Someone was talking to her in a low, singsong voice. Was she still dreaming? The hand on her shoulder felt very real. Yet she couldn't quite open her eyes, couldn't quite gain consciousness. Had Mr. Wolfe come into her room? He had stared at her in a strange way when she had arrived with his snack. Maybe the piratical master of the house was the type of man who would try to take advantage of her. Somehow, she didn't think so. But if this wasn't Mr. Wolfe in her dream, who was it?
"Roselyn, Roselyn," a voice said near her ear. The voice was dry, seductive, and she eased onto her back, trying to see who stood near her bed, but she couldn't open her eyes.
"Roselyn, you hear me, don't you, my dear?"
She stirred, heard herself mumble an incoherent phrase.
"Roselyn, you must tell me where your mother has hidden her possessions."
My mother? I don't have a mother.
"You did. You just don't remember."
Maybe I don't want to remember. My mother gave me up, sent me away. Why should I want to remember a mother like that?
"It's true. Your mother was not a nice lady, Roselyn. But I believe she gave you something that belongs to me."
I have nothing of my parents'. Not even their name.
"Roselyn, my beauty." He kissed her bare shoulder, and Rose felt a warm, melting feeling spread through her. She sank farther into her bed. "Such bitterness. You have been hurt, haven't you? You suffer."
Yes, I suffer. But why should you care?
"Because I want to help you. I can give you back the family you lost so long ago."
She ached to know about her family, but she was afraid of the truth, of the guilt and shame associated with being a foundling. Surely if her mother and father had loved her, they would have kept her. So the truth was that they had not loved her and that they had rejected her. Rose didn't want to face that particular truth or learn the reasons for the rejection.
"Roselyn, I can show you the family you once knew."
No, I don't want to see. I don't care about them.
"Yes, you do, Roselyn. I know you're curious. You are looking back now. See, you can just make out a candle at the end of the corridor."
Yes, she could. Was she sleepwalking? She tried to turn her back on the candle, tried to close her eyes, but couldn't seem to command the movements of her own body.
"Go toward the light, Roselyn, and tell me what you see."
CHAPTER THREE
The light startled her. Rose scrambled to her feet as her mother bent over her crib and then hurriedly dressed her.
"Shh, baby," Deborah Bastyr whispered. "Mother's taking you for a walk."
Rose looked to the window, wondering why they would take a walk so early in the morning. They'd never done that before. She yawned and held out her arm so that her mother could slide on the sleeve of her red dress. She liked the dress, which was decorated with lots of bows and hearts, so different from the plain black-and-white dresses she usually wore. Her mother had bought the red dress for her, but for some reason she rarely got to wear it. She didn't know why that was. It was such a pretty dress, after all.
"There you are, pumpkin," her mother crooned, pulling a sweater on over the dress. "Good girl."
Rose put a knuckle to her mouth and sucked on it while her mother lifted her out of the crib. Her mother was wearing her black coat, the one with the fuzzy collar that felt so soft. She reached out and stroked it as her mother carried her across the room. Maybe when she was big, like Mother, she would get a coat just like it.
"We're going to play a game now, Rose," Deborah said, grabbing a cloth bag from the bed. "Let's pretend we have zippers on our mouths and we can't open our lips."
She made a zipping movement across her mouth. Rose smiled and copied the motion.
"Good. Now, once we zip our mouths, we can't speak. Not until I unzip yours, okay?"
Rose nodded, eager to play the game. Mother hadn't been playing many games with her lately, and she was glad to see that life was getting back to normal, although she wasn't too certain about walking around before breakfast. That was not at all normal. But if she were with her mother, it would be all right.
The house was dim as her mother carried her down the hall to the stairs. She wondered why her mother didn't turn on the lights. Perhaps when she was big, she wouldn't be afraid of the dark, either. She clung tightly to her mother's neck as they passed Uncle Enoch's room near the top of the stairs. His room was a spooky place she wasn't allowed to visit, and the dark wood of the sealed door seemed even scarier in the dark. Once she had caught a glimpse of him sitting naked in a chair in his room with drool hanging from his mouth.
