The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  He hobbled away from her. He didn't want her fussing over him and touching him. And he didn't want some unschooled healer messing around with his health. He also couldn't bear another moment looking at the vision she presented as she stood in a pool of sunlight—a luscious, flame-haired nymph with a crestfallen expression.

  The farther he stayed away from Rose Quennel, the better. All he had to do was straighten out the question of the missing caretaker and then he intended to avoid Rose for the rest of his stay at Brierwood. Even now, he knew he had to get clear of her tantalizing presence before he made a fool of himself.

  Taylor turned on the path to glance back at her. She hadn't moved.

  "I want to talk to you later," he said. "In the study at four o'clock, if you can fit it into your busy schedule."

  Her chin rose at his sarcasm.

  "I'll be there," she replied.

  He turned and limped away, suddenly realizing that he hadn't even thanked her.

  Sitting on the edge of the desk in the study, Taylor looked at his watch. Ten after four. The woman was late. He should have expected as much. From all appearances, Rose was one of those flighty, artsy women who didn't quite fit into the modern world. He had never spent much time with women like Rose, preferring the type who played hard and loved on the run. Impatiently, he tapped the cane on the tip of his shoe and mentally counted the minutes, all the while listening for her step in the hall and wondering why he didn't do something more productive than sitting there waiting for her.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the new bandage he had wrapped around his shin to stop the bleeding. Not only did the dressing look crooked and ineptly applied, it wasn't doing a very good job of staunching the flow.

  He was about to get up and return to the bathroom for a towel when he heard a flutter of wings and Rose's voice in the hallway. Immediately he straightened his spine and faced the door, making sure to put on one of his sternest expressions. With the correct approach, it shouldn't take long to get to the bottom of Mr. Jacoby's unexplained absence.

  Rose hadn't changed her dress, which was stained and torn by the berry bushes and spotted with her blood. One look at her drawn face and he felt his scowl slide away. She hadn’t taken care of her scratches. She hadn’t even cleaned herself up. No wonder she could barely move. Didn't she know how to set priorities or manage her time? Such disorganization annoyed Taylor, especially when he suspected that she had been out foraging for plantain after he had specifically told her not to concern herself with his wound. Blinking back his anger, he watched her mince into the room and stand in front of him, her shoulders unusually stiff.

  "You're late," he blurted.

  "I was picking plantain for your leg."

  "I told you to forget my leg."

  She glanced at his bandage and then back to his face. He kept his expression impassive, even though he knew she disdained his clumsy handiwork. He could read the thoughts in her eyes as clearly as if she had spoken. Her silent criticism rankled him more than anything she might have said.

  The interview was not going as he'd intended.

  Before he could think of a way to get back on track, however, he was forced to duck as Edgar flew past his head and landed on a bust of Victor Hugo near the window. Taylor straightened, a scowl on his face.

  "I thought I told you to keep that bird out of the house."

  "You said nothing of the kind."

  "Didn't I?"

  "No, you simply wondered why we would let him in the house."

  "Wild animals belong in the wild."

  "Edgar is not wild. And I assure you, Mr. Wolfe, he will not be a problem."

  "Then you pick up after him?"

  "Pick up?" she repeated vaguely.

  "You know—clean up his droppings."

  "Edgar doesn't disgrace himself in such a fashion."

  "He's housebroken? Whoever heard of a bird being housebroken?"

  "Apparently you haven't." Her level stare brought him down a peg.

  Taylor stared right back, surprised that his stern countenance had no effect on her. Most people went on the defensive in the face of his censure, stumbling and stammering in their haste to please him. She didn't even seem to notice that he was upset.

  This interview was not going well at all.

  He stood, walked around the desk and motioned to a chair. "Sit down for a minute."

  She looked at the chair, then back to his face. "I'd prefer to stand."

  "Suit yourself." He sank into the burgundy leather chair and hooked his cane on the arm beside him. Then he faced Rose.

  "So, what's going on around here?"

  "What do you mean, what's going on?"

  Did he see a hint of uneasiness cross her face? Good. "I want to know why Brierwood is in such a state and why Mr. Jacoby is nowhere in sight."

