Black Rose gt-2

by Nora Roberts

  “You’ve dated her based on a dress and a hairstyle,” he said as he scribbled. “That’s not quite enough.”

  “It certainly seems sensible, logical.”

  He looked up, smiling, his eyes distracted behind his glasses. “It may be. You may be right, but I like a little more data before I call something a fact. What about your great-aunts? Reginald Jr.’s older sisters?”

  “I couldn’t say. I didn’t know any of them, or don’t remember them. And they weren’t close with my grandmother, or my father. There was some attempt, on my grandmother’s part, to cement some familial relations between their children and my father, as cousins. I’m still in contact with some of their children.”

  “Will any of them talk to me?”

  “Some will, some won’t. Some are dead. I’ll give you names and numbers.”

  “All,” he said. “Except the dead ones. I can be persuasive. Again,” he murmured as the singing came from the monitor across the room.

  “Again. I want to go check on Lily.”

  “Do you mind if I come with you?”

  “No. Come ahead.” They started upstairs together. “Most likely it’ll stop before we get there. That’s the pattern.”

  “There were two nursemaids, three governesses, a housekeeper, an under-housekeeper, a total of twelve housemaids, a personal maid, three female kitchen staff between 1890 and 1895. I’ve dug up some of the names, but as ages aren’t listed, I’m having to wade through a lot of records to try to pinpoint the right people. If and when, I’ll start on death records, and tracking down descendants.”

  “You’ll be busy.”

  “Gotta love the work. You’re right. It’s stopped.”

  But they continued down the hall to the nursery. “Cold still,” Roz commented. “It doesn’t last long, though.” She moved to the crib, slid the blanket more neatly around the sleeping baby.

  “Such a good baby,” she said quietly. “Sleeps right through the night most of the time. None of mine did at this age. She’s fine. We should leave her be.”

  She stepped out, leaving the door open. They were at the top of the stairs when the clock began to bong.

  “Midnight?” Roz looked at her watch to be certain. “I didn’t realize it was so late. Well, Happy New Year.”

  “Happy New Year.” He took her hand before she could continue down the steps and, laying the other on her cheek, said, “Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind.”

  His lips brushed hers, very lightly, a kind of civilized and polite gesture to commemorate the changing year. And somewhere in the east wing, Roz’s wing, a door slammed shut like a gunshot.

  Though her heart jumped, she managed to speak evenly. “Obviously, she doesn’t approve.”

  “More like she’s pissed off. And if she’s going to be pissed off, we might as well give her a good reason.”

  He didn’t ask this time, just slid the hand that lay on her cheek around to cup the back of her neck. And this time his mouth wasn’t light, or polite, or civilized. There was a punch of heat, straight to her belly, as his mouth crushed down on hers, as his body pressed, hard against hers. She felt that sizzle zip through her blood, fast and reckless, and let herself ride on it for just one mad moment.

  The door in the east wing slammed, again and again, and the clock continued to chime, madly now, well past the hour of twelve.

  He’d known she’d taste like this, ripe and strong. More tang than sweetness. He’d wanted to feel those lips move against his as they were now, to discover just how that long, slender body fit to his. Now that he was, she settled inside him and made him want more.

  But she eased back, her eyes open and direct. “Well. That ought to do it.”

  “It’s a start.”

  “I think it’d be best to keep everything . . . calm for tonight. I really should tidy up the parlor, and settle down up here, with Lily.”

  “All right. I’ll get my notes and head home.”

  In the parlor she loaded the cart while he gathered his things. “You’re a difficult woman to read, Rosalind.”

  “I’m sure that’s true.”

  “You know I want to stay, you know I want to take you to bed.”

  “Yes, I know.” She looked over at him. “I don’t take lovers . . . I was going to say just that. That I don’t take lovers, but I’m going to say, instead, I don’t take them rashly, or lightly. So if I decide to take you as a lover, or let you take me, it will be serious business, Mitchell. Very serious business. That’s something both of us need to consider.”

