Blood Roots

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “It’s always cold in here,” she said grimly. “Even in this ungodly heat. But it’s not just that. I know what it really is. And I’m always cold these days.”

  Olivia didn’t know what to say, so she merely watched as Miss Rose drew a shawl tighter around her frail shoulders.

  “You want to stay here, don’t you, child.”

  It was a statement, not a question. Olivia stared down at the floor and tried to keep the panic out of her mind.

  “You shouldn’t keep too much company with Helen, you know,” Miss Rose went on. “She’s ignorant and superstitious—given to delusions and wild imaginings. She has some … mental deficiencies, shall we say. But she comes in very handy here. I like having her. And it’s a place for her to stay. A home for her to have. Where she can be cared for.”

  I understand about needing that … I understand about wanting that. Olivia lifted her eyes calmly. She felt she had to say something in Helen’s defense. “She’s been very sweet to me.”

  “She’s in love with Skyler, poor thing.” Miss Rose stared off into space, looking sad. “Poor little thing …”

  “But I think he encourages her.”

  “I don’t doubt that. Not for a minute.” Again the look of sadness on her face, and with it a sort of half smile. “He can’t help himself, you know.” She grew quiet for a moment, then sighed. “He does seem to have a talent for arousing certain … emotions … in a person.”

  She was watching Olivia closely now, and though Olivia was trying hard to keep her face expressionless, she had the uneasy feeling that Miss Rose had seen something there she wasn’t even aware of showing.

  “Ah, yes. Skyler.” Miss Rose raised a knowing eyebrow in a gesture that reminded Olivia uncomfortably of him. “Well,” she added, “if it’s the work you object to—”

  “I’ve never been afraid of hard work,” Olivia replied evenly. “The work is fine.”

  “Skyler can be … irresistible.” Miss Rose was still watching her. “Especially when his mind is made up about something. And especially when it’s something he wants.” Her eyes grew dim and faraway. “This is something I … know about.”

  Time stretched out, minutes upon minutes, as Miss Rose gazed silently into her own thoughts. After a while she roused herself again and focused back on Olivia.

  “But I can’t think about Skyler right now,” she said almost briskly. “Some things are meant to be … and some are not.” She reached out and gently touched one of Olivia’s cheeks. “So what shall we do about you and Mathilde? She’s been with me a very long time. She’s temperamental and possessive and even quite nasty at times, but she’s been a very faithful servant. She’s given … shall we say”—that strange half smile again—“a great deal of herself. What am I expected to do if the two of you can’t get along?”

  Olivia looked at her in surprise. “I just assumed—after what happened—that you’d send me away.”

  “Send you away?” Miss Rose opened her mouth slightly, as if that particular option had come as a great shock. “Oh … my dear … and why ever would I want to do that?” The smile came back again, another misty, sad expression that made Olivia feel strangely like crying.

  “Because of all the trouble I’ve seemed to cause.”

  “Trouble.” The old woman’s laugh was devoid of humor. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, child, trouble becomes just another part of the day. Because we Devereauxs—we are great survivors.”

  The smile vanished. She shifted her eyes back to the floor.

  “Of course I don’t want you to leave,” Miss Rose said quietly. “You’re young … strong … and very pretty. You’re just the kind of new life we need here at Devereaux House. Everyone’s taken to you—except Mathilde, that is—but I expect she’ll come around in time. She’ll have no choice, you see. Even Yoly thinks you should be here—no, don’t look so surprised at that—though she’ll never let on that she cares. No, of course I don’t want you to leave. Leavings are … painful to me, do you understand? Leavings are … tragic to me.”

  The blue-veined hands tightened on the arm of the chair. She stared into the fire for so long that Olivia feared she’d fallen into a doze. When at last she spoke again, her lips barely moved.

  “No doubt you think me an eccentric old woman,” she murmured. “But I love this house. It is my whole existence. I’ve never known anything else.”

  Again Olivia said nothing. The urge to speak out, to reveal herself, hung silently in the air between them.