  She stared at him, her eyes widening.

  "Well?"

  "Didn't Mrs. Jacoby explain?"

  "No, she didn't. So why don't you just sit down and enlighten me."

  Rose clasped her hands together in front of her. "Mr. Jacoby is away."

  "I know that." He leaned forward. "But where is he?"

  "He's..." She licked her lips. "Well, honestly, Mr. Wolfe, I don't see why you should worry. I can fill in while he's gone."

  "Can you?"

  "I'm perfectly capable."

  He studied her in a calculated sort of way that would have put most people on pins and needles. But Rose stood tall, never flinching, her eyes never blinking.

  "That isn't the point."

  "No?"

  He shook his head at her feigned innocence. "You haven't told me where he is. If I were a suspicious kind of person, I might think you and Mrs. Jacoby were hiding something from me."

  "Why would we hide anything from you?"

  "Damned if I know. You two seemed to be hatching all kinds of trouble." He put his forearms on the blotter and leaned forward. "So where is Mr. Jacoby?"

  Her blank stare didn't fool him in the least. She might be a great little actress with a commendable blank look, but her blue eyes glinted with an intelligent gleam that betrayed her mask of innocence.

  "Damn it!" He lost patience and slapped the desk top with the flat of his hand. "Where is he?"

  “I don’t wish to say.”

  "Where, Rose!"

  "He's dead."

  "Dead?" He sat back, shocked.

  "Mr. Jacoby died over a month ago."

  "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

  "We thought no one would care if we kept silent for a while."

  "You did, did you?"

  She nodded, her eyes even wider.

  "Why keep it secret?"

  "I was afraid Bea and I would be sent away." She stepped closer. "It's not that I'm trying to trick you or anything, Mr. Wolfe, it's just that I need to stay here, at least for this last week, because—"

  He held up his hand to silence her outburst. "That's not the point, Rose. The Wolfe family has been paying good money for wages that have not been earned."

  "I'm sure the Jacobys didn't cheat your family. They've just been getting on in years and—"

  "Letting the place go to seed. So that's what's been going on here." He grabbed his cane and pushed away his chair with the backs of his legs. "And how do you figure in all this? Why are you at Brierwood?"

  "I was left on the doorstep as a child. The Jacobys took me in—"

  "At my mother's expense. That was big of them."

  "Show some mercy, Mr. Wolfe. Your family doesn't seem to be hurting for money."

  "Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?"

  "Well, they own Brierwood, after all, and I'm sure much more than—"

  "Looking to get a piece of it, are you?"

  She stared at him, her face blanching. She had such amazing control over her expressions that he had to admire her acting abilities. Taylor walked around the desk, his cane tapping on the parquet floor.

  "Just remember one th
ing, Rose Quennel. I may share the Wolfe name, but that doesn't mean I share their wealth."

  A shadow of confusion passed through her blue eyes, as if she didn't know what he was getting at.

  "I may not be as wealthy as you assume. Think about that the next time you jump into a brier patch."

  She stepped back, her hand splayed across her breast. "You're not implying that I did that on purpose—"

  "Don't bother with theatrics, either. If I want to watch melodrama, I'll take in a play downtown." He motioned toward the door. "Now go on and get yourself cleaned up."

  For a long moment she said nothing, but he could tell from her expression that she was furious. Then, without breaking eye contact with Taylor, she held out her forearm. "Come, Edgar."

  The words and the tone of her voice could have formed icicles on the Taj Mahal.

  Taylor felt the tips of his ears burning as he stared at her. Her rage gave her a majestic bearing he had never witnessed before, as if she had turned into a marble statue—chilling, regal and unforgivingly rigid. For an instant he wondered if he was wrong about her, if he had misjudged her actions. Then again, she could still be acting. Before he could decide, he saw the raven glide across the room and perch lightly on Rose's wrist.