  “Ever just jump off the ledge, Roz?”

  “I’ve been known to. But, except for the regrettable and rare occasion, I like to make certain I’m going to land on my feet. If I wasn’t interested, I’d tell you, flat out. I don’t play games in this arena. Instead, I’m telling you that I am interested, enough to think about it. Enough to regret, a little, that I’m no longer young and foolish enough to act without thinking.”

  The phone rang. “That’ll be Hayley again. I need to get that or she’ll panic. Drive carefully.”

  She walked out to get the phone, and heard, as she assured Hayley the baby was fine, was sleeping like an angel, had been no trouble at all, the front door close behind him.

  EIGHT

  ALITTLE DISTANCE , Mitch decided, was in order. The woman was a paradox, and since there was no finite solution to a paradox, it was best accepted for what it was—instead of puzzling over it until blood leaked out of your ears.

  So he’d try a little distance where he could funnel his energies into puzzles other than the enigmatic Rosalind Harper.

  He had plenty of legwork, or, more accurately, butt work. A few hours on his computer and he could verify the births and deaths and marriages listed in the Harper family Bible. He’d already generated a chart of the family ancestry, using his on-line and his courthouse information.

  Clients liked charts. Beyond that, they were tools for him, as the copies of family pictures were, as letters were. He pinned everything onto a huge board. Two in this case. One for his office in his apartment, and one in the library at Harper House.

  Pictures, old photos, old letters, diaries, scribbled family recipes, all of those things brought the people alive for him. When they were alive for him, when he began to envision their daily routines, their habits, their flaws and grievances, they mattered to him more than any job or project could matter.

  He could lose hours paging through Elizabeth Harper’s gardening notes, or the baby book she’d kept on Roz’s father. How else would he know the man who’d sired Roz had suffered from celiac at three months, or had taken his first steps ten months later?

  It was the details, the small bits, that made the past full, and immediate.

  And in the wedding photo of Elizabeth and Reginald Junior, he could see Rosalind in her grandfather. The dark hair, the long eyes, the strong facial bones.

  What else had he passed to her, and through her to her children, this man she barely remembered?

  Business acumen for one, Mitch concluded. From other details, those small bits, found in clippings, in household records, he gained a picture of a man who’d had a sharp skill for making money, who’d avoided the fate of many of his contemporaries in the stock market crash. A careful man, and one who’d preserved the family home and holdings.

  Yet wasn’t there a coolness about him? Mitch thought as he studied the photographs on his board. A remoteness that showed in his eyes. More than just the photographic style of the day.

  Perhaps it came from being born wealthy—the only son on whose shoulders the responsibilities fell.

  “What,” Mitch wondered aloud, “did you know about Amelia? Did you ever meet her, in the flesh? Or was she already dead, already just a spirit in this house when your time came around?”

  Someone knew her, he thought. Someone spoke to her, touched her, knew her face, her voice.

  And someone who did lived or worked in Harper House.r />
  Mitch moved to a search of the servants he had by full names.

  It took time, and didn’t include the myriad other possibilities. Amelia had been a guest, a servant whose name was not included—or had been expunged from family records—a relative’s relative, a friend of the family.

  He could speculate, of course, that if a guest, a friend, a distant relation had died in the house, the information would have trickled down, and her identity would be known.

  Then again, that was speculation, and didn’t factor in the possibility of scandal, and the tendency to hush such matters up.

  Or the fact that she’d been no one important to the Harpers, had died in her sleep, and no one considered it worth discussing.

  And it was just another paradox, he supposed as he leaned back from his work, that he, a rational, fairly logical-thinking man, was spending considerable time and effort to research and identify a ghost.

  The trick was not to think of her that way, but to think of her as a living, breathing woman, a woman who had been born, lived a life, dressed, ate, laughed, cried, walked, and talked.

  She had existed. She had a name. It was his job to findwho ,what ,when .Why was just the bonus question.

