell of her breasts.

  A face appeared in her mind, gentle, loving, with eyes of balmy blue. Her fingers stretched and curled in enjoyment. He had stilled her troubled dream and stayed the tormenting thoughts that played within her head.

  “Roman.” A feathery whisper sounded from her lips.

  T
he hand stopped its tender game. Above her a grim face contorted painfully into a frown. The lips twitched, and a sound, half a gurgle, half a moan, sounded from deep within his throat. Long, purposeful fingers moved quickly upward, looping tightly around a single lock of Silvia’s raven hair. The shadowy shape stood, raising the other arm high and holding it there briefly. As the arm slowly descended, a sliver of moonlight reflected from a bit of pearl on the curved handle of a dagger clutched in his hand.

  A sharp painful tug on her hair brought a sudden cry of pain. Silvia jerked her head away and one hand slipped down to fumble at her temple for the source of the pain. When she rolled her head back toward the menacing shape, it had become a dark, rising mist, a retreating shadowy cloud, leaving, as it went, a scent of roses.

  Silvia tried to speak but her words turned to darkness. In a moment all the figures were gone like shadows swallowed up in a blackened void. She knew nothing more until sunshine filtered its welcome light into the room and she woke suddenly, sitting up in bed with a vague, haunting remembrance of something frightening having happened as she slept. A nightmare, she’d had a dreadful nightmare, she remembered uneasily as a cold shiver coursed her spine. She sniffed. The scent of roses still filled the room, stirring a memory from the shadows of her mind.

  Slowly, knowingly, her hand went to her hair and then she fell back to the pillow, feeling strangely alarmed. Beside her head on the pillow rested a single red rose. A cold, cold dread filled her heart as trembling fingers took the flower in her hands.

  Her thoughts flew like dry leaves in a storm. Shaking uncontrollably, she tossed the flower from her and combed her fingers through her hair while the dim memory of a dream grew stronger. How could there be a rose on her pillow? She had locked the doors. Yet she had awoken to find her door unlocked her first night at Serpent Tree Hall. Could someone be watching, waiting for her during the night?

  The anxiety turned round and round in her mind until all at once she threw the covers back and jumped from the bed. She was at the mirror in a flash, but her suspicions had not prepared her for what she saw. She froze, hands covering her mouth. Her dark tangled hair hung loosely over her back and shoulders. She stared wildly at a frightened image that returned her fear. It had been more than a dream. There was no mistaking it. Her arms fell limply to her sides and she caught hold of the dresser to keep from falling. The glass showed quite clearly one shortened dark curl resting on her forehead. Someone had cut away a lock of her hair as she slept.

  A churning panic swept over her and she continued to stare at her image in disbelief. Her jaw slackened and she backed woodenly away from the mirror. Taking a few aimless steps, she spotted her robe and quickly slipped it on. A sudden thought sent her rushing to the bedroom door, but there she found the key in the lock as she had left it. The sitting-room door also proved locked. Then how and who? Dreams did not produce roses nor snip away locks of hair.

  Her alarm growing, Silvia dashed back to the bedroom, threw open the windows, and leaned out. She knew there was no balcony, but somehow she had to confirm that the walls were too steep and the windows too high for anyone to scale easily. It was a long sheer drop to the ground below. No one could have come through the windows.

  Who, then, had cut her hair, and how had the rose been placed on her pillow? She walked with leaden movements to the bed, trying to stop the loud drumming of her heart. The sound made it impossible for her to think clearly. She spied the rose lying where she had tossed it and closed her eyes against the sight of it. But when she opened them a moment later, the rose remained, still there, a fragrant red reminder on the spot where her head had rested. The rose must have come from the garden.

  Feeling a surge of nausea, Silvia climbed back in her bed and sat cross-legged, twisting a handful of her long black hair. Why would anyone want a lock of her hair? Who would want it? Surely not sweet Martha or cranky old Vivien. She had met Eric only once so it couldn’t be him. Roman or Morgan?

  Would either of them be brazen enough to sneak into her room and steal a lock of hair while she slept? She sat up straight with the dawning of a thought. There would be other keys. Vivien had a set and anyone might have duplicates. Her honey eyes widened as she raised her brows in disdain. Yes. Of course it might have been either brother. Certainly it would not be the first time Roman had behaved brazenly. And Silvia sensed Morgan’s growing interest in her. But which one, Roman or Morgan, and what did it mean?

  It was an outrage, nothing less, though surely the deed had not been meant to frighten. She sighed and fell back, frowning resolutely, her heart clearly telling her which brother she preferred. Another wistful sigh drifted from her lips. Who could understand the heart of a man, bold and brash until enamored of a woman and then afraid to ask a keepsake from that special one? Still it angered and frightened her a little to be treated in such a way. She shook her head, puzzled. Neither Roman nor Morgan seemed the type to become crafty and shy. A few moments later, resentful and restless, she slipped out of bed and went to the dresser, her face drawn and anxious as she sat there a long while with her chin resting on her hands.