  “For generations this house has stood, and stood strong. There has always been a mistress of Devereaux House. Someone to care for it … nurture it … protect it. Someone to give it … life.” Miss Rose seemed to sink lower in her chair. “It breaks my heart,” she whispered. “To see it like this. I don’t understand. I just don’t understand why it is happening now. Why suddenly—now—time seems to have finally caught up. Being mortal as I am, what choice do I have but to die? I don’t want to leave …”

  Olivia listened silently as Miss Rose rambled on and on, and she wondered to herself how much Miss Rose was really aware of saying, of thinking. It was as if she had slipped away, though her frail body still sagged in the chair by the fire. It was as if she had slipped far away and hovered now on some precarious boundary between reality and something else. Tears misted in Olivia’s eyes, and deep within herself she felt a stab of pain and realized that it was Miss Rose’s pain.

  “But the gardens are still so beautiful,” Olivia offered helpfully. “And you could hire someone to renovate the house—”

  And it was a strange look that Miss Rose gave her, a strange look full of amusement and also pity. “Oh, my child, it’s just not that simple.” She let her breath out slowly, hands twisting together in her lap. “Repairs don’t work here anymore. Rags and brushes and paint and polish—none of it—none of it works here anymore.”

  “But there are people—professionals, I mean—who specialize in fixing up old places like this one—”

  “Just look around you, my dear. Just look upon this last stronghold of a vanishing way of life. Life when it was beautiful and honorable and romantic. There’s not a house in all the South so perfectly preserved as this one … or a family name as old. This is our whole world here—our past as well as our future—our family and the house and the land and all their hopes—one perpetual bloodline.”

  Olivia’s heart broke to hear Miss Rose talk. For an instant it was all she could do to keep from throwing her arms around the old woman and admitting who she really was, but Miss Rose’s voice stopped her.

  “Her fault,” Miss Rose mumbled. “All of this … her … fault.”

  Olivia caught her breath. She paused a moment, then went on cautiously as if she hadn’t heard. “But the rest of your family? Wasn’t there ever a husband … children … relatives … surely someone who could help you?”

  The silence went on and on. Miss Rose’s face looked like fine white parchment. Her fingers flexed … froze … slowly went limp. She was still for so long that Olivia began to be frightened.

  “Miss Rose?” she whispered. “Miss Rose … are you all right?”

  “One child,” Miss Rose said hollowly. Her eyes filled with tears, the firelight making them sparkle like dim jewels. “I had a daughter. Long ago I had her. She was beautiful … and she was good … and she was so full of love.”

  Olivia was almost afraid to breathe. She watched as the snowy head sank back into the cushions. She heard the voice begin to tremble … to fade again like a dream.

  “I loved her very much. But she left, you see. She turned her back on her family, and I never saw her again.”

  “Did you … ever find out what happened to her?” Olivia asked timidly.

  “She’s been dead to me,” Miss Rose murmured. “Dead to me all these years. How could she come back to this place? Even if I wanted her to? After the outside world had contaminated her? After she turned her back on family duty? Never once both
ering to consider what the consequences might be …”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand—”

  “No …” Miss Rose shook her head, almost mechanically. “No … of course you don’t. How could you? Being a Devereaux woman involves certain … sacrifices. Certain obligations. Obligations she wasn’t willing to fulfill.”

  Olivia stared toward one of the windows, out into the soft gray rain beyond. But what about me, Grandmother—what about me—I’m back, I’m willing to stay here with you—

  “Did she … ever marry?” Olivia was frightened to ask it, frightened to death, yet she had to know, she had to, after all the years of pain and wondering, never knowing who she really was, never having a past of her own—

  “She betrayed us,” Miss Rose said softly. “I hated her for that. I shall always hate her for that.”

  And yes, Olivia thought, fighting angry tears, and her mind went back and back, through the bitterness, the loathing that had always been synonymous with Devereaux House or any mention of her grandmother. And yes, she wept deep inside herself where Miss Rose couldn’t see, couldn’t hear—the hate, the hate is what Mama took away with her from this place …

  “Olivia,” Miss Rose broke in gently, “is something the matter, child?”