  He dug the sketch out of his file, studied the image Roz had created of a young, thin woman with a mass of curly hair and eyes full of misery. And this is how they’d dated her, he thought with a shake of his head. By a dress and a hairstyle.

  Not that it wasn’t a good sketch. He’d only seen Amelia once, and she hadn’t looked calm and sad like this, but wild and mad.

  The dress could have been ten, even twenty years old. Or brand-new. The hairstyle a personal choice or a fashion statement. It was impossible to pinpoint age or era on such, well, sketchy information.

  And yet, from his research so far, he tended to think they were close to the mark.

  The talk of dreams, the bits of information, the lore itself appeared to have its roots during Reginald Harper’s reign.

  Reginald Harper, he thought, kicking back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. Reginald Edward Harper, born 1851, the youngest of four children born to Charles Daniel Harper and Christabel Westley Harper. Second and only surviving son. Older brother, Nathanial died July 1864, at age eighteen, during the Battle of Bloody Bridge in Charlestown.

  “Married Beatrice . . .” He rummaged through his notes again. Yes, there it is, 1880. Five children. Charlotte, born 1881, Edith Anne, 1883, Katherine, 1885, Victoria, 1886, and Reginald Junior, 1892.”

  Big gap between the last two kids, considering the pattern beforehand, he thought, and noted down possibilities of miscarriages and/or stillbirths.

  Strong possibilities with the factors of unreliable birth control, and the natural assumption that Reginald would have wanted a son to continue the family name.

  He scanned the family chart he’d generated for Beatrice. A sister, one brother, one sister-in-law. But neither female relation had died until well after the first reports of sightings and dreams, making them unlikely candidates. And neither had been named Amelia.

  Of course, he hadn’t found a servant by that name, either. Not yet.

  But for now he circled back to Reginald Harper, head of the house during the most likely era.

  Just who were you, Harper? Prosperous, well-heeled. Inherited the house, and the holdings, because the older brother ran off to be a solider, and died fighting for the Cause. Baby of the family on top of it.

  Married well, accumulating more holdings through that marriage. Expanded and modernized the house, according to Roz’s notes. Married well, lived well, and you weren’t afraid to spend the dough. Still, there’d been a consistent turnover of housemaids and other female staff during his years at the helm.

  Maybe Reginald liked to play with the help. Or his wife had been a tyrant.

  Was the long wait for a son frustrating and annoying, or was he happy with his girls? It would be interesting to know.

  There was no one alive to say.

  Mitch went back to his computer and contented himself, for the moment, with facts.

  SINCE SHE HADso many houseplants from the division of her own, Roz rotated some into store stock, and at Stella’s suggestion worked with her to use more in creating some dish gardens.

  She enjoyed working with Stella, and that was rare. Primarily when she was potting or propagating, Roz preferred only the company of her plants and her music.

  “Feels good to get my hands in the dirt,” Stella commented as she selected a snake plant for her arrangement.

  “I figure you’ll be getting plenty of that soon enough dealing with your new gardens.”

  “Can’t wait. I know I’m driving Logan crazy changing and redefining and tweaking the plan.” She blew a stray curl out of her face and slid her gaze over to Roz. “Then again,plan isn’t exactly the word for what he was doing with the landscape. It was more of a concept.”

  “Which you’re refining.”

  “I think if I show him one more sketch he might make me eat it. This coleus is gorgeous.”

  “Focusing on the gardens helps keep down the nerves over the wedding.”

  Stella paused, hands in dirt. “Bull’s-eye. Who’d think I’d be nervous? It’s not the first time around for me, and we’re keeping it small, simple. I’ve had months to plan, which hasn’t made him all that happy, either. But we had to at least get the living room and the boys’ rooms painted and furnished. You wouldn’t believe some of the gorgeous pieces his mother gave him that he’s had stuffed in a storage garage.”

  “This dracaena should work here. Nerves are expected, I’d think. A bride’s still a bride, first time around or not.”

