Mama flashed Rose Red a knowing smile. “Indeed. From Tarquin?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am!”
Mama beamed. “I’m so glad that Tarquin has proposed to you, my dear. Can any mother be more blessed? Two daughters, well-matched.”
Rose Red blushed scarlet.
“I’ve set the letter on the mantel, Miss, and would you ladies be wanting a nice hot cup of tea?”
Mama, still smiling, said, “That would be lovely, Suzie. Thank you.”
As they eased inside the cottage, Mama cast Rose Red a considered gaze. “Take your cloak off, dear. Suzie’s putting the kettle on the hob.”
The letter seemed to cast a beam of light in the room. Rose Red hurried to the mantel and tucked the slender envelope into her pocket. “Mama, would you please excuse me?”
“Surely, but there’s nothing wrong—”
“Nothing at all, Mama. I just want to be alone for a few minutes.”
“Of course, dear. Take all the time you need.”
“I’ll be back soon, Mama,” Rose Red promised as she slipped out through the front door. She stole through the garden, hopped across the road, and scampered through the meadow. Over the past several months, as Snow White’s romance with Mr. Rumsfeld played itself out, Rose Red took to secreting herself in a shady nook on the edge of the great forest, to the place where she and Tarquin made love for the first—and, as it turned out, the last—time before his departure for the war. A stone bench stood here, apparently crafted by an artisan. Strange, really. Who placed such a lovely piece of sculpture out here at the edge of the woods?
But since Rose Red had found it, nobody laid claim to it. So she considered the stone bench to be hers, and she liked to spend a little bit of time each day out here, re-reading Tarquin’s letters until she’d committed them to memory. To her surprise, and especially over the past few months, she discovered that she rather liked her solitude. It marked the only time in the day that she owned completely to herself, and she treasured the tranquility these moments provided.
As the dried-out cornstalks shuddered in the cool breeze, brittle leaves skittered across the ground, flitting over her boots, crunching into dust. Winter was upon them, yet so unlike the winter of three years’ past, when Black Bear came to stay with them.
Rose Red settled herself comfortably on her stone bench and draped a shawl across her shoulders. It was a bright, crisp December day, with just a shade of chill. Snow White had picked a perfect day to be married, with the sky as blue as a blue jay’s feathers.
Remembering her sister’s terrified expression, Rose Red shivered with a faint apprehension. She was completely alone out here, and for the first time, she felt the tiniest bit vulnerable. During the summer and late autumn months it had been lovely to be sheltered from the hot sun, but now as she sat in the shadows of this bright-yet-chilly day, the eerie tinge of death crept in close to her.
She was alone, now that her sister had left her.
She drew her shawl closer around her shoulders and pulled Tarquin’s letter from her skirt pocket.
October 1st
My dearest Rose Red,
There are reports—some say unfounded—that peace will shortly be declared and I may find myself in your arms by the early springtime thaw. What say you to a springtime wedding? I own, your life will not be nearly as grand as your sister’s—she, who is marrying the richest man in the land—while you will be a poor soldier’s wife. Are you sure you still want to marry me, Rose Red?
I am joking, of course. Please do not pay me any mind. I am missing you, my dear Rose Red, and longing for the day when I may hold you in my arms.
Yours forever,
Tarquin
With tears brimming in her eyes, Rose Red tucked the letter into her pocket. She found a handkerchief and used it to draw the moisture from her eyes, then leaned back against the bench, her eyes closed. Tarquin’s letters to her, although anticipated, although treasured, made her cry. Once read, they comprised a kind of sweet torture, for they only served to remind her of the gulf that separated them. More than miles kept them apart. A war breached their peace, and his duties as a soldier. Added to this was the fear, ever-present, that he might be killed.
And all her hopes and dreams—of marriage, a home, children—receded further and further away from her, shimmering into the distance like a receding shoreline, leaving the exposed, craggy beachhead in its wake. They always left her, the men she loved.