  Sometime later she pulled the enameled hairbrush vigorously through her thick tresses until they lay smooth and glistening against her scalp. As she arched her brows defiantly, she twisted her hair into a tight coil high on her head. There were no loose tendrils or straying curls to tempt anyone else. She stared at the glass, her lips set in a pout. At least the lock snipped away had been small and would not be noticeable to anyone but herself.

  She dressed quickly, having sent Anna away when she came to help. This morning she preferred to be alone until it was time for breakfast.

  At the table Silvia made a belligerent rattle with her fork as she laid it on the plate. If she had expected an indication of who had dared to invade her privacy, she found none. The meal was eaten in haste. The men talked of nothing but business, and Silvia could not have guessed from their reception of her this morning that either Roman or Morgan had given her a thought since they had ridden together. They seemed totally caught up in some new project for the mill, and Martha, sensing their preoccupation, ate quietly.

  Actually Silvia thought their inattentiveness to her presence bordered on rudeness and found herself chafing as she was completely left out of the conversations. The three men left before she had finished eating, and soon Martha too was gone to attend to an errand for Eric.

  It was early yet and the clear bright light of morning beckoned her to a quiet walk in the garden. A light breeze fanned the floral scents into a new and wonderful perfume and succeeded in partially restoring her spirits. The sun had not yet kissed the dew from the blossoms, and it lay in golden droplets on the fresh green leaves. She strolled through the palmettos, along the path by the hedges, until at last she could not restrain herself from visiting the rose garden.

  There were dozens of bushes, several varieties of red roses, many like the one she had found in her room. Her skirts rustled in the breeze as she followed the circuitous path around the bushes until she stood among the pinks and whites. Bees buzzed over the roses, dipping to the centers of the open flowers, seeking and taking the sweet nectar.

  Silvia soon lapsed into deep thought as she watched their practiced gathering, puzzling over the identity of her nocturnal visitor, wondering if she had been mistaken in thinking it had been Roman or Morgan. If either of them cared enough to want a lock of her hair, there had been no indication of it at breakfast. She stood very still, staring at nothing in particular.

  “Silvia.”

  When a hand touched her shoulder, she shrieked and whirled around, sending her skirts billowing in a flurry of silk around her. She clenched her hands into tiny fists and held them to her breasts. Her eyes were wild and startled.

  “Roman,” she said in a whisper. “I thought you had gone with Eric.”

  “And so I had, but came back to remind you we ride together this afternoon. Had you forgotten?”

  Must he always toy wi
th her? She felt a heated flush beneath her skin. He might have given some hint earlier that he remembered their plans.

  “Actually, I...”

  He spoke again, understanding her momentary frown. “I wanted to get away without Morgan today.”

  Her cheeks cooled and she smiled faintly. “Shall I meet you at the stables?”

  “No.” He grinned diabolically, his eyes bright as the sunlight. “Come through the courtyard. I’ll have the horses outside the garden gate. We’ll ride to the western side of the island, over by the salt marshes.” He held one hand behind his back. “It is the untamed, uncultivated part of the estate. I want you to see it.”

  Grinning delectably, Roman swung his hand forward and presented her with a vivid red rose, a duplicate of the one in her room.

  Silvia grew a little pale and her fingers shook as she took the flower from his hand.

  But Roman, smiling, mistook her distress for embarrassment, and making a slight bow, kissed the back of her hand as she closed it around the stem.

  “Red for the lady with secret fires,” he said softly, and turned on his heels to hurry away.

  She watched him disappear but walked awhile longer in the garden, unable to forget his words. Her breath came raggedly as she randomly crossed the garden paths, holding the blossom close against her breast and coming to no conclusion about all that puzzled her. Finally, tired from her rambling, she stopped at a stone bench beneath the trees and sat down, raising the fragrant rose to her lips. It was a perfect blossom, a perfect rose, a perfect red.

  Roman had surely visited her room. She felt a disjunctive flurry of excitement and distress. Such an action was out of character for him, and was decidedly not the way she would want him to behave. She sighed sadly. She should be angry. He had no right to slip into her room at night, whatever his intentions. Mr. Schlange would undoubtedly be furious if he knew.

  Her lids lowered halfway and her lips sealed tightly together as she sat beneath the gentle rays of the sun. She really didn’t know Roman well at all. She had come to think of him as arrogant and forceful and totally unmindful of her feelings. Now with the emergence of a secretive and shy side of him she couldn’t help wondering what had made him change his feelings toward her.