Midsummer Night

by Charlie N. Holmberg

  Felicia was beautiful, yes. Accomplished, yes. And marrying her would fulfill his duty to the Isle of Rose and secure his posterity, yes.

  But, it was just another step in holding onto the thin reins of the Isle in his hands.

  Upon his father’s deathbed, Moss had promised to secure a wife, and his father had immediately said that it must be a woman from the Rose family to keep the bloodline pure. Well, that had certainly narrowed things down a bit since his father’s second cousin Crest Rose was the only living relative who had grown daughters. Two of them, in fact.

  When Moss had written to Crest, the immediate response was favorable, and a miniature painting of Felicia had been sent. Along with a contract.

  Moss signed the betrothal contract under the watchful eye of his mother. Then his mother had commissioned the miniature to be made into a full-sized portrait, which was the current portrait Moss now stood before. Tonight, as the sun set over the Isle, Moss would be making marriage vows with this woman. For better or worse. In sickness and in health. For richer or for poorer.

  “Why so melancholy?” a woman’s voice said.

  Moss stiffened as his mother walked into the room, her heeled shoes click, click, clicking.

  She stopped next to him, lifting her chin to gaze at the portrait of his bride-to-be.

  “Just think,” his mother breathed in her sing-song voice. “Tomorrow morning at this time, you’ll be a married man.”

  Moss said nothing.

  “No one can take the Isle from you then,” his mother continued as if his silence didn’t bother her. “Your title will be secured forever and ever.”

  He wanted to laugh. His title would never be truly secured. Since the betrothal was announced, three attempts had been made on his life. Two of the assassins had been caught and put to death after refusing to confess who’d hired them. One had gotten away.

  Moss swallowed back his bitterness.

  “Your Lordship, Your Ladyship,” a smooth voice spoke from the far entrance to the banquet room.

  Moss didn’t need to turn to know that Bourbon had just arrived. His smooth tones and pretty words might have his mother approving of their every interaction, but Moss was convinced that Bourbon was about as shallow as a puddle after a spring rainstorm.

  His mother spun on her heel. “Bourbon, you must cheer up my son. Today, after all, is his wedding day.”

  “So it is,” Bourbon said, striding easily across the marbled floor. Slap, slap, slap went his leather boots.

  Bourbon stopped a pace away from Moss and gave an extravagantly deep bow, which made his mother’s green eyes light up with delight.

  At least someone was happy today.

  “And how are you today, Lady Alba?” Bourbon said, displaying a second, deep bow.

  Moss barely held in a scoff. The pomp of the elite members of society had always bothered him. Why all the pretention? A genuine conversation was so much more interesting.

  “I am only as happy as my son,” his mother cooed, holding out her hand, which Bourbon promptly kissed.

  Bourbon straightened and turned toward the portrait of the blond beauty Felicia. “What do we have here, now?”

  Moss’s mother tittered. “The bride, of course. I heard that her gown will be adorned with fresh white roses.”

  How his mother had heard that news, Moss had no idea.

  “Sounds absolutely enchanting,” Bourbon said, ever the man to flatter the most powerful woman on the Isle. That was, until that power transferred to her new daughter-in-law tonight.

  “I never thought this day would come,” his mother continued. “Imagine, my own son will be a husband.”

  “You have raised him well, my lady,” Bourbon said, his voice as smooth as dark liquor.

  “You flatter me.”

  Bourbon chuckled. “If the truth is flattery, then so be it.”

  Leave, Moss wanted to tell the pair. Let me brood in silence.

  “I know.” His mother snapped her fingers. “We shall find a rose to adorn his jacket. One that will complement his bride’s beautiful wedding gown.”

  Moss didn’t need to look over to know that Bourbon’s smile was as wide as his face.

  “Allow me to escort you into the gardens in search of such a rose,” Bourbon said.

  At last, the pair of them left, with promises of finding the perfect rose and with talk of the wedding banquet and all the dignitaries who’d be in attendance.

  Moss found himself in grateful silence.

