A Bed of Thorns and Roses

by Sondra Allan Carr

  “Do you like it?” Jonathan asked.

  The texture was not as unpleasant as she had imagined. The caviar tasted salty and . . . “Interesting.”

  “Never say that to a French cook. It would be taken for an insult.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I know,” Jonathan interrupted. “It’s your turn to choose.”

  Choice. That word again. Isabelle studied her plate. “I think I would like to have one of these little yellow pies.”

  “The cheese tarts? A good choice.”

  Isabelle picked hers up with her fingers and took a cautious nibble. “This is delicious,” she said, pleasantly surprised.

  She took another bite, listening carefully at the same time. Though Jonathan made hardly any sound, she could tell that he was eating. She smiled to herself. He had overcome another obstacle, coming that much closer to trusting her. The thought made her happy.

  They ate in silence. After a while Jonathan got up to retrieve the champagne. He took the bottle from its icy bath and wrapped it with a napkin before bringing the wine to Isabelle. Without asking, he filled her glass to the brim, then did the same with his own.

  Isabelle didn’t mind that he hadn’t asked her permission. Unlike the oysters and caviar, she had taken an instant liking to this particular delicacy.

  “À votre santé,” she said, when Jonathan returned, flourishing the glass in his direction. Some of her champagne sloshed out, and she quickly took several gulps to prevent losing any more.

  “À la vôtre,” he replied, sounding slightly amused. He sat down with his back to her.

  Isabelle sighed with contentment. “It really is a gorgeous day.”

  Jonathan made a polite reply which she barely noticed. The sun warmed her face. She closed her eyes and leaned back, feeling completely relaxed, and imagined resting against a wall. After awhile, it occurred to her that the wall was moving.

  Of course it was moving. “Silly me,” she said, “I thought you were a brick wall.”

  “I’ve been thought worse.”

  His words vibrated against her back as he spoke. She had the vague feeling that her behavior was improper. Somehow, it didn’t seem to matter.

  Isabelle sat up and looked around, unable to orient herself. “What happened?”

  “You must have dozed off,” Jonathan said.

  He came around to her side of the bench and took her empty plate. She watched him carry it to the table, feeling as though he had stolen something from her.

  “Bring me some cake.” Isabelle issued the order, afterwards trying to puzzle out why it sounded wrong.

  “Right away, madam.”

  Jonathan was already slicing the cake. He carried it back, a plate in each hand, and bowed deferentially as he handed hers to Isabelle. She thought he managed well with his lame hand, and almost said so, but even in her groggy condition, she knew that would be a mistake.

  “Some more champagne?” She made it a question, thinking that sounded better than a straightforward declaration.

  Jonathan hesitated.

  “Please?” Isabelle giggled, remembering how Jenny used to pester her with the same wheedling tone when she was small. “Please very much?”

  Jonathan bowed. “If madam insists.”

  He made another trip to the table and returned with the nearly empty bottle, pouring a glass for her, then one for himself, afterwards setting the bottle aside. “That finishes it.”

  “Oh.” Isabelle looked down at the empty bottle. “Too bad.”

  “Perhaps we’ve had enough for now.”

  Isabelle saw that Jonathan had filled his own glass to the brim, while hers was barely half full. She refrained from bringing Jonathan’s lack of generosity to his attention. Congratulating herself for her restraint, she smiled and lifted her drink. “À votre santé.”

  Jonathan took his seat, rather rudely Isabelle thought, without answering her toast. She took another sip of the bubbly liquid, then leaned back against him, giggling as she did so. “You make a fine substitute for a chair.”

  “May I suggest having the cake first? Then you might finish your wine.”

  Since Jonathan had failed to answer her last remark, Isabelle saw no reason to respond to his, though she adopted his suggestion nevertheless. She picked up her fork and let it slide through the moist cake, then took the first bite. The deep, rich flavor exploded inside her mouth.