Down the stairs they hurried. Her mother clutched her too tightly, and she squirmed, wanting to complain but remembering the zipper on her lips. Daisy, their big hound, lifted her head as they walked past the kitchen, but her mother made a motion for her to stay. That was odd, because Daisy always went with them on their walks. Rose looked over her mother's shoulder at the dog, her head bouncing, and hoped Daisy wouldn't feel too bad about being left out.
A light rain started to fall as they headed across the rear lawn. Why weren't they walking down the lane, as usual? Why was Mother headed to the woods in back of the house? Wasn't she afraid of the wild animals that lived there? Rose clutched her mother's neck even harder.
"It's all right, baby," Deborah murmured softly. But never once did she put her down to walk, even though she seemed out of breath.
It was still too dark to see much. All the pretty flowers were closed. And once they left the yard, there was nothing to see but trees and shrubs shrouded in morning fog. Rose's eyelids felt heavy, and pretty soon she put her cheek down on the fuzzy collar and shut her eyes, hoping her mother wouldn't get lost. Her mother's hair smelled nice.
The next thing she knew she was being handed to someone in a car while her mother crooned a reassurance that she would be all right. Then her mother slid in beside her and shut the door. All she said was "Let's go." With a lurch, the car sped away, and Rose snuggled against the curve of her mother's shoulder and fell back to sleep.
In her bed at Brierwood, Rose felt another kiss on her shoulder, but the physical contact barely registered. She had dreamed of her mother. She had seen the face of her mother for the first time, had felt her gentle touch and heard her soft voice. Overwhelmed by the sudden memory, Rose couldn't concentrate on the words of the man at her bedside.
"A man was in the car. Your mother's lover."
Leave me alone, Mr. Wolfe. I can't talk right now. Can't think.
"Your mother was an adulteress, a disgrace to the family."
Rose scowled, still not able to wake up. The dream she had just experienced disturbed her. She had never dreamed of her mother before. Why now? And was the dream based on actual childhood memories, or was it simply the result of her desire to create a past with which she could be satisfied? In the dream her mother had held her, crooned to her and reassured her. Was that the kind of mother who would reject her child? What sort of nonsense was Mr. Wolfe showing her? She tried to wake up, wanting to rid herself of the memories and the man at her bedside, but she couldn't open her eyes.
"Her lover wanted her to run away, to leave your father."
Father? I don't remember having a father at all.
"Oh, you had a father, Roselyn. You still do. He's looked for you for years. You are his only living heir."
That's not possible. I am an orphan. My father is dead.
"He isn't dead, Roselyn. And he's very anxious to get to know you after all these years. He's pleased that you have grown up to be such a beautiful young woman. Very pleased.
The man at her bedside touched her breast. Rose turned away, and she sensed that he had straightened but was still regarding her.
"You will be worth waiting for, Roselyn Bastyr. But the waiting will be hard indeed."
Rose shifted, disturbed by the intimate touch and his cryptic words. Her mother had loved her? Her father was alive? I
t couldn't be true. She had simply experienced an odd dream.
I don't believe you.
"The truth, Roselyn," said the voice near her ear, "is sometimes hard to accept. But in time you will realize how many lies you have been told. Now sleep."
Rose woke up late the next morning and jumped out of bed. It was nine o'clock, very late for her. She usually rose at six and was at work by seven, especially during the hot summer months, when the workroom got unbearably stuffy in the afternoons. As she dressed and arranged her hair into a loose braid, she had a fleeting glimpse of her dream during the night. How odd to recall a vision from so far back in her childhood. She usually had a hard time remembering any incidents before she was five, when she had arrived at Brierwood. Frowning, Rose glanced at her white face in the mirror and gazed at her bare shoulder. Another memory came back in a rush, and she drew her hand over the skin where two kisses had been pressed. Those kisses had been real. She was certain a real man had caressed her. And the only man at Brierwood was Taylor Wolfe.
He might seem familiar to her, but that didn't permit him to take such liberties.
