Rosalyn shrieked, and the room burst into a smattering of applause. I felt a hand clap my back, and I saw Damon grinning down on me. Katherine clapped politely, an unreadable expression on her face.
“Here.” I took Rosalyn’s tiny white hand and pushed the ring on her finger. It was too large, and the emerald rolled lopsidedly toward her pinkie.
She looked like a child playing dress-up with her mother’s jewelry. But Rosalyn didn’t seem to care that the ring didn’t fit. Instead, she held out her hand, watching as the diamonds captured the light of the table’s candles. Immediately, a crush of women surrounded us, cooing over the ring.
“This does call for a celebration!” my father called out. “Cigars for everyone. Come here, Stefan, son! You’ve made me one proud father.”
I nodded and shakily stepped over to him. It was ironic that while I’d spent my entire life trying to get my father’s approval, what made him happiest was an act that made me feel dead inside.
“Katherine, will you dance with me?” I heard Damon’s voice above the din of scraping chairs and clinking glassware. I stopped in my tracks, waiting for the answer.
Katherine glanced up, casting a furtive look in my direction. Her eyes held my own for a long moment. A wild urge to rip the ring off Rosalyn’s finger and place it on Katherine’s pale one nearly overtook me. But then Father nudged me from behind, and before I could react, Damon grabbed Katherine by the hand and led her out to the dance floor.
7
The next week passed in a blur. I ran from fittings at Mrs. Fells’s dress shop to visits with Rosalyn in the Cartwrights’ stuffy parlor to the tavern with Damon. I tried to forget Katherine, leaving my shutters closed so I wouldn’t be tempted to look across the lawn at the carriage house, and forcing myself to smile and wave at Damon and Katherine when they explored the gardens.
Once I went up to the attic to look at the portrait of Mother. I wondered what advice she’d have for me. Love is patient, I remembered her saying in her lilting French accent during Bible study. The notion comforted me. Maybe love could come to me and Rosalyn.
After that, I tried to love Rosalyn, or at least garner some kind of affection for her. I knew, behind her quietness and her dishwater blond hair, she was simply a sweet girl who’d make a doting wife and mother. Our most recent visits hadn’t been awful. In fact, Rosalyn had been in remarkably good spirits. She’d gotten a new dog, a sleek black beast named Sadie, which she’d taken to carrying everywhere lest the new puppy suffer the same fate as Penny had. At one point, when Rosalyn looked up at me with adoring eyes, asking if I’d prefer lilacs or gardenias at the wedding, I almost felt fond of her. Maybe that would be enough.
Father had wasted no time in planning another party to celebrate. This time, it was a barbecue at the estate, and Father had invited everyone within a twenty-mile radius. I recognized only a handful of the young men, pretty girls, and Confederate soldiers who milled around the labyrinth, acting as if they owned the estate. When I was younger, I used to love the parties at Veritas—they were always a chance to run down to the ice pond with our friends, to play hide-and-seek in the swamp, to ride horses to the Wickery Bridge, then dare each other to dive into the icy depths of Willow Creek. Now I just wished it were over, so I could be alone in my room.
“Stefan, care to share a whiskey with me?”
Robert called out to me from the makeshift bar set up on the portico. To judge from his lopsided grin, he was already drunk.
He passed me a sweating tumbler and tipped his own to mine. “Pretty soon, there will be young Salvatores all over the place. Can you picture it?”
He swept his hands expansively over the grounds as if to show me just how much room my imaginary family would have in which to grow.
I swirled my whiskey miserably, unable to picture it for myself.
“Well, you’ve made your daddy one lucky man.
And Rosalyn one lucky girl,” Robert said. He lifted his glass to me one last time, then went to chat with the Lockwoods’ overseer.
I sighed and sat down on the porch swing, observing the merriment occurring all around me. I knew I should feel happy. I knew Father only wanted what was best for me. I knew that there was nothing wrong with Rosalyn.
So why did this engagement feel like a death sentence?