  Indeed, his mother was right. Tomorrow at this time, he’d be a wedded man. But he’d received another death threat upon parchment this morning, which promised that he’d not live to see the sun rise again.

  It was time, this Cornelia knew. She could not delay any longer. Slowly, she stood from the chair in her small, bare-walled room. The note from her sister had long since burned, and the ashes had cooled. So there was no real proof in what she was about to tell her parents. But it didn’t matter. Whether they believed her or not, Felicia was long gone.

  Cornelia left her hovel of a room and walked sedately along the wide corridors to where she knew her parents would be in the library. Her father with his drink and his books of science. Her mother with her needlepoint. As far as parents went, Cornelia had few complaints. Unless she counted the disproportionate treatment between her and her sister.

  But Felicia was the eldest, born into her birthright, meant for greater things than living in a country manor, the daughter of a modest landowner.

  That had all changed now.

  Sure enough, Cornelia’s parents were exactly as she guessed them to be.

  Her father looked up first. She’d been directed the evening before to come and fetch them both when Felicia was packed and ready to begin the journey across the bay to the Isle of Rose.

  So her father’s expectant gaze was no surprise. Both her parents were blond and blue-eyed like Felicia. Cornelia, apparently, took after her grandmother and her crow-black hair and deep-brown eyes.

  Cornelia had never been good at hiding the emotions on her face, which was why she’d stayed sequestered in her room until now.

  “What is it?” Her father’s voice was sharp, which meant that her mother was on alert too.

  Cornelia exhaled and stepped farther into the room. “Felicia has eloped with Louis Phillipe.” Getting it all out at once was the best method.

  Her parents said nothing for a moment, although the shocked looks on their faces were enough to make Cornelia want to return to her room.

  Her father snapped first. “What do you mean? Eloped?” His face deepened another shade of red with each word.

  “Louis Phillipe is the groom,” her mother said in a querulous voice.

  Cornelia answered her parents’ rapid questions while her own heart pounded and her stomach plunged.

  Her father took to pacing, barking out angry retorts mixed with cursing, and her mother fled the room, determined to see for herself if Felicia was truly gone.

  When her mother returned, her face was streaked with tears, and she rushed to her husband. “She’s truly gone, Crest. I questioned everyone and discovered there are two horses missing, and all of Louis Phillippe’s things are cleared out.”

  Her father stared at his wife, his red face looking as if it were about to boil over.

  “How long?” he asked, his gaze cutting to Cornelia.

  She wanted to disappear. Instead she said, “The note begged me to wait until high noon to tell anyone.” Her words faltered. “So that it would be too late to change her course of action.”

  Her father blinked, and her mother gasped.

  “So it is done, then,” her father said, his tone steely. “Even if she returns and begs for our forgiveness, she is no longer our daughter.”

  Her mother whimpered.

  “And you,” her father ground out, pointing a finger at Cornelia. “You kept Felicia’s secret, which makes you equally guilty.”

  Her father had never s
poken truer words, although unfair. Yet the weight of that guilt pressed upon Cornelia even now.

  “You will fix this, Cornelia,” her father continued, his blue eyes turning to ice. “You will wear a blond wig and a veil and marry the Lord of the Isle of Rose tonight.”

  “No.” Cornelia could hardly breathe. “I cannot replace my sister and marry ... What happens when I am discovered? Surely, I cannot—”

  Her mother had been stunned into silence, but now she rallied. “You must!” She rushed to Cornelia and grasped her hands. “You must become your sister right away! With a veil, no one will know the difference. They will see the blond hair, the wedding gown, and they will never suspect.”

  Cornelia’s stomach twisted. “What about ... tonight?” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “In the marriage bed.” Her knees felt like water.

  “Blow out the candles.” Her mother’s blue eyes glittered with what could only be insanity. “Bed your husband, and in the morning when he realizes the switch, it will be too late. The marriage will be finalized with consummation. He cannot back out then.”

  Cornelia pulled away from her mother’s hot grip.