With her eyes still closed, she pulled up her woolen skirt, raking the fabric so that it pooled around her waist. Then she dug her fingers under her petticoats at the waistline, her fingers reaching for the stays. She pulled on the laces and sighed with relief as the strings came loose, allowing the petticoats to loosen and fall off her hips.
She gently eased her fingers into her secret place, the place where her sex reposed, hidden, secret, and began her exploration. She felt a tiny swell of pleasure at touching the tiny pink buds of her labia, and commenced easing her fingers up and down with a rhythmic movement, increasing the sensation of warmth. A glow rose inside her, and she continued the tickling, until finally she felt no more need of it. With her labia full and quiescent, she explored deeper up her cunt.
This marks the place where Tarquin will thrust his cock on our wedding night.
The thought of Tarquin making love to her again filled her with desire as her fingers continued massaging her cunt. Something quiescent came alive inside her, a delightful warmth filled her up, but she needed more. Then an idea struck her. Using her left-hand fingers, she stroked her labia, while using her right-hand fingers to stroke her cunt, drawing her fingers all the way up, massaging with a kneading gesture. This proved to be a splendid thing to do, for soon a tremendous heat rose inside her. She continued her movements, stroking, stroking, until at last an amazing fluttering sensation overcame her. She pushed her fingers deep inside her cunt, held them there, and rocked back, amazed at the sensation of her vagina walls reverberating up and down the length of her cunt. With her fingers deep inside, she felt every throb and roil of her body.
“Oh, dear God!” she cried, falling back against the stone bench. She inhaled deeply. The sudden-chill air scorched her lungs, but it felt strangely pleasant. It helped to revive her, to bring her back into the real world. Satiated, fulfilled, she struggled to a seating position. With a sudden pang, she realized that it would be the closest she would come in her present life to the pleasures that her sister no doubt derived from her new husband in her marital bed.
She blew out her chilled breath with a final sigh of satisfaction and grew still. But her peace did not last long. A twig snapped behind her and she started in surprise. A prickling sensation rose at the back of her neck, a sense that someone watched her. The sensation, so real, so powerful, frightened her, and she immediately scrambled off the bench, struggling to get her clothes into a semblance of order. She looked about her frantically while pulling up her petticoats and retying the stays. Yanking the hem of her skirt down till it dropped to her boots, she looked about her more carefully, trying to ascertain who—or what—had been watching her.
Nobody stood in the meadow. Nobody walked past on the main road leading into the village. She whirled around and regarded the woods with a suspicious frown. A long moment passed. She grew silent, still, staring into the deep woods, waiting to detect movement, anything at all that would give her a clue as to who—or what—spied on her.
A sick wave of revulsion washed over her as none other than the evil dwarf strolled out of the woods, carrying a heavy bag over his shoulder. He stopped, focused his sharp, appraising gaze on her face and cackled with derision.
Her heart beat fast against her chest, and her throat constricted. No good would come of this. No good at all.
Rose Red and Black Bear: Chapter 9
“Hah, hah, hah!” the dwarf cackled manically. “Always suspected you of being a nasty, dirty little girl. Now you’ve confirmed my hunch! Can’t get yourself
a real man, eh? Resorted to servicing yourself? Next thing you know, you’ll be turning into a witch!”
During this entire tirade, Rose Red jumped around on one foot, yanking at her boot. At last she succeeded in wrenching it off. Screaming in rage, she flung it at the dwarf. “Get lost and die, you hideous troll!”
“Hah, hah, hah!” the dwarf laughed, jumping nimbly out of the way. His heavy bag jumbled about on his back.
“You rotten, desiccated little dwarf! I wish my sister and I had left you to die that day. We never should have come to your aid.” She yanked off her other boot and flung it at the dwarf. This time she hit her mark. The sturdy heel of her boot struck him square on his long, pointed nose. Instantly a river of blood poured forth, and the dwarf screamed in agony. He clutched at his nose, attempting to staunch the blood, but to no avail. It streamed from his nose and flowed down his vest, his shirt, his trousers, staining his entire body in his dark red blood.
“Serves you right!” she hissed. “I hope you die!”