On the lawn, people were eating and laughing and dancing, and a makeshift band made up of my childhood friends Ethan Giffin, Brian Walsh, and Matthew Hartnett was playing a version of
“The Bonnie Blue Flag.” The sky was cloudless and the weather balmy, with just a slight nip in the air to remind us that it was, indeed, fall. In the distance, schoolchildren were swinging and shrieking on the gate. To be around so much merriment—all meant for me—and not feel happy made my heart thud heavily in my chest.
Standing up, I walked inside toward Father’s study. I shut the door to the study and breathed a sigh of relief. Only the faintest stream of sunlight peeked through the heavy damask curtains. The room was cool and smelled of well-oiled leather and musty books. I took out a slim volume of Shakespeare’s sonnets and turned to my favorite poem. Shakespeare calmed me, the words soothing my brain and reminding me that there was love and beauty in the world. Perhaps experiencing it through art would be enough to sustain me.
I settled into Father’s leather club chair in the corner and absentmindedly skimmed the onionskin pages. I’m not sure how long I sat there, letting the language wash over me, but the more I read, the calmer I felt.
“What are you reading?”
The voice startled me, and the book slid off my lap with a clatter.
Katherine stood at the study entrance, wearing a simple, white silk dress that hugged every curve of her body. All the other women at the party were wearing layers of crinoline and muslin, their skin guarded under thick fabric. But Katherine didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed by her exposed white shoulders. Out of propriety, I glanced away.
“Why aren’t you at the party?” I asked, bending to pick up my book.
Katherine stepped toward me. “Why aren’t you at the party? Aren’t you the guest of honor?” She perched on the arm of my chair.
“Have you read Shakespeare?” I asked, gesturing to the open book on my lap. It was a lame attempt to change the conversation; I had yet to meet a girl versed in his works. Just yesterday, Rosalyn had admitted she hadn’t even read a book in the past three years, ever since she had graduated from the Girls Academy. Even at that, the last volume she’d perused was merely a primer on how to be a dutiful Confederate wife.
“Shakespeare,” she repeated, her accent expanding the word to three syllables. It was an odd accent, not one that I’d heard from other people from Atlanta. She swung her legs back and forth, and I could see that she wasn’t wearing stockings. I tore my eyes away.
“Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?”
she quoted.
I looked up, astonished. “Thou art more lovely and more temperate,” I said, continuing the quote.
My heart galloped in my chest, and my brain felt as slow as molasses, creating an unusual sensation that made me feel I was dreaming.
Katherine yanked the book off my lap, closing it with a resounding clap. “No,” she said firmly.
“But that’s how the next line goes,” I said, annoyed that she was changing the rules of a game I thought I understood.
“That’s how the next line goes for Mr.
Shakespeare. But I was simply asking you a question. Shall I compare you to a summer’s day?
Are you worthy of that comparison, Mr. Salvatore?
Or do you need a book to decide?” Katherine asked, grinning as she held the volume just out of my reach.
I cleared my throat, my mind racing. Damon would have said something witty in response, without even thinking about it. But when I was with Katherine, I was like a schoolboy who tries to impress a girl with a frog caught from the pond.
“Well, you could compare my brother to a summer
’s day. You’ve been spending a lot of time with him.” My face reddened, and instantly I wished I could take it back. I sounded so jealous and petty.
“Maybe a summer’s day with a few thunderstorms in the distance,” Katherine said, arching her eyebrow. “But you, Scholarly Stefan, you are different from Dark Damon. Or …”
—Katherine looked away, a flicker of a grin crossing her face—“Dashing Damon.”
“I can be dashing, too,” I said petulantly, before I even realized what I was saying. I shook my head, frustrated. It was as though Katherine somehow compelled me to speak without thinking. She was so lively and vivacious—talking to her, I felt as though I was in a dream, where nothing I said would have any consequence but everything I said was important.
“Well, then, I must see that, Stefan,” Katherine said. She placed her icy hand on my forearm. “I’ve gotten to know Damon, but I barely know you. It’s quite a shame, don’t you think?”