She would have to set him straight about what she would allow him to do. Coming into her bedroom at night was simply unacceptable behavior. She didn't know why she hadn't put up a protest last night. But she would make her objections plain first thing this morning. She would also lock her bedroom door from now on.
Anxious to confront Mr. Wolfe, Rose hurried down the hall, her anger mounting with every step. Perhaps he hadn't even gotten up yet. Too bad. She would interrupt his sleep just as he had interrupted hers.
Rose rapped on his door and waited impatiently as she heard the sound of his uneven gait approaching. He opened the door, his jaw covered with shaving cream and his neck and shoulders draped in a towel. He wore a pair of faded jeans belted loosely around his trim hips and no shoes or socks. Last night she had assumed the expert tailoring of his jacket had enhanced his figure. But she had been wrong. Mr. Wolfe's bare, well-developed shoulders and arms needed no enhancement whatsoever.
Flushing at the sight of his naked torso, she raised her eyes and forced herself to remember why she had marched down to his room.
"Yes, Rose?"
"I want to talk to you about last night."
"Do you mind? I'm in the middle of shaving."
"What I want to say will only take a moment."
He looked at her expectantly, as if he wasn't the least bit ashamed of his behavior. Rose felt her anger flare and crossed her arms over her chest.
"Your family may own this house, Mr. Wolfe, but that doesn't give you the right to behave in such a fashion."
"What fashion?" He grabbed both ends of the towel with his hands. "What are you talking about?"
"You know perfectly well."
"Don't tell me you're still angry about the tea and cookies? Good God, woman!" He turned and limped toward the bathroom. Rose followed close behind, fuming.
"Wait a minute!" she demanded. "I'm talking to you."
"You're ranting, that's what you're doing." He picked up his razor and leaned over the sink. His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat as he swallowed.
Rose watched him scrape the blade down his lean face, enraged that he wouldn't even stop to listen to her.
"I am not ranting. And I'm not talking about the tea tray, either."
"What, then?" He glanced at her in the mirror as he rinsed the razor in the basin. "My lack of faith in your so-called herbal remedies?"
"No. And I don't like to be toyed with, Mr. Wolfe."
"Neither do I. So quit talking in circles." He concentrated on his shaving while she took a deep breath to keep from attacking him with both fists.
"Okay. You may be accustomed to slipping into the bedrooms of young women, but I am not accustomed to entertaining men in mine."
His shaving stopped in mid-stroke. "What?"
"Don't you ever, ever, come into my bedroom again, Mr. Wolfe. Is that clear?"
He half turned, his razor submerged in the sink, a look of surprise on his face. "Perfectly. But I—"
"I'm not the kind of woman you're probably used to. And if you take one step into my room again, I'll call the police."
"I have no intention of stepping into your room."
"Then what were you doing last night—sleepwalking?"
"I was working on my model." He indicated the table nearby, where his schooner stood partially built. "I didn't come to your bedroom. Hell, I don't even know where it is."
"How can you stand there and lie to me? You were there. You talked to me. You hypnotized me. You kissed my shoulder, touched my—" She broke off, too embarrassed to go into the particulars.
He tilted his head and gave her that narrow-eyed look.
"Don't try to deny it, Mr. Wolfe."
"Fine," he replied, dabbing his face with the towel, his movements sharp with anger. "You seem sure it was me, anyway."
"Why can't you just admit it?"
"This conversation is going nowhere. You aren't hearing a word I'm saying."
"And you're not hearing me!"
"The hell I'm not. I've met women like you, victims of their own hysterical imaginations."
"Hysterical imaginations!"
"Yeah." He slapped the towel over his shoulder and faced her. "And the women I've seen who are worried about men taking advantage of them are usually the type that I wouldn't look at twice."
"And what is that supposed to mean? That I'm hysterical and unattractive?"
"Sister—" he put his fists to his hips "—you can take it to mean anything you want."
She glared at him, so enraged that she couldn't speak. She was not the hysterical type. Besides that, he wouldn't even admit that he had come into her room. He had blamed it on her imagination. Her imagination! She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind her.