  She turned and walked stiffly out of the study. Taylor watched her go and didn't move until she had disappeared from view, as if her coldness had frozen him in place. What if he had misjudged her? What if Mrs. Jacoby had jumped to conclusions about him that had nothing to do with Rose? He hadn't even given her a chance to explain herself. Taylor straightened his leg and winced. It didn't really matter. He didn't care what Rose thought of him. And he didn't have to concern himself with her feelings. In fact, having her angry with him would create an emotional distance between than that would make it easier for him to avoid her. With her out of the picture, he might find some peace and quiet here at Brierwood after all.

  Yet he hadn't the faintest idea what he would do if he did manage to acquire peace and quiet. Being locked away in a huge dark house on an overgrown estate was a far cry from the peace he found in the open air of the sea. On board the Jamaican Lady, there was always something to fix, polish or adjust. He hoped his books would be delivered early tomorrow, so that he would have something constructive to do. The pace at Brierwood was so damned slow that he might regain his vision but go mad in the process.

  Rose hurried to her room to take off her dress and try to pull some of the briers out of her back. The tiny brown spines were hard to see in the light of her bathroom, and the job was made doubly hard because she had to operate by looking in a mirror, which meant each movement had to be made in reverse. The mirror frustrated her by making her feel clumsy and uncoordinated, and the heat in the upstairs bathroom only added to her foul humor. The entire time she was plucking briers, her mind centered on her maddening conversation with Mr. Wolfe. He had all but accused her of lying. He hadn't listened to a single word she'd said and had told her she was melodramatic. Melodramatic! Fury and frustration bubbled within her until the tweezers shook in her hand.

  With a frustrated sigh, Rose gave up plucking the briers and realized she had succeeded in removing only a fraction of them. Since Bea's vision wasn't good enough for such a close-up job, Rose would probably have to see a doctor to get than removed. But she hated going to doctors and knew she would put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

  Steeling herself to endure the irritation of her scratches meeting water, she took a quick shower and gingerly dressed in a light cotton shift she had hand-dyed with stamps made from Edgar's feathers. Then she twisted her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck and slipped her feet into a pair of sandals. She probably wouldn't meet Mr. Wolfe's expectations of the way household help should dress, but she couldn't bear to wear anything else on her injured skin.

  Stiff and sore, Rose went down to help with dinner.

  Bea's nervousness of the morning had increased to the point where she was dropping mixing bowls on the floor and forgetting to check the chicken breasts under the broiler. While Rose made a romaine salad, she watched Bea drop and break a water glass, a measuring cup and a plate.

  Rose put aside the long green romaine leaf she had been tearing. "Bea, what's gotten into you today?"

  Bea shot an agitated glance her way and then opened the oven door to get the singed chicken, burning her hand on the oven rack in the process.

  "Oh, heavens!" she cried, running to the sink. Rose rushed to her side, took the rack of chicken and turned on the cold water so Bea could hold her hand under the cool flow. "Oh, thank you, Rose! Oh, that smarts!"

  "Bea, I know there's something wrong. You're a nervous wreck. Tell me what it is."

  Bea blinked, looked at Rose as if searching for an answer in her face, and then focused her attention on her injured hand.

  "Is it Mr. Wolfe?" Rose asked, leaning closer to see the changes in Bea's expression. "Are you worried that he'll fire you?"

  "No, it isn't Mr. Wolfe. It's just that—" She broke off and looked down.

  "What, Bea? Tell me!"

  "We have to leave here, Rose. We have to pack our things tonight and leave."

  "What?" Rose stepped backward, stunned. "Why?"

  "I can't tell you why. But we must get out of here."

  "But what about my scarf? My client?"

  Bea turned off the water. "Some things are more important than money, Rose."

  "What's going on?" Rose put her hands on her hips, as if to trap Bea at the sink until she revealed all. "Tell me, Bea. I know you're hiding something from me."

  "Don't you understand, my dear?" Bea laid her hand on Rose's arm. "I can't tell you. You simply must trust me."

  "Trust you?" Rose jerked her arm away. "Why can't you tell me what's happening? I am a grown woman, Bea. I'm not a little girl anymore. If there is something going on here at Brierwood, I deserve to know about it. You're getting on in years, Bea. You may think you can protect me forever, but you can't. And you can't keep me in the dark like this."

