When the Black Roses Grow

by Angela Christina Archer

  Why is he here?

  “Miss Hawthorne?”

  His whisper broke my hesitation, and before I could waver, words left my lips. “Bestow me one moment, please.”

  My clammy hand trembled around the brass doorknob. I pressed my forehead into the wooden door, hoping the coolness of the lumber and a few calming, deep breaths would lessen the storm of thoughts brewing in my mind.

  I slowly twisted the knob, the latch bolt clicked and the door opened a crack.

  Moonlight shone down upon his back, darkening the front of him so much I could barely see him—although, such did not matter. I memorized his face long ago.

  “My apologies for the lateness in the hour, Miss Hawthorne.”

  “Why do you visit my home?”

  Not meeting his gaze, I glanced over his shoulder, squinting as I investigated my dimly lit yard and garden for anyone who might be watching us. My abrasive, sharp tone created sadness in his eyes and his smile vanished.

  “I suppose ‘twas foolish and inconsiderate of me.”

  “Then, why are you here?” As soon as I asked my question, I bit my tongue. Why inquire when the answer did not matter? Nothing mattered except that he leave immediately before anyone sees him.

  “To be honest, Miss Hawthorne, I hath desired to visit you for quite a while. However, I simply did not know how to approach you. I did not think you cared for anyone in town, especially me.” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled a little, as though trying to soothe the honesty in his words should I agree with him.

  “Oh.” The only word I could think to say was not a word, but more of a sound of astonishment that left my lips as I exhaled. Surely, not could be further from the truth, while I did not care for many in the village, he was not included.

  “Doth that mean my theory is true?” Hesitation slowed a few of his words. Did he desire the truth? And, if my answer was not what he wanted to hear, could he endure it? He fidgeted with his shirt sleeve with one hand and then clasped both of them behind his back and sighed deeply.

  “No, ‘tis not true. Nonetheless, thou are courting Mary, and—”

  “No, I am not.” With his eyes widened, a sense of hurried refusal swept through his body. He stepped forward and shook his head to emphasize his retort. “I promise you, we are not. I would not visit you if we were—I swear such to you.”

  His admission sent a flutter of butterflies in my stomach and I cleared my throat.

  “Oh, I thought . . . you spend so much time with her, thus, I assumed Deacon Pruett bestowed his permission for you to call upon and court her.”

  “To be honest he did, but you forget the man also has to agree on a courtship, and I hath yet to agree.” He gave a slight wink and smiled. “When I saw you today at service I decided that I must visit you tonight.”

  “You . . . you must visit me?” Once again, my voice cracked on my last word. “Why?”

  “Because, I desired to.”

  The sparkle in his eyes weakened my knees.

  No, do not do it, Emmalynn. Do not say the words you wish to say in this moment. Do not say them. He should not be here. He should not be here.

  A war waged in my head as I struggled between telling him to leave, or asking him to stay. A part of me longed to say yes while the other part of me shouted no. Do I face the harsh truth of sin or follow my own desires?

  I glanced over my shoulder and my eyes fell upon the vine.

  My stomach twisted upon itself.

  “No.” My voice raised an octave and James’s eyes widened at my shouted answer.

  “No . . . no, I did not want to visit you?” he laughed. “But, I just informed you I did.”

  “No, no, ‘tis not what . . . what I meant.”

  “I know I should not be here, Miss Hawthorne, and I am sorry for causing you unrest. I only wished to see you.” He bit his lip, and his eyes danced from the door to me and then to the doorknob. A silent question he asked through the movement.

  No, Emmalynn, do not do it.

  My shoulders straightened against the door, drawing the lumber closer to my body.

  He chuckled and gave a slight nod as though he understood my unspoken answer. “And as I stand here, I hath done what I desired to do. I shall leave thee to thy prayer, then, and I hope you hath a pleasant evening.”

  As he spun away from me, my reason wavered. My sweaty palm rubbed the back of my neck as his boots thumped against the wood boards of my porch, each thud stole a little more of my breath and resolve. I cannot allow him to leave. I simply cannot.

  “No, Mr. DeKane, I meant . . . please bestow me a moment, please.”

  “Of course. Take as much time as you need, I will wait.”

  With several swift movements, a blanket from my bed lay upon the vine, covering it as best as it could. I fetched the dress I wore to service from the dresser. The black cotton glided up my legs, over my hips, and around my shoulders as I slipped my arms into the sleeves. My trembling fingers struggled with the buttons. They slipped from my grasp, while the holes suddenly seemed too small.

  Finally, pushing the last one through, I groaned, and whipped the apron from the drawer. My clammy hand stuck to the cotton strings that refused to knot, and I surrendered to them as I opened the door and bestowed James the unspoken permission to come inside.

  Yes, I toyed with sin. Yes, I toyed with such an imprudent choice. Utterly improper beyond words could describe. And, yet, the trace of indifference pulsed through my veins.