  “Yes.” With an effort Olivia shifted her attention back to the chair.

  “It’s this weather,” Miss Rose sighed. “This rain … this heat … this house. It casts a strange spell.” It was obvious from her tone that she was finished discussing her daughter, yet Olivia took one more chance.

  “What happened to your husband, Miss Rose?”

  She steeled herself for an angry response … indignation at the very least, for having been asked one too many personal questions.

  Yet the anger never came.

  And as Olivia watched Miss Rose’s face, she could swear that it was transformed for a brief instant … grew softer … younger … with an expression of such perfect happiness that Olivia was helpless to look away.

  Miss Rose closed her eyes. She put one hand to her heart.

  “Miss Rose?” Olivia whispered worriedly.

  “I’m all right.”

  Her voice was so faint now that Olivia could scarcely hear. She leaned in close to Miss Rose’s chair and tentatively returned the old woman’s smile.

  “It must be hard for you to even imagine, looking at me now”—Miss Rose began—“that someone could have made me feel so beautiful. And filled my heart with so much joy.”

  Olivia shook her head gently. “Did he love you that much?”

  “I believe so. As much as he was able to.”

  “And did you love him?”

  A long pause. Then … finally … “I still do.”

  Olivia looked at her, at the one tear squeezing from the corner of Miss Rose’s eye. “Did he … die?” she asked carefully.

  “No.”

  “Did he leave?”

  Miss Rose shook her head, her eyes closing. Her lashes were wet, and tears slid over her wrinkled cheeks. “No, my dear. I’m afraid I did.”

  Olivia gazed at her a long, long while. “He must have been wonderful.”

  “Why, he certainly was. But … times change. And we have to accept that.”

  Olivia didn’t even realize that she’d reached for Miss Rose’s hand … didn’t realize it until she felt the thin fingers squeezing back.

  “When I fall in love,” Olivia said, thinking aloud, “it will only be once.”

  “Yes …” Miss Rose whispered. “Yes. That’s just the way it was with me.”

  Her fingers relaxed, hung there a moment in Olivia’s hand. As Olivia stared down at the tired, sweet face, Miss Rose took a deep breath, as if summoning all her strength.

  “It could have been so different,” she murmured. “My daughter … she could have been happy here. If only she could have realized … that some sacrifices are honorable and meant to be made … that some things are meant to be as they are … as they always have been …”

  Olivia was afraid to move … afraid that if she looked into Miss Rose’s eyes just now, her own resolve would crumble. I’m here, she wanted to shout again, I’m your granddaughter, I belong with you—

  “So …” Miss Rose’s hand plucked at Olivia’s sleeve, but her skin was like thin paper, and her voice was fading. “I’m very tired, my dear. Perhaps we can talk—you and I—another time.”

  “I’d like that,” Olivia said, and longing ached in her voice, and maybe I can make you happy again, Grandmother, even if you don’t know who I am—maybe I can make a difference somehow, maybe I can, make it up to you—

  “Unforgivable …” Miss Rose’s eyes drooped closed, teary lashes dark against her pale, pale cheeks. “Cursed …”

  “I’d like to stay,” Olivia said, but her voice trembled and she was suddenly afraid.

  “Of course,” Miss Rose whispered. “Of course you’ll stay, Olivia. You’re part of our family now.”

  21

  “I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S happening,” Skyler said. His voice was raised, strangely agitated. “It’s starting to come back again—the wound—the pain—just like he was before everything changed. Like he’s going backward. Only he can’t be, can he? It’s impossible.”

  Olivia paused on the back stairs, surprised to hear Skyler’s voice from the upper gallery. She started to call out to him, then realized he wasn’t speaking to her at all. In fact he was nowhere to be seen, and as she tiptoed up the rest of the way, she flattened herself against the wall and tried to locate the sound of his voice.