  “This cake is remarkable.” She turned to look at Jonathan, then realized what she had done and jerked her head back around, fixing her eyes straight ahead. “I didn’t see anything. I swear.”

  “Do you remember your promise, then?” He asked the question the way someone might ask a thoughtless child.

  “Of course. I won’t look at you while you’re eating. I remember.”

  “It is very good cake, I agree.”

  She couldn’t leave it at that. “Jonathan, I didn’t mean to look. I’m sorry.”

  “I know. Now eat your cake.”

  They ate in silence, or near silence. Isabelle moaned with pleasure a few times before she caught herself at it. When she had finished, she set her plate aside, then took a slow sip of the champagne.

  “You were right,” she said.

  “About what?”

  “It’s better to save the champagne for last. The taste mixes well with the chocolate.” Jonathan made a move to get up. Isabelle remembered that she was using him to lean against and sat forward.

  “I’ll take your plate,” Jonathan said as he came around the bench. She lifted her plate toward him. Instead of taking it, Jonathan lifted her napkin from her lap. “Allow me,” he said, bending near as he brought the napkin toward her mouth. “You have a bit of cake on your lip.”

  Isabelle nodded, unable to object. In all honesty, she had no desire to protest his action. She held her breath while he dabbed at her lip with cautious delicacy. When he drew back, their eyes met. Neither of them seemed capable of looking away.

  Mesmerized, Isabelle forgot her inhibition, and heard herself ask the question that had tantalized her for weeks. “Will you take me where you go at night?”

  Jonathan straightened and quickly stepped back, putting distance between them. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ve seen you through my bedroom window, traveling across the ruins, disappearing into the shadows.”

  Without comment, Jonathan carried their plates to the table. Isabelle had the distinct impression that he was trying to buy himself time before he answered her request. When he returned, he stood in front of her with a careful nonchalance that was altogether unconvincing.

  “You know what they say in the village, don’t you?” he asked, then answered his own question. “That I roam the countryside at night, preying on unfortunate travelers. That I feed on human flesh.”

  “The only thing you’re preying on is my gullibility.”

  “I’m simply telling you what people say.”

  “Who cares what people say?” She flicked her hand dismissively, brushing aside the rumors. “Besides, it is broad daylight, and you’ve already eaten.”

  Jonathan laughed. “I fear you will find the truth of the matter quite unremarkable.”

  “I shall never know until you show me.”

  Jonathan inclined his head, conceding the point. “Very well.”

  Isabelle got to her feet and started quickly forward, but Jonathan closed the distance between them and was beside her before she had taken two steps. He held out a bent arm, formally offering his assistance. “You must allow me to guide you.”

  Isabelle hesitated, remembering how angry he had been the first time she ventured into the ruins alone. She wanted to tell him that she was perfectly capable of managing on her own now, as she had been then.

  But perhaps he was testing her, or looking for an excuse to deny her request. She slipped her arm through his and smiled up at him. “I am depending on your guidance.”

  Jonathan led her out of the rose garden
toward the ruins, measuring his steps to hers, slowing his pace even more when they reached the burnt rubble of the western wing. Despite their mutual caution, Isabelle snagged her skirt on the sharp edge of a fire eaten timber. The fabric tore, and she tripped, falling against Jonathan’s arm.

  He tightened his grip instantly. “Are you hurt?”

  Isabelle looked up at him, making no effort to move away. That would have been the proper thing to do, she knew, but he held her arm against his body with such tenacity that she wanted nothing more than to bask in the unique feeling that someone cared for her welfare.

  “You’ve torn your skirt,” Jonathan said, just above a whisper. His grip on her arm remained as fierce as ever.

  Isabelle followed the direction of his gaze. Her white petticoat peeked through an eight inch gash in the dark fabric, which ran all the way to the hem of the skirt. She assessed the damage.

  “I can mend it.” Her eyes met Jonathan’s. The concern she saw there sent a rush of warmth through her, and she smiled. “But I won’t need to, I’ll have new clothes on Thursday.”

