The Haunting of Brier Rose

by Simpson, Patricia

  She turned up the music as an added precaution and then led Bea across the parquet floor to the salon. A spider web stretched across the doorway. Rose batted it away and opened the creaking door. She flipped on the lamp, a small brass fixture that hung from the ceiling and barely afforded any light. In the old days, decorative wall sconces would have furnished most of the light, but the bulbs had long since been removed. Dust wafted up as she urged Bea to sit on an old straight-backed chair with cabriole legs, which had lined the ballroom to seat wallflowers and the elderly. Bea held the box securely on her knees and looked up.

  "All right, Bea," Rose said, closing the door and pulling up another chair. "Suppose you tell me what the big secret is all about."

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “I thought you were safe, Rose," Bea began, shaking her head. "I thought there would be no reason to tell you everything. For fifteen years you’ve lived here with us, and not once did anything occur to make me suspect that they had found out where you were."

  "Who's they?"

  "Your family."

  "The Quennels?"

  "No." Bea sighed and looked up at her, reaching for her hands. "The Bastyrs."

  "Wait a minute!" Rose pulled her hands out of Bea's grasp. "I don't understand. Why wouldn't you want them to find me? They're my relatives!" She felt rage welling up again. "What did you and Donald do—kidnap me when I was a child and then tell me I was an orphan?"

  "No, nothing like that, Rose. Please, don't judge us so harshly."

  "How do you think it feels to know you've been tricked for fifteen years?" She jumped to her feet. "Lied to! Kept apart from your real family! And you wouldn't ever have told me, would you, if Mr. Wolfe hadn't shown up!"

  "Rose, listen!" Bea pleaded. "I am your family. I'm your paternal grandmother."

  "My what?"

  "Your grandmother. Donald was your grandfather."

  Rose stared at her, feeling as if her heart would break in two. All these years she had thought of herself as an abandoned waif, with no one in the world to call her own. And now she was expected to believe something entirely different—that she had a family? That she had a grandmother? The idea was so foreign to her that she couldn't even accept it.

  "You're my grandmother?" she countered. "Why didn't you tell me?"

  "I couldn't. Believe me, dearest Rose, I couldn't! Telling you might have meant your death!"

  "Why? Were my parents criminals? Were they members of the underworld or something?"

  "Your father was my son and a very good man." Bea blinked. "But your mother was from a strange family."

  "Why would my own family want me killed?"

  "They don't." Bea opened the box. "The Bastyrs want something far worse for you, Rose." She drew out a folded paper, sealed with a circle of red wax. "But I think this letter will tell you everything you need to know."

  Shattered by shock and disbelief, Rose took the clutch of yellowed papers and turned it over. Her first name was written in flowery script on one side. For a moment she hesitated and glanced at Bea.

  "Who wrote this?"

  "Your mother."

  "My—my—mother?"

  Bea nodded solemnly and pointed to the red seal on the other side.

  "Where is she? Is she still alive?"

  "No." Bea shook her head. "She wrote the letter before her death fifteen years ago."

  "And my father?" The words father and mother felt awkward on her tongue, almost as if she had no business saying them.

  "He is no longer living, either, Rose."

  "What happened to them?" she asked. "Did they die in an accident or something?"

  "No. Read the letter first. Then we'll talk."

  Rose sank into the chair. With a trembling hand she broke the seal and unfolded the paper within. She didn't know what to expect. Was it a litany of the wrongs she had done as a child that had caused her family to give her up? Had another, younger child caused her to drop from favor? Had she been implicated in the death of a family member—perhaps of her own mother? A million reasons for—all the reasons she had come up with during her lonely childhood—flitted through her mind as she stared down at the distinctively small handwriting of her mother. She dreaded the truth. She didn't want to find out just what kind of problem she had caused or face the grim reality of her true nature. Heart pounding and teeth clenched, she refolded the paper and gave it back to a shocked Bea Jacoby.

  "You aren't going to read it?"

  Rose shook her head, holding back tears, then scrambled to her feet.

  "But, Rose, you must!"

  "I can't." She opened the door. "I—I don't know what to think right now, Bea. I have to be alone!"

  "But, Rose...!"

  Rose could hear Bea close the box and push back the chair as she hurried after her. "You must come away from Brierwood this very night, Rose!"

  "I can't! I've got to sort this through!"

  "No, Rose, I beg you!"