  “Of course it’s impossible!” Mathilde snapped back. “It must be something else. Something totally unrelated. How do you know about it anyway?”

  “Because I was with him—because I saw it!” Skyler sounded distraught. “I tried to feed him, but he couldn’t keep it down. And she almost came in and found us—God, what a mess. What are we going to do?”

  “Maybe you should tell Miss Rose—”

  “No!” There was a lengthy silence, as if he was gathering himself under control again. “No,” he said again, more quietly. “It’ll only upset her. I don’t want anything to upset her. She’s sick enough as it is.”

  “Where is Jesse now?”

  “His place maybe—I’m not sure.”

  “He must be somewhere! Where did he go after you left him?”

  “I don’t know!”

  “Well, if you’d quit paying attention to that girl for a little while, maybe you would know—”

  Mathilde gasped and made a choking sound, and Skyler’s voice was low and dangerous.

  “Don’t give me any trouble, Mathilde—you’ve caused enough for a while. And since you seem to have forgotten—the whole idea is not to call attention to anything around here. Life’s much more enjoyable that way.”

  “I don’t care when you hurt me, Skyler,” Mathilde flung back just as angrily, yet there was a definite smugness in her tone. “Because you can’t get rid of me—remember? No matter what you do, you’ll never ever be rid of me.”

  “Don’t you tell me about my hell!” he hissed at her. “I’m living right in it—I know what it’s like, goddamn you!”

  Mathilde’s breath was sobbing out now, painfully, as if he were shaking her, hurting her.

  “Well, if this is mine, then this is yours!” Skyler spat at her again. “Yes, I’ll always have you—but I’ll always be wanting someone else—”

  “You bastard—Skyler—I hate you—”

  There was a sharp cry, and a thud as if something had slammed against the wall. And then Mathilde moaning softly—“yes … yes … take more … take it all …”

  And Olivia realized that they must be in the same room she’d been in earlier, the nursery that should have been locked but wasn’t—and she closed her eyes, not wanting to listen, yet too frightened not to listen, because something was so horribly wrong—

  And then Olivia heard something sliding—and Skyler’s voice, thick and unst
eady. Some instinct prompted her to press back into one of the recessed doorways, and no sooner had she done so than Skyler rushed past her, along the gallery and down the stairs. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for several moments, then slowly came out again and inched flat along the wall.

  She saw the doorway off to her right. The door was standing open, and rain was blowing in.

  It seemed forever that she stood there, a cold clutch of dread immobilizing her.

  She lowered her eyes to the gallery floor and felt her stomach lurch.

  Blood trickled from the doorway, splattered in big droplets across the floorboards, only now the rain had run it all together into thin red pools …

  It dripped over the ledge beneath the railing and ran in little rivulets toward her feet …

  “Oh, my God—”

  A part of her wanted to scream, to race for help—while another part pulled her helplessly toward that room and forced her to follow the bloody trail through the open door.

  “Mathilde?”

  Olivia’s whisper was little more than a breath, her body freezing and trembling as she finally reached the threshold … as she slowly leaned inside …

  Fog still hung in the clammy air. Fine sprays of rain washed across the floor, making a stream of red puddles with footprints still smudged in the middle. Mathilde was sitting on the other side of the room, her legs splayed out, her back propped against the wall. Her blouse hung open, baring one breast, and there were smears of blood on her chest and neck and down her arms. Olivia’s stomach churned at the powerful odor—blood and wet ashes and rotting dampness—and as Mathilde moved her head and looked up, Olivia could see the woman’s eyes trying to focus.

  Smothering a cry, Olivia ran to Mathilde’s side and dropped beside her.

  “Oh, God—oh, Mathilde—what happened—”

  Mathilde struck out, such a powerful and unexpected blow that Olivia landed against a wooden chest, stunned.

  “You think he cares,” Mathilde hissed, and her eyes were fixed on Olivia now—burning eyes full of hate and venom. “But he only cares about one thing. Only one.”