  Bea pinched her lips together and shook her head. "It's just that I promised someone." She hugged herself. "I promised! But I never thought—" She shuffled to the pantry door. "We didn't think they would find—" She turned back to face Rose. "It's almost your twenty-first birthday and if—" Bea cut off the jumbled confession and stared at her, a plea in her eyes. "Please, Rose. Just this once don't ask me to explain. Just do as I say and pack your things."

  "No!" For the first time in her life, Rose defied Bea Jacoby. She'd had enough coddling. She wanted answers now. Bea's distress had something to do with the Bastyr family, of that she was certain. Were the Bastyrs connected to the Quennel family? Did Bea know of the connection? And what did her twenty-first birthday have to do with anything? Rose stared at the old woman and felt her chest constrict with heartache and betrayal. Had Bea lied to her all these years, claiming that she knew nothing about the Quennel family? Had she kept the past a secret from Rose, the very person to whom that past belonged?

  A hot snake of outrage uncoiled in Rose. How could the people she had trusted and loved as her own parents have lied to her for fifteen years? Was anything they had told her the truth? Reeling with shock and betrayal, she stumbled out of the kitchen and fled up the stairs.

  Bea called after her, but Rose refused to listen to her entreaties.

  Rose skipped dinner, too disturbed to eat, and too shattered to look at Bea. Instead, she spent the early hours applying more silver swirls to the scarf, working carefully, even though her mind was a million miles from the silk beneath her brush. The night was warm, the air unmoving, yet taut with an unnatural calm, as if a huge storm were coming over the horizon. Edgar sat on a perch by the window, quiet but watchful, and Rose was thankful for his steady friendship. At least Edgar had never told her a lie.

  To blot out her thoughts and nagging unease, she plugged her smartphone into the stereo system and turned on Mozart, filling the old ballroom with the lively str
ings and brass of the overture from The Magic Flute. She worked on, but the music raised her spirits only slightly.

  At eight, someone knocked on her door.

  Though Rose didn't want to talk to either Bea or Taylor Wolfe, she bade the visitor to come in.

  Bea slipped into the workroom, carrying a small chest made of wood and carved in an intricate pattern of circles and stars. Rose's glance darted from the box to Bea's face, which was lined with worry and fear. For all Rose's anger at her, she couldn't help but feel pity for the old woman.

  Bea shuffled past the desk and stood near the end of the long table, as if waiting to be asked to stay. Her lower lip trembled, but her eyes remained steady and intense. For the first time Rose saw Bea for what she was: an elderly, plump, gray-haired woman who had aged ten years in the last few hours. She seemed tired, frazzled, but undeniably focused. Rose knew that beneath Bea's soft and nurturing exterior beat a heart of iron, which had been displayed over the years whenever Bea thought Rose was in danger. Now the iron was back, but Rose wasn't certain how long Bea would be capable of defending her. Bea was old and had been deeply affected by the death of her husband.

  Rose wondered if the roles were reversing and she would soon be the one rising to the defense of Bea. She sighed and capped her paint.

  "Oh, Bea!" Rose walked over to her and slipped her arm around Bea's rounded shoulders. "I didn't mean to yell at you in the kitchen like that."

  "It's all right, dear. I understand."

  "I don't deserve to be lied to, Bea, that's all."

  Bea nodded. "I know. It was for your own good, though, Rose. You must believe we did it for your own good." She threw a furtive glance over her shoulder. "Come, child, I must show you something. But we mustn't be seen or overheard."

  "By whom? Mr. Wolfe?"

  Bea nodded again and her mouth drew down at the corners.

  Rose glanced around the old ballroom, wondering where they could find the most privacy. She decided on a salon across the room, once a place for playing cards, now used as a storage area for yard goods. The sound of their voices would be muffled by the bolts of fabric and the hanging panels of cloth. There were no windows or doors to the salon, other than the one opening onto the ballroom. If someone wanted to eavesdrop, they would have to resort to mechanical means.