  “Were you nervous the second time? I know it turned out awful, but . . .”

  “No, I wasn’t.” Her tone was flat. Not bitter, just empty. “Should’ve told me something. You’re nervous because you’re excited and you’re happy, and because you’re the type who’ll worry over every detail. Worry especially when it’s important.”

  “I just want everything to look special. Perfect. I must’ve been crazy, deciding to have the wedding outside in the backyard when the gardens weren’t even finished. Now we only have until April to get it all done.”

  “And you will. You and Logan know what you’re doing about the planting, about each other, about everything that matters.”

  “Remind me of that every now and again, would you?”

  “Happy to. These look good.” She stepped back, fisted her gloved hands on her hips. “You got prices worked up?”

  “Thirty-four fifty. Forty-five ninety-five for the large size.”

  “Sounds good. Nice profit margin since the plants are mostly all divisions.”

  “And a good value for our customers since they’re not going to see dish gardens this full or lush anywhere. I’ll help you carry some in, then plug these into the inventory.”

  They loaded a flat cart, wheeled it into the main building. When Stella started to shift stock to rearrange, Roz nudged her aside.

  “Go on, do the paperwork. If you start here fiddling with display, you’ll be here an hour. You’re just going to come back when I’m done and fool with it anyway.”

  “I was just thinking if we grouped some of the smaller ones over there, and used a couple of those tile-topped tables—”

  “I’ll figure it out, then you can come behind me and . . . refine it.”

  “If you put one of the larger ones on that wrought-iron patio table, and put one of the little brass lanterns with it, then set that sixteen-inch clay pot of bird of paradise beside it, it would be a strong display. And I’m going.”

  Amused, Roz shifted stock, arranged the new. And since she had to admit Stella was on target, as usual, set up the table as outlined.

  “Why, Rosalind Harper, there you are!”

  Because Roz’s back was turned, she indulged herself in a single wince before schooling her face to more welcoming lines.

  “Hey there, C
issy.”

  She allowed the standard greeting, a peck that stopped an inch from her cheek, then resigned herself to losing a quarter of an hour in chatter.

  “Don’t you look pretty,” Roz said. “Is that a new suit?”

  “This?” Cissy waved one of her French-manicured hands, dismissing the cherry-red suit. “Just yanked it out of my closet this morning. I swear, Roz, are youever going to gain an ounce? Every time I see you, I feel obliged to sweat an extra twenty minutes on my exercise machine.”

  “You look wonderful, Cissy.” Which was invariably true. One of the skills Cecilia Pratt had most honed was in turning herself out. Her hair was an attractive streaky blond worn in a ruler-straight swing that suited her round, youthful face with its winking dimples and walnut-brown eyes.

  From the outfit, Roz assumed she’d just come from some lady lunch, or committee meeting, and had come by to sow and to harvest gossip.

  Gossip was Cissy’s other keen skill.

  “I don’t see how I could, I’m just wornout . The holidays just about did me in this year. Every time you turned around, there was another party. I don’t think I’ve caught my breath since Thanksgiving. Now before you know it, it’ll be the Spring Ball at the club. Tell me you’re going this year, Roz. It’s just not the same without you.”

  “Haven’t thought about it.”

  “Well, do. Sit down here a minute and let’s catch up. I swear I can’t stay on my feet anotherminute .” To prove it, she sat on the bench near the table display Roz had just completed. “Isn’t this nice? It’s just like sitting in a tropical garden somewhere. Hank and I are heading down to the Caymans next week for some sun. I need the break, let me tell you.”

  “Won’t that be fun.” Trapped by manners, Roz joined her on the bench.

  “You ought to take yourself a nice tropical vacation, honey.” Cissy patted Roz’s hand. “Sun, blue water, handsome half-naked men. Just the ticket. You know I worry that you just chain yourself to this place. But you’ve got that girl from Up North managing things now. How’s she working out for you, by the way?”