  Lust proved the fickle toy, teasing as it played. Sin could not live without desire. They travel with one another, hand in hand, strolling down the road for everyone to gawk at, gossip about, and yet, secretly wished they could be as bold—capricious emotions, lust and sin, that constantly waged war against the other version of itself.

  Only the truly strong could resist and ignore, and I certainly did not hold any strength. They preyed upon my weakness, and won.

  As I shut the door behind him, he spun around and held up the pot I had heaved only moments ago into the darkness outside.

  “Thou will probably need this someday.” He winked and smiled as the black iron handle hung from his finger and the pot swung back and forth in front of me as if mocking me, just as he had done.

  “I . . . I only thought I would . . .” I bit my tongue and reached for the handle. Before I could grasp it, he pulled it away.

  “I hath prepared the occasional meal on a Sunday, Miss Hawthorne, so I bare no judgment.”

  “Yes, but I should not hath done what I did.” Fiddling with my apron strings once more, my words cut through my gritted teeth as I struggled.

  He chuckled as he set the pot on the floor, strode around me, and grasped the ties from my hands. His body close to mine, his breath warmed my skin. With a few jerks, the apron wrapped tight around my waist.

  “When one is famished, one is famished,” he whispered from behind me. “If thou do not mind, I could prepare us supper.”

  “Should . . . should not I . . . be the one to—”

  “I cook a rather delicious stew.”

  His smile weakened my knees and I forgot all words of protest as he wandered away from me and began searching through the cabinet standing in the corner.

  “Can I lend a hand with anything?” I asked.

  “No.” He faced me, smiled, and laughed. “Hath a seat. I shall be done in a moment.”

  Nearly a year had passed since a man entertained the inside of the four walls of my home. The sudden arrival of a male presence only worsened the loneliness deep down in my chest. An ache I did not know if I would ever escape by chance, or even, by choice.

  From the moment I had seen him for the first time, the very sight of him intoxicated me. He was a stranger suddenly thrown into the world of a new tow
n, and yet, such did not seem to intimidate him at all. I longed for his companionship, even if such was an utter transgression.

  “Do you hath broth?”

  “I hath a bit from yesterday in the pot in the cupboard. It should be fresh enough.”

  After filling the pot with a mix of ingredients, he poured in the broth, hung the pot on the wire above the fire, and cast on a few wood logs to coax the extinguishing flames to reignite.

  “It should simmer for a bit.” He strode to the table and sat in the chair across from me.

  I straightened my shoulders, pressing the blades into the back of the chair with a force I did not know if the chair could manage. Both of our eyes darted around the room, occasionally befalling upon each other, and then quickly moving on to the table, the fire, the pot of stew, and anything else we could gaze upon, aside from each other.

  Words evaded me and I cleared my throat a few more times than I should—silently cursing each time.

  “’Tis a good home, Miss Hawthorne, quite good.” Finally breaking our silence, he adjusted his weight in the chair, and rested his elbows on the table.

  “Thank you. And, you may call me Emmalynn.”

  “I will, then. And, you may call me James.”

  We both smiled and resumed the awkward dance, glancing at everything around us, except each other.

  I held my breath, and exhaled slowly without making a sound, while James tapped his fingertips on the table and sighed a deep breath, himself. His shoulders tense and ridged as though unspoken words sat on the tip of his tongue as he listened to the fire popping and cracking in the hearth.

  “How is thy cow?” He fidgeted with his slightly trembling hands.

  I gaped at him for a minute before the utter ridiculousness of the topic he chose sent us both into laughter.

  “Do you honestly desire to know about the bovine?”

  He opened his mouth to answer, but his own laughter silenced him, and he shook his head. “My apologies, Miss—Emmalynn, I am afraid I am at a loss for words at the moment.”

  “A dilemma which seems to hath affected us both, so no apology needed, I assure you.”

  He nodded and glanced down at his hands for a moment before returning my gaze. “How long since thy husband—” He cleared his throat. “Since thy husband passed away?”

  “Nearly a year.” I adjusted my weight in the chair, unsure if I desired to divulge details. “Fever took him, just as with my father a couple of years ago.”

  “My apologies for thy loss. How long were thou married?”

  “Only a month.”

  Please, no more questions about my husband. Please. I did not wish to speak of the dead. A pointless topic when thought about.

  He nodded again and sat in silence for a moment. “A month is not long.”

  “No, ‘tis not, but the fever takes who it desires, when it desires.”

  “And, you never remarried?”

  “No,” I whispered.

  “Do you wish to remarry?”

  I bit the side of my lip. His eyes held not except friendly curiosity, however, the impropriety of the conversation left hesitation in my answer.

  By law, widows could remarry if they desired. Marriage was a civil union, not a religious one, joining two people, who, while they are in love, benefited from the union outside of that love in property, offspring, and money. However, should either half of the whole find love, and themselves, in the arms of another or in a grave, then the one left behind would be granted a divorce and could remarry—a subject broached by a courted couple, not two people who were conversing in sin at this moment.