Rose fumed to the end of the hall and all the way down the stairs. Before she entered the kitchen, however, she took three deep breaths to calm herself and then smoothed back her hair and the skirt of her dress. She didn't want to disturb Bea needlessly or have to explain what Taylor Wolfe had done to her while she slept. But she was curious to find out about the Bastyr family and wondered if Bea knew anything about them.
Bea looked up from the cutting board, where she was mincing bacon and green onions for an omelet. "Good morning, dear," she greeted Rose with a smile.
Rose walked across the tile floor and gave her a hug. "How are you feeling, Bea?"
"Much better. But you should have awakened me when Mr. Wolfe arrived last night."
"I thought you could use the rest."
"That was thoughtful of you, Rose, but I was worried what Mr. Wolfe might think, seeing you."
"He was full of questions, but at least he didn't tell me to leave."
"That's a relief." Bea scooped up the bacon and dropped it in a skillet. "But I suppose he'll want to know all the details from me."
"Don't worry. The worst he can do is send us packing. I can handle that."
"But not until you sell your scarf, Rose." Bea turned to glance at her as she stirred the sizzling bacon. "We must convince him to let us stay that long."
"I'm almost done. Don't worry."
"You're a good girl, Rose." Bea gave her a warm but troubled smile. Rose shrugged it off, knowing in her heart that she probably wasn't all that good. Good children didn't get banished from their families. She must have done something that she had buried in her memory.
Rose stepped closer to the stove, but far enough away so the bacon grease wouldn't splatter her. "Bea, I have a question."
"Yes?"
"Have you ever heard of a family called the Bastyrs?"
Bea lost her grip on the fork, which slid into the hot pan and sank into the bacon grease. "Oh, there, look what I've done!" she exclaimed, reaching for a sharp knife with which to fish out the fork.
Rose noted Bea's fluttering movements, so unlike the calm, reserved woman
Rose knew her to be, and realized the mere mention of the Bastyr name had sent Bea into a flurry of nervousness. Why?
"Ouch, that fork's hot!" Bea cried, dropping the utensil on the counter. "I'm just Miss Fumble Fingers this morning, aren't I?"
"Bea, you didn't answer my question."
"I'm sorry, dear." Bea walked to the sink to strain off the grease. "What was it again?"
"The Bastyrs. Have you ever heard of them?"
Bea pushed up her wire-framed glasses and turned from the sink, still holding the pan and spatula. "The Bastyrs?"
"Yes. Mr. Wolfe said I bear a marked resemblance to the Bastyr women."
Bea's grip tightened on the spatula. Rose could see the knuckles of her pudgy hand turning white. "Mr. Wolfe said that?"
"Yes. He said my red hair gave me away."
"Your red hair? Lots of people have red hair." Bea set the pan on the counter and quickly turned to the refrigerator. "I wouldn't take him seriously. He was probably just trying to break the ice with you." She rose up, holding a carton of eggs. "It's a typical male ploy when meeting a pretty girl to say she reminds him of someone."
"He said he knew all about me, though."
"How could he? He didn't know you were here until last night." Bea cracked the eggs into a bowl. Her hands shook. “At least as far as I know.”
"What aren't you telling me, Bea?" Rose demanded, gripping the edge of the counter. "You're hiding something from me. I can tell."
"Now, why would I hide anything from you, dear?" Bea retorted, whisking the eggs. The loose flesh on her forearms jiggled. She looked up at Rose and smiled, but Rose could see the tarnish of fear and insecurity dulling the sparkle in her eyes.
Bea picked up the bowl of eggs. "Perhaps you misunderstood him, Rose. I know you must be tired, driving yourself as you do. You haven't been getting enough sleep lately."
"I didn't misunderstand him." Rose frowned again, remembering how Mr. Wolfe had acted upon meeting her the second time, as if he had never talked to her before. He hadn't known her name and wasn't aware of her presence at Brierwood. What was going on? Was he deliberately trying to confuse her? And if so, why?
The Haunting of Brier Rose Page 5