  “He could condemn me as a traitor,” Cornelia said, desperation flooding through her. “The very worst kind. Would you send your own daughter to the guillotine?”

  Her parents’ calculating stares were answer enough.

  “Why should he find out?” Her father stepped closer, his gaze moving down her body. “Keep the blond wig on. He has only seen a miniature portrait of Felicia. Never in person. There’s no reason that he should find out. Bear him a son or two, and I can guarantee that Lord Moss won’t care if his wife is a gentleman’s daughter or a scullery maid. Just be sure, when you sign your name on the marriage certificate, that you write Cornelia. And we will pray that Lord Moss does not inspect your signature. Yet.”

  Moss stood on the ramparts of the castle and watched the skiff bob in the sea as the wedding party crossed the sea from the mainland to the Isle of Rose. He could make out his emissary, Portland, the parents of the bride, and the bride herself. Were there no other family members or siblings, or even a lady’s maid in attendance? No matter; his mother would see to it that his new wife had a lady’s maid.

  From this distance, he could not see much of the bride beneath her veil. It was a curious thing to wear, but perhaps she’d remove it for the wedding ceremony. Was it some tradition he did not know about? It wasn’t like he attended weddings on a regular basis to know all the ins and outs of them.

  But he could no longer gaze upon the wedding party because he needed to greet them at the castle entrance. Surely his mother was now wondering where he was. Moss made his way down the winding staircase in the tower, feeling as if each lowered step only brought him closer to his fate.

  Before opening the heavy oak door that would lead him into the castle, he straightened his shoulders and cleared his mind of all regret. Then he placed his hand on the latch and pulled.

  “There you are,” his mother said as soon as she saw him.

  She was dressed in her wedding finery, befitting her station on the Isle. From glittering jewels at her throat to the fine silk of her mauve dress, his mother’s elegance rivaled that of any lady on the Isle.

  “Your boots need another polish,” she continued.

  Ah. Her elegance did not always extend to her tongue.

  “They’ve been polished,” Moss said, not wanting to have an inane discussion about the state of his boots just now.

  The skiff had landed, and through the open doorway, he saw the wedding party approaching. Led by Portland, then the man who must be Crest Rose, father of the bride.

  “She will do, will she not?” His mother’s voice was soft now, reflective.

  Moss knew she was speaking of whether he was pleased with the woman picked to be his bride. That had never been a consideration though. Not with the title at stake, and the Isle’s future to secure.

  Moss gave a brief nod, but kept his gaze on the group. Felicia Rose was indeed wearing a veil that covered her cascade of blond hair. She was taller than he thought she might be, and she was also more ... curvy. The woman in the portrait had been quite slender, but perhaps a woman changed over a year’s time?

  His gaze shifted to Crest, who was beaming a wide smile. He was also blond, although his hair had thinned, and gray threaded a good portion of it. His wife, China Rose, had a narrow face and bright-blue eyes and was an older version of her daughter in the portrait. She too was slender and dainty, to the point of reminding Moss of a fairy in a children’s fable.

  Oh, please let this man be happy with my daughter.

  Moss frowned as the woman’s thoughts infiltrated his own mind as if he were overhearing a whispered conversation. What a wish. Perhaps it was the worry of all mothers-of-the-bride. He expected the mother’s thoughts to be mixed in with Miss Felicia’s, but there was nothing from the veiled woman.

  “Greetings, my lord,” Portland said, stopping before Moss and bowing.

  Moss nodded. “Welcome. I trust your journey was safe.”

  “Perfectly safe.” Portland turned. “Let me formally introduce you to the Rose family. Sir Crest, Lady China, and their daughter, Miss Felicia.”

  Crest bowed low, and the women curtsied.

  When Felicia straightened, Moss listened. But he heard nothing from her thoughts. It was possible that she was able to keep her mind blank, but highly unusual. The other possibility was ... she could read minds too.

  Moss wished she’d remove that veil so that he could look into her blue eyes. He couldn’t even see the color through her veil, but surely eye color didn’t change, did it?