In the distance, the band struck up “I’m a Good Old Rebel.” I knew I needed to get back outside, to smoke a cigar with Mr. Cartwright, to twirl Rosalyn in a first waltz, to toast my place as a man of Mystic Falls. But instead I remained on the leather club seat, wishing I could stay in the library, breathing in Katherine’s scent, forever.
“May I make an observation?” Katherine asked, leaning toward me. An errant dark curl flopped down on her white forehead. I had to use all my strength to resist pushing it off her face. “I don’t think you like what’s happening right now.
The barbecue, the engagement …”
My heart pounded. I searched Katherine’s brown eyes. For the past week, I’d been trying desperately to hide my feelings. But had she seen me pausing outside the carriage house? Had she seen me run Mezzanotte to the forest when she and Damon explored the garden, desperate to get away from their laughter? Had she somehow managed to read my thoughts?
Katherine smiled ruefully. “Poor, sweet, steadfast Stefan. Haven’t you learned yet that rules are made to be broken? You can’t make anyone happy—your father, Rosalyn, the Cartwrights—if you’re not happy yourself.”
I cleared my throat, aching with the realization that this woman who I’d known for a matter of weeks understood me better than my own father
… and my future wife … ever would.
Katherine slid off the chair and glanced at the volumes on Father’s shelves. She took down a thick, leather-bound book, The Mysteries of Mystic Falls. It was a volume I’d never seen before. A smile lit her rose-colored lips, and she beckoned me to join her on my father’s couch. I knew I shouldn’t, but as if in a trance, I stood and crossed the room. I sank into the cool, cracked leather cushion next to her and just let go.
After all, who knew? Perhaps a few moments in her presence would be the balm I needed to break my melancholia.
8
I’m not sure how long we stayed in the room together. The minutes ticked away on the grandfather clock in the corner, but all I was aware of was the rhythmic sound of Katherine’s breath, the way the light caught her angular jaw, the quick flick of the page as we looked through the book. I was dimly conscious of the fact that I needed to leave, soon, but whenever I thought of the music and the dancing and the plates of fried chicken and Rosalyn, I found myself literally unable to move.
“You’re not reading!” Katherine teased at one point, glancing up from The Mysteries of Mystic Falls.
“No, I’m not.”
“Why? Are you distracted?” Katherine rose, her slender shoulders stretching as she reached up to place the book back on the shelf. She put it in the wrong spot, next to Father’s world geography books.
“Here,” I murmured, reaching behind her to take the book and place it on the high shelf where it belonged. The smell of lemon and ginger surrounded me, making me feel wobbly and dizzy.
She turned toward me. Our lips were mere inches apart, and suddenly the scent of her became nearly unbearable. Even though my head knew it was wrong, my heart screamed that I’d never be complete if I didn’t kiss Katherine. I closed my eyes and leaned in until my lips grazed hers.
For a moment, it felt as though my entire life had clicked into place. I saw Katherine running barefoot in the fields behind the guest house, me chasing after her, our young son slung over my shoulder.
But then, entirely unbidden, an image of Penny, her throat torn out, floated through my mind. I pulled back instantly, as if struck by lightning.
“I’m sorry!” I said, leaning back and tripping against a small end table, stacked high with Father’s volumes. They fell to the floor, the sound muffled by the Oriental rugs. My mouth tasted like iron. What had I just done? What if my father had come in, eager to open the humidor with Mr.
Cartwright? My brain whirled in horror.
“I have to … I have to go. I have to go find my fiancée.” Without a backward glance at Katherine and the stunned expression that was sure to be on her face, I fled the study and ran through the empty conservatory and toward the garden.
Twilight was just beginning to fall. Coaches were setting off with mothers and young children as well as cautious revelers who were afraid of the animal attacks. Now was when the liquor would flow, the band would play more loudly, and girls would outdo themselves waltzing, intent to capture the eyes of a Confederate soldier from the nearby camp. I felt my breath returning to normal. No one knew where I’d been, much less what I had done.