  “Good.”

  Jonathan’s terse reply alerted Isabelle to her mistake. Her lack of decorum was making him uncomfortable. She leaned away from him reluctantly, steadying herself against his arm.

  He guided her even more cautiously than before. As they picked their way through the rubble, neither spoke. Isabelle thought how there were often uncomfortable silences between them, but this one was filled with a different sort of tension she did not understand.

  Eventually they exited the ruins, crossing a small stretch of untamed meadow before coming to a fenced enclosure. Jonathan unlatched the gate and passed through ahead of her, holding it open for her while she entered.

  They were in a cemetery. A pair of massive oaks spread their arms above the small parcel of land, casting a shadow that added to the cool dankness exuding from the gravestones.

  Looking around, Isabelle saw there were fewer than a dozen graves. One in particular caught her interest. She went to it and bent down to read the inscription on the headstone.

  “William Summers,” she read aloud, “1852 to 1882, loving husband and father, a faithful servant who bravely died to save another. You rest always in our hearts.”

  “Will’s father,” Jonathan said, as Isabelle stood up. “It was my life he saved.” He did not sound particularly pleased to have been saved.

  “Then 1882 was when the fire occurred.”

  “Yes,” Jonathan replied, though she had not asked it as a question.

  “How old were you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Isabelle calculated the numbers and reached a surprising answer. Jonathan was only twenty six. She had known the fire happened around a dozen years ago, but she always assumed Jonathan was an adult at the time. For some reason, she had thought of him as much older.

  The consequences of such a devastating accident at so young an age began to occur to her. Jonathan never had a boyhood, or at least a life as a young man. And for all his erudition, he must have learned from tutors or been self taught. Because she never allowed herself to think of such things, Isabelle came to the most shocking conclusion last of all: Jonathan had probably never been with a woman.

  Her legs lost their strength. She would have dropped to her knees, if Jonathan had not been quick to catch her, wrapping his arm around her shoulders and pulling her against him. Not trusting her legs to support her, she allowed him to take her weight.

  “Are you feeling faint?” A hint of fear tinged Jonathan’s question.

  Before, when she tore her skirt, his concern had touched her deeply. Now, it only added to her shame. Isabelle shook her head, denying the truth even though Jonathan had to know she was lying.

  “Please,” she said, pushing away from him. He released her immediately, but kept his arm hovering in mid air behind her, as if he expected to have to catch her again at any moment.

  “Forgive me.” Jonathan sought her eyes as he offered the apology.

  Isabelle looked away, unable to meet his gaze, afraid that he would see the guilt in her own. It was she who should apologize, she who offended him by her touch, because the horrible truth could not be denied.

  Jonathan was pure. She was not.

  “You don’t look well. Allow me to escort you back to the house.” Jonathan offered his arm, holding it out stiffly, away from his body, making clear that he meant to avoid any familiarity.

  Isabelle stared at the sleeve of his jacket. The cream colored linen was spotlessly clean. Jonathan always dressed fastidiously, a fact that struck her now as a rebuke. She was certain her touch would leave a filthy imprint on the immaculate fabric.

  “Isabelle?”

  She needed to think of a way to deflect his attention. Isabelle looked around her, finally nodding toward the squat granite building that dominated the otherwise modest graveyard.

  “I want to see the rest.”

  Jonathan lowered his arm, since it was obvious she had no intention of taking it. “If you feel able.”

  They started toward the mausoleum, while Jonathan watched Isabelle’s every step with a keenness that heightened her self consciousness to a painful degree. She kept her head down as they went, making a point of studying the tombstones. Otherwise, the row of child sized graves might have escaped her attention. She stopped to study the dates inscribed on the stones.

  By her side, Jonathan anticipated her question. “An influenza outbreak,” he said. “Cook’s daughter in law and her three grandchildren were lost within the space of a month.”