Even as she uttered these hateful, despicable words, an inner part of her, a cool, collected part of her, grew amazed at the rage that bubbled up just under the surface. She was usually a level-headed, kind, pleasant person, and it was unlike her to behave in this unseemly fashion, even to a miserable dwarf, she, who took such good care of her mother. No, the good Rose Red would never behave in this awful manner.
She recollected herself and grew still.
The dwarf hopped up and down, still clutching at his nose. Finally the blood flow lessened, then stopped as he staggered drunkenly on the frozen ground.
Still the anger bubbled up inside her, like a pot filled with boiling water. It took all her reserves of fortitude to keep the lid clamped down on her rage. She lunged for the other boot, the one that hadn’t hammered the dwarf’s nose. The dwarf, perhaps fearful of further reprisals, jumped backwards and scuttled into the woods. He darted into the meadow one last time and grabbed the bag he’d dropped during the melee.
Rose Red stood before him, a cold hard look in her eyes. The dwarf flashed her one last, hurt look before withdrawing into the woods. “You bitch,” he murmured, his parting shot.
After he left, she released her breath with a shuddering sigh. Whatever little bit of pleasure she’d afforded herself had disappeared. Stumbling about on the hard ground, she collected her boots. She dusted them off, shook out the pebbles, slid her feet into the boots and laced them up. Just before she began the walk back home, she noticed that a pebble, lodged in the toe of her right boot, would not budge. She thought she might ignore it and walk home despite the pebble, but when she took a few practice steps, it became apparent that she must stop and remove it.
She dropped onto the stone bench, unlaced the boot and pulled it off. “What’s that?” she asked in alarm as the pebble rolled onto the ground. Shining with a translucent gleam in the sun, it was completely unlike the dull pebbles common to this low-lying valley area. Rose Red leaned over and scooped up the pebble, wondering at it as she held it between her thumb and forefinger. Then it struck her. This wasn’t a pebble, but a gem. She twirled the gem this way and that, marveling at the enchanting way it caught the light, twinkling in all its facets. A gem of deep red, a ruby perhaps? And it was large, too, a precious gemstone and no doubt highly valuable.
Then it occurred to her. This priceless ruby must belong to the dwarf, who carried it inside his bag! Rose Red studied the gem closely, then closed her eyes, concentrating. The dwarf had also been carrying a bag when she and Snow White first encountered him. At the time Rose Red thought nothing of it, but now it dawned on her that the dwarf’s heavy, clunky bag contained valuable gemstones.
And yet, why didn’t this dwarf escape below ground for the winter months? Didn’t he belong below ground in his tunnel-like lair? Perhaps, due to the mildness of the winter, he assumed he could run the risk. But what could possibly be so important to him that he risked his life by appearing above ground? No doubt, she thought with bitter relish, it was for more thieving. Thinking of the dwarf caused an unpleasant metallic taste to rise up in Rose Red’s throat again. The pot lid to her rage clattered into the hearth. If the dwarf reappeared in that moment, she would not hesitate to strike him down and kill him. Her fingers trembling, she tucked the ruby into her pocket alongside her letter from Tarquin.
Time to go home. Past time.
She patted her pocket with a protective gesture and trotted toward the gravel road that would take her back to her mother’s cottage.
A twig snapped.
She whirled around, fury dancing in her eyes, half-expecting to see the hideous little dwarf standing at the edge to the woods, demanding the return of his gemstone.
Nothing, save for the chirping of birds and the rustling of small woodland creatures. The tranquil woods, filled with cedar, pine, oak, ash, maple, and other lovely trees, fell silent. Apart from the chirping of a lone sparrow, she heard nothing. The source of the snapping twig remained an enigma to her.
But she’d heard it. Someone, or something, watched her.
“Come here and stand before me,” she called in a shaky voice.
The command remained unanswered.
Her heart thudded with a weary ache. Slipping her hand inside her pocket, she unconsciously rubbed the gemstone between her fingers.
Finally, and with a heaviness in her heart that she did not understand, she turned and trudged up the gravel pathway to her mother’s cottage.