  Rose blocked out the sound of Bea's pleas and plunged across the floor, her footsteps echoing off the walls and ceiling of the huge chamber to create the illusion that a flurry of maidens ran with her. Edgar swooped down to her, flying alongside as Rose ran out of the ballroom and out to the hall. She had to be alone. She had to get out of the house. Frantic and desperate, she ran down the stairs, careened through the hall to the rear of the mansion, flung open the back door and stopped in her tracks. The garden was draped in shadow. The only object she could make out clearly was the gnomon of the sundial gleaming in the moonlight. Her childhood fear of the dark loomed up in an even blacker shadow, forcing her back, making her return to the gloomy rooms of Brierwood.

  With a sob, Rose shut the door and leaned on it, so upset that she felt as if she would jump out of her skin. Where could she go so no one could find her? If one more person told her she was someone other than Rose Quennel, made her question everything she had ever been told, or accused her of doing things of which she was totally innocent, she would absolutely burst.

  "Oh, Edgar!" she cried, overwrought.

  He cocked his head and cawed, and then took off from the hall table. Lacking a better direction, Rose followed him. He flapped upward, through a wing of the house the Jacobys had closed years ago. Rose hurried through the quiet house, ignoring the dust and cobwebs and the sheet-covered furniture. Edgar glided to stop at the door of a room Rose had never been in before and cocked his head again, giving her a meaningful stare.

  Rose opened the door and passed into a huge bedchamber, which she surmised had been a master bedroom at one time. The bed was hung with emerald-colored velvet and huge golden cords with tassels. The rest of the furniture was draped in sheets. Edgar hopped over the thick green carpet until he reached French doors that led to a balcony. Rose followed, and noticed a silver brush-and-comb set lying on the dressing table, monogrammed in a filigreed JC. Julia Curtis, the long-dead mistress of Brierwood, had inhabited this room.

  Quietly Rose opened the French doors to allow Edgar to go outside. He sailed to the banister of the balcony. Rose ventured out a few steps and looked at the starlit landscape below. The bedroom was located at the front of the house, with a view of the drive, the front entry gate and a dense wood that ran all the way to the shores of Lake Washington. The moon sprinkled glitter over the lake far away, and the stillness of the scene afforded a calm that was full of serenity, completely different from the solemn hush of Brierwood.

  Rose leaned against the banister and breathed deeply, feeling the serenity settle into her.

  "Thank you, Edgar," she whispered.

  She stayed on the balcony, and when she felt more like her usual calm self, she found an old wicker chair and sank into it. She thought through all that Bea had told her. But her restless sleep of the previous night, coupled with the heat of the summer evening, made her drowsy. Before she knew it, she was leaning her heavy head on the palm of her hand. Soon afterward she drifted off to sleep, sinking onto the crook of her arm.

  Muc
h later, she felt a light touch on her shoulder.

  "Roselyn, Roselyn," a voice crooned in her ear. "Beautiful Roselyn."

  Go away. I'm tired.

  Smooth, warm hands caressed her bare shoulders, spreading a strange heat through her chest, and warm breath fanned the side of her face. She tried to pull away but seemed paralyzed with lassitude.

  "I have a question or two for you, my dear."

  Don't touch me, Mr. Wolfe.

  "Just a few questions and then you can rest."

  I'm too tired. Go away.

  "Roselyn, see the candle at the end of the corridor? I want you to go toward the light."

  I don't want to go back there again.

  "You don't want to learn the truth?" Warm hands slid around her torso and brushed the undersides of both breasts. Rose felt herself rise up slowly in the chair, her breasts tingling and aching. She shouldn't allow herself to feel pleasure at the hands of the scarred stranger who had come to Brierwood.

  No…

  "Once you learn the truth, we can be together. Then I will show you the glory of being touched by a man. Really touched, Roselyn."

  Mr. Wol-

  "Don't fight me, Roselyn. I'm here to help you. But you have to see these truths for what they are."

  I don't want to go back, I don't want you to touch—

  Now the hands were caressing her, kneading her in a way she had never known before. She could hardly breathe, could barely form a coherent thought. She should resist, push him away, and flee.

  No—

  "You see the light, Roselyn. I know you do. Walk toward it, my beauty. Keep walking, keep walking. Only this time, don't go back as far as you did the last time."