  “I hath never considered my feelings toward another marriage.”

  “Surely, another man has beseeched thee for thy affections.”

  I shook my head and his smile faded.

  “I suppose my mother’s reputation precedes me. Not to mention, the clout of the Pruett family has left me rather disliked.” I shrugged my shoulders and bit my tongue to halt the honest words of the abhorrence I shared.

  James laughed a little to himself. “My apologies, Emmalynn, I did not mean to pry. You are just such a mystery to me, and quite intriguing.”

  My elbow rested on the table. His innocent tone satiated with an honesty that knocked the breath from my lungs. My fingers brushed against my neck, tracing along my jaw as his words repeated in my head: a mysterious, intriguing woman. The thought was almost too laughable to entertain. Two words never once uttered in a sentence about me, and I cradled my cheek in my palm as I slightly curved my face toward him and met his gaze.

  Nothing more than the town outcast, how could I possibly intrigue someone?

  “No one finds me intriguing, Mr. De—James.” I laughed, waving off his words.

  “I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, I think you are beautiful, you hath a humor to you that you barely let anyone see, and I am quite fond of you.”

  My elbow slid off the side of the table and my chin nearly hit the wood.

  “Are thou speechless by what I say?” With an amused smirk, he studied my shock.

  Hesitantly, I nodded.

  “Why?” He paused for a second waiting for an answer I could not bestow. “Thy husband was quite fond of you, was he not? He thought you were beautiful and interesting, otherwise, he would not hath married you. So, why would you be speechless that another man could carry a similar fondness?”

  I tucked a few curls of my hair behind both of my ears as I stared at the table, unable to look away from the wood and nails.

  Surely, James’s words held logic.

  Nonetheless, I did not wish to admit they did. Why, I did not know. Perhaps, because such would mean he spoke the truth about visiting because he desired too—knowledge I did not know if I could face in this moment.

  “I suppose I should ask for thy forgiveness for my forwardness,” he whispered. “I just hath wanted to say such to you for so long that I suppose I could not silence myself any longer. Please forgive me.”

  “’Tis no reason to ask for forgiveness.”

  His smile sent my heart racing and fluttering so fast I could barely control my breathing.

  “Then, I shall add that you look lovely tonight.”

  “I am wearing nothing more than the same ordinary dress from church this morning.”

  “Emmalynn, nothing about thee is ordinary, not even thy dress.”

  The slight seductiveness in his tone weakened the self-imposed wall I built to shield myself from the outside world. My head gave a slight disagreeing shake as I giggled and glanced away from him.

  One of my curls bounced in my face and caught in my eyelashes. Before I could grasp it, James reached across the table and his fingers gently brushed the strands away. The warmth of his hand whispered against my cheek.

  “I rather like watching thy locks bounce around thy face.”

  Unable to breath, my skin flushed hot, and was surely, several shades of red. A moment I only dreamed about, butterflies fluttered wildly in my stomach producing a lightheaded feeling, my thoughts spinning out of control.

  He is not yours Emmalynn. He is someone else’s.

  “But, what of you and Mary?” I opened my mouth before contemplating whether I truly desired his answer.

  He cleared his throat, groaning under his breath as he leaned against the back of the chair and folded his arms across his chest. “Mary is planning a wedding as we speak, I suppose.”

  For the first time, ever, I allowed my thoughts to wander to their wedding. How she would look, how he would look. The smiles on their faces as they said their vows and kissed, sealing their union.

  I shook the thoughts from my head. “I should offer my best wishes to—”

 
“Pardon my interruption, however, my declaration earlier held the truth. Neither my intentions or affections lie with Mary Pruett.” He raised one eyebrow and deviously smiled. “Who doth not care for you as I was, so boldly, informed.”

  “Yes, I am quite certain you were.” I laughed with the imagined words spewing from her lips. Had she stomped around the room while waving her arms to exaggerate her disgust? Or, had she merely looked down her crinkled nose as though she smelled something rotten?

  “They seem quite intent on casting the blame upon you and thy mother for thy husband’s death.”

  “I do not know how or why they do. Joseph fell ill and passed months before the accusations against her. She helped us through his sickness, even took care of him for me when I needed to rest. She risked her own well-being for him, and yet, they still did not treat her with any kindness.”

  “It must hath been difficult for you to live in such a family.”

  “I begged for their mercy, however—” I bit my tongue and shook my head.

  “However, they refused to speak for her.”

  I shrugged my shoulders.

  “Would thy husband hath spoken for her?”

  “I would love to believe so, however, his worship for his family would reason otherwise. He loved them, more than he ever loved me.”

  James frowned at my words. He groaned under his breath again, his displeasure obvious in their lack of benevolence.

  Surely, the notion tugged at my heart. A stranger to me, and yet, he cared enough to hold annoyance toward those who sought out to cause me pain. No one aside from my parents had ever done that for me before. The mere act caught me off guard with an unexpected twist that I had not seen coming.