Her mother would be expecting her, and ready with her tea at the hearth.
Rose Red and Black Bear: Chapter 10
“They’ve declared the peace, they’re coming home, they’re coming home. Oh, dear God, they’re coming home!” Bertie Rathbone, an elderly crone of the village, danced about and waved her arthritic hands up in the air, tears shining in her eyes. “The war’s over, they’ve declared the peace, they’re coming home to us! They’ve declared the peace!”
Bertie was the mother of eight sons—Angus, Broadbane, Colm, Daniel, Edgar, Frederick, Gustave and Harlan, each and every one a commissioned soldier. Colm served in Tarquin’s regiment.
Standing at the fishmonger’s stall, Rose Red watched Bertie enviously, wishing with all her heart that she could join in with the joy. But an unmarried woman, bordering on turning into an old maid—her twenty-first birthday in a matter of weeks—could not crow and jump about at the thought of Tarquin returning to her. It was Bertie, the mother of nearly every soldier in the army, who owned the right to crow and brag.
Dance for me too, Bertie. Dance for us all.
***
When Rose Red returned home, she handed the salmon fillets to Suzie and set the letter from Snow White before her mother. After reading it, Mama put the letter onto the tea tray with a reverent gaze. “She carries a child.”
“Aye,” Rose Red murmured. Her fingers trembling, she set down her teacup. Rose Red did not exactly envy her sister her sumptuous surroundings, for she knew Snow White’s preference for simplicity. No, Rose Red did not envy Snow White her rich husband, the magnificent villa by the sea, the house filled with servants. But she did feel a twinge of regret at the news that her sister carried a child.
And where will you be in a year’s time? What if Bertie Rathbone’s wrong and the war not ended yet? What if the war drags on? Will you still be living with your mother, warming yourself by a comforting fire? What if Tarquin changes his mind and decides that he loves another? You love another, one who is forbidden to you. What will Tarquin do when he suspects the truth? Will he cast you aside and marry a prettier, younger girl? What will be your fate, Rose Red?
She never thought the moment would come when she actually dreaded the prospect of Tarquin’s return. His ardent affection, inflamed by the war, might cool when he discovered her true nature and suspected that in her heart, she longed for another.
She did not like to think on it. When she forced herself to examine her life, she came away with the bitter knowledge that it—and sh
e—was lacking.
Rose Red and Black Bear: Chapter 11
Bertie Rathbone had not been mistaken. The following morning, the soldiers staggered home in small, haphazard columns. This was not the grand, resplendent return promised by the generals and politicians who’d thrust this war upon them. Rather, the scene greeting the villagers was the trudging home of young men who’d embarked on a journey two years earlier with full hearts and hopeful spirits. Now they returned, dispirited, their bodies broken-down. They came home, not to a parade or to awards, but to their mothers, their sweethearts, their wives, their families, and their children. The soldiers’ faces, dusty, lined, dirty with grime and blood, spoke of the bloodshed they’d seen. Their bodies were stooped. Their uniforms, once so shining, so sharp when they left for the war, were now tattered and torn, their colors bleeding.
Bertie cried out as some of her sons appeared on the horizon. Their regiment was the first to be discharged, for they’d been fighting on the front lines and seen the worst of the action. “Ach, me!” Bertie cried, running to them. She appeared to be torn between conflicting emotions of grief and joy at the sight of her sons. “When did you become such broken old men?”
“Aye, mother.” Sighing wearily, Angus shifted his rifle to his other shoulder and swept his mother into his arms. “We’re just glad to be home.”
Bertie burrowed her face against Angus’ chest, then gazed up at him, her eyes bright with tears. “Go home. Go home and let your sisters take care of you.”
Angus grunted his assent, and with that, he led Broadbane and Daniel away.
Rose Red witnessed this exchange with a lump in her throat. What a relief Bertie must be feeling at that moment, three of her eight sons home and safe with her. But as she watched Bertie casting her gaze across the vast expanse of the distant horizon, she knew that Bertie would not rest easy until all her sons returned.
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