  “Cook had a son?” Isabelle had never heard Cook mention any of her family.

  “Two.” Jonathan paused, then added grimly, “Both killed in the war. Their bodies were never recovered.”

  “Poor Cook. I never imagined.”

  “Who among us can truly imagine another’s suffering?”

  Jonathan asked the question with a bitterness that precluded further discussion. They walked on, falling silent once more until they reached the mausoleum.

  It was an ugly building, fashioned from the same dark granite as the headstones that dotted the cemetery. The austerely simple structure which Cornelius Nashe built to house himself and his family after death seemed out of character, especially when compared to the extravagant mansion he had erected in which to spend his life. The box shaped tomb was unadorned save for the family name engraved above the entrance and, to either side, the names and dates of birth and death of its occupants. There were no fond epitaphs such as the one on William’s headstone.

  Jonathan went to the heavy door and pushed it inward, then turned to face Isabelle, less in tacit invitation, she felt, than in question of her intent. Without knowing how she came to that certainty, Isabelle knew that whatever solace Jonathan found inside his parents’ tomb would be imperiled by her or any other’s presence.

  “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll wait here.”

  Jonathan nodded once, then disappeared, swallowed by the dark tomb. The open door gaped like a hungry mouth.

  The cemetery emanated a certain peace, to be sure, though the feeling was one of deathly stillness rather than the calm optimism she sensed in the rose garden. Something felt amiss here, beyond the anguish one expected where lost friends and family were mourned.

  Isabelle studied her surroundings more carefully, trying to shake off the inexplicable oppression that had settled over her like a leaden shroud. A thick stone wall, waist height, ran behind the mausoleum, forming the rear boundary of the graveyard. The other three sides of the graveyard were enclosed by a spiked wrought iron fence that served more to delineate the burial ground than to prevent entry.

  The anomalous stone wall piqued her interest. Isabelle moved toward it, realizing as she approached that the wall was higher than it looked from a distance, reaching nearly to her shoulders. The wide granite blocks were mortared together to form a barrier seemingly out of proportion to its function.

  Curious
as to its purpose, Isabelle hoisted herself onto the wall to have a look on the other side. She had to stretch out on her stomach, her feet dangling in the air behind her, to see. The ground lay at least twelve feet below her. Though not apparent while approaching the cemetery, the property fell off abruptly here. The earth beyond the wall was a barren gully, most likely a dry riverbed, strewn with boulders.

  Without warning, an arm circled her waist and dragged her back. Isabelle gasped, instinctively grappling for a hold, but was helpless to fight the backward pull. She watched in disbelief as her hands slid across the top of the wall. Though the rough stone abraded her palms painfully, it wasn’t until she felt herself airborne that she screamed.

  A harsh voice ordered her over her screams. “Get away from there!”

  The arm still gripped her waist, so hard she thought her ribs would crack. “Let go of me!”

  Before her feet touched the ground, she whirled around to face her attacker.

  “Jonathan?” With her throat raw from screaming, the question came out as a hoarse croak. For a moment she was too stunned to be angry, but only for a moment. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “You could have killed yourself.”

  Jonathan sounded as angry as she had.

  “I wasn’t in any danger until you nearly frightened me out of my wits.”

  “What were you doing there?”

  “Minding my own business.” Isabelle glared back at Jonathan, unwilling to back down.

  He stood rigid as stone, breathing hard, his fists clenched, adamantly refusing to apologize.

  His behavior was outrageous. Somewhere on the edges of her consciousness, a niggling concern for her own safety tried to burrow through to full awareness, but she pushed it back. Instead of fear, she felt sorrow, as though she had been terribly wronged.

  Her hands began to throb. She held them in front of her, looking at the reddened skin on her palms, while a black despair welled up within her. It came from another time and place, she knew, but the emotion was too strong to vanquish with reason.

  “You hurt me,” she said in a tiny voice, knowing she sounded like a small child and humiliated by the knowledge. “Why?”