  His mother greeted their guests, and soon-to-be family; the conversation continued between his mother and Felicia’s parents. All the while, Felicia said nothing, thought nothing.

  And unease settled over him. If Felicia could read minds, then she already knew that he could read minds as well. Because as amazing as the gift was, a male could only read the minds of females who did not have the gift. And a female could only read the minds of males who did not have the gift. So it was highly possible that Felicia already knew his greatest secret.

  He had to speak to her. Alone. Before the marriage took place. He had to know if she would betray him. Or if she would, as his wife, be loyal.

  But the mothers were already speaking of the chamber that Felicia would take over to prepare for the wedding. Before Moss could get any word in, the women had left in a fluttery group.

  His almost father-in-law placed a firm hand on Moss’s shoulder. “A tour, then?”

  Moss blinked. Had he offered a tour? So be it.

  “Of course,” Moss said, keeping his tone placid, when in truth, he wanted to call after the women. Find a way to separate Felicia from the rest. Lift that veil of hers and question her.

  Instead, Moss led the way along the marbled hallways, passing slender columns, intricate tapestries of hunting scenes, and low-hanging candle chandeliers, and walking beneath ornate arches. He showed Crest the main rooms of the castle, and they came to a stop in the banquet room. Moss paused to look at the portrait of Felicia again.

  Crest said something about moving on, as he was interested in seeing the trophy room, but Moss held up a hand.

  “Wait a moment, sir,” he said, gazing at the blond woman in the painting.

  Something wasn’t right. The portrait might be a bit off because it had been expanded from a miniature, but surely even a miniaturist would craft a more exact replica.

  The tightness in his throat multiplied, and Moss realized something in that instant. The woman beneath the veil, the one he was about to marry, was not the same woman in the portrait. He couldn’t pinpoint how he could be so sure, but he knew. To the depths of his soul, he knew.

  But instead of confronting that man who was trying to entice him out of the room, likely for good reason, Moss wanted to confront Felicia ... or whoever she was.

  Cornelia spun slo
wly until she faced the gilded mirror. The woman in the white wedding gown staring out from the mirror could not be her. She looked a dream, a vision, like a fairy at a Midsummer Night’s party. Felicia’s wedding gown had been frantically altered by their mother, since they could let no one know of the deception. And it fit perfectly.

  The white silk curved with her body, scalloped at the neckline, then formed soft sleeves that reached just below her elbows. The length edged the floor, then billowed behind in an elegant train. Her mother had pinned roses at the V-waistline and threaded more tea roses throughout Cornelia’s blond wig.

  She did not look herself, yet she looked like she’d always imagined she might look if she had a wedding day. Her hair was a different color now, but the makeup her mother had applied made Cornelia’s brown eyes look like vast pools. Her lips were shaded a dusty pink, and the dangling pearl earrings made her cheekbones seem higher and more pronounced.

  “It will do,” her mother said simply, and the satisfaction in her voice would have to be enough for Cornelia.

  If this had been Felicia, their mother would have dumped out a bucket full of praise.

  “Now, let’s get that veil back on,” her mother said in a hushed voice. “Before Lady Alba returns.”

  Cornelia dutifully bent her head as her mother placed the veil once again over her head, then adjusted the folds. Sure, there were similarities between the two sisters, but in body size and eye color, the differences wouldn’t fool any at their estate. Here, on the Isle of Rose, they had the advantage.

  “Goodness,” a voice said from the doorway, where Lady Alba had just entered. “What a lovely bride. Moss will be enchanted.”

  Cornelia’s first instinct was to smile, but that was quickly covered up by the heaviness in her chest at the betrayal. She also didn’t miss the slightest edge she’d heard in Alba’s voice. Could it be that the woman wasn’t completely satisfied with the marriage arrangement?

  A page came to the doorway and announced that the guests had assembled. The officiator would be Lord Moss himself since he held the highest authority on the Isle, and her father would present the marriage contract to be signed as a legally binding contract. The one hundred guests would serve as witnesses.