I strode purposefully into the center of the party, as if I’d simply been refilling my glass at the bar. I saw Damon sitting with other soldiers, playing a round of poker on the corner of the porch. Five girls were squeezed onto the porch swing, giggling and talking loudly. Father and Mr.
Cartwright were walking toward the labyrinth, each holding a whiskey and gesturing in an animated fashion, no doubt talking about the benefits of the Cartwright-Salvatore merger.
“Stefan!” I felt a hand clap my back. “We were wondering where the guests of honor were. No respect for their elders,” Robert said jovially.
“Rosalyn’s still not here?” I asked.
“You know how girls are. They have to look just right, especially if they’re celebrating their impending marriage,” Robert said.
His words rang true, yet an unexplainable shiver of fear rushed down my spine.
Was it just me, or had the sun set remarkably quickly? The revelers on the lawn had changed to shadowy figures in the five minutes since I’d been outside, and I couldn’t make out Damon within the group in the corner.
Leaving Robert behind, I elbowed my way past the party guests. It was odd for a girl to not show up at her own party. What if, somehow, she’d come into the house and she’d seen …
But that was impossible. The door had been closed, the shades drawn. I walked briskly toward the servants’ quarters near the pond, where the servants were having their own party, to see if Rosalyn’s coachman had arrived.
The moon reflected off the water, casting an eerie, greenish glow on the rocks and willow trees surrounding the pond. The grass was wet with dew, and still trampled from the time when Damon, Katherine, and I had played football there.
The knee-high mist made me wish I were wearing my boots instead of my dress shoes.
I squinted. At the base of the willow tree, where Damon and I had spent hours climbing as children, was a shadowy lump on the ground, like a large, gnarled tree root. Only I didn’t remember a tree root in that spot. I squinted again. For a moment, I wondered if it could be a pair of intertwined lovers, trying to escape prying eyes. I smiled despite myself. At least someone had found love at this party.
But then the clouds shifted, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the tree—and the form beneath it. I realized with a sickening jolt that the shape wasn’t two lovers in mid-embrace. It was Rosalyn, my betrothed, her throat torn out, her eyes half open, staring up at the tree branches as if they held the secret to a universe she no longer inhabited.
9
It’s difficult for me to
describe the moments that followed.
I remember footfalls and shrieking and the servants praying outside their quarters. I remember staying on my knees, yelling out of horror and pity and fear. I remember Mr.
Cartwright pulling me back as Mrs. Cartwright sank to her knees and keened loudly, like a wounded animal.
I remember seeing the police carriage. I remember Father and Damon wringing their hands and whispering about me, allies in trying to develop the best course for my care. I tried to talk, to tell them I was fine—I was, after all, alive. But I couldn’t form the words.
At one point, Dr. Janes hooked his arms under my armpits and dragged me to my feet. Slowly, men I didn’t know surrounded me and dragged me to the porch of the servants’ quarters. There, words were mumbled, and Cordelia was called for. “I’m … I’m fine,” I said finally, embarrassed that so much attention was being paid to me when Rosalyn was the one who’d been killed.
“Shhh, now, Stefan,” Cordelia said, her leathery face creased with worry. She pressed her hands to my chest and muttered a prayer under her breath, then pulled a tiny vial from the voluminous folds of her skirt. She uncapped it and pressed it to my lips. “Drink,” she urged as a liquid that tasted like licorice ran down my throat.
“Katherine!” I whimpered. Then I clapped my hand over my own mouth, but not before a startled expression crossed Cordelia’s face. Quickly, she dosed me with more of the licorice-scented liquid.
I dropped back to the hard steps of the porch, too tired to think anymore.
“His brother is here somewhere,” Cordelia said, sounding as if she were speaking underwater. “Fetch him.”
I heard the sound of footfalls and opened my eyes an instant later to see Damon standing above me. His face was white with shock.
“Will he be okay?” Damon asked, turning to Cordelia.
“I think …,” Dr. Janes began.
“He needs rest. Quiet. A dark room,” Cordelia said authoritatively.
Damon nodded.
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