  No—

  The light from the Bastyr house faded as five-year-old Rose closed the door behind her and crept down the back steps, hurrying over the dew-laden lawn with a heavy satchel in her right hand. She had no idea where she would go or what she would do, but she could no longer stay in the house, not when everyone yelled all the time and Uncle Enoch kept trying to get in her room at night. The thought of him breaking into her room again to stand there drooling and touching himself made her heart race with fear. Even now her heart banged in her chest. But she wasn't sure if it was the memory of her uncle that struck fear in her or the shifting shadows of the trees bordering the high rock wall that ran along the edge of the Bastyr property.

  Beyond the gate in the wall she could see the narrow lane that led to the main road. The lane sure looked spooky at night. Rose shuddered. She hated being in the dark by herself, especially outside, but if she was going to run away, she had to be brave. Gathering her courage, she opened the heavy iron gate and slipped past it to the lane.

  Once outside the Bastyr grounds, Rose set the suitcase down, rolled her shoulders and picked up the bag with her other hand. She couldn't believe how heavy the suitcase seemed to have gotten. Maybe she shouldn't have packed so many books. Sighing resolutely, she pressed on.

  Where would she go? She hadn't traveled very far from home and wasn't sure where a real town was. In fact, the only times she ever gone anywhere were to church and on Mother's special trips. She never paid much attention to which direction they took on their trips, because mother always had a fascinating activity for her to work at—puzzles, needlework or learning to read. She wished her mother was with her now, but for the last two months Deborah Quennel had spent her days in her room, and no one was allowed to see her until she felt better.

  Mother had told her that Rose would soon be going to school and then she wouldn't be stuck at home all the time, but a year was too long for her to wait. Besides, she didn't want to go to school. She already knew how to read and could recite her multiplication tables all the way up to the twelves. Surely a five-year-old could get a job somewhere as long as she could read and figure. She wouldn't want to be a printer, though. Everyone blamed ink fumes at the printing shop for making Uncle Enoch go crazy. Mother always grew silent when the subject was brought up, as if she didn't believe the others, but Rose was pretty sure they were right.

  Rose walked until the lane curved and the trees blocked the faint glow of the house lights. She paused, her heart still hammering with fear. The night was black—as pitch-black as described in some of her books. She didn't know what pitch was, exactly, but it couldn't be much darker than the gloominess ahead.

  Rose held a knuckle to her mouth and blinked. Her mother had told her there were no such things as monsters, but she had never believed it. Adults didn't know everything. And what if they were wrong? What if they just hadn't seen a monster before? One could jump out of the bushes on the other side of the road and gobble her up before she could scream. Even if she did scream, no one would have time to run out and save her.

  Suddenly Rose found she couldn't move. She was too frightened to take another step. If she took her eyes off the far side of the road for just one second, she would give a monster enough time to leap out and get her.

  She stood in the road, staring at the blackness until her eyeballs ached, until her hair felt wet with sweat and fear.

  Then the screech of a catfight ripped through the silence. Rose shrieked, jumped into the air and dashed for the house, pumping her short limbs as hard as she could. She ran and ran, afraid to look back, afraid she would see a hideous monster nipping at her heels. Panting raggedly, she careened toward the gate, thankful that she had left it ajar. Just as she gained the gate, however, she heard it slam shut and saw a tall dark shape materialize on the other side.

  "Roselyn!" a stern voice called from the shadows.

  She ground to a stop, recognizing the deep, dreaded tone.

  "No-o-o!" Rose screamed on the balcony, flailing her arms. She had to wake up, had to stop the dream. "No-o- o!"

  "Rose! Rose!" Taylor's voice rang out.

  Hands reached for her. She fought them off and scrambled to her feet, jerking back to consciousness. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw movement out of the corner of her eye as a black figure slid out of her range of vision. She whirled around to follow the vision but saw nothing other than the edge of the balcony and the fingers of ivy crawling up the side of the house. No one could have possibly disappeared so quickly without jumping over the balcony, and to jump from such a height would mean certain death.

  She whirled back around, convinced that Taylor was the one who had been touching her. His hands had caressed her shoulders and stroked her breasts, and she had enjoyed the sensation. A deep sense of shame washed over her at her base reaction to him. What kind of woman would let a stranger do that to her and then actually enjoy it? Outraged at Taylor and herself, she raised her hand and slapped him soundly on the face.

  For an instant they stared at each other—Rose with her hand still raised and Taylor with his palm to his cheek—and for an instant she thought she had just made a terrible mistake in striking him. Then Rose tried to dash away, but he caught her elbow. He wrenched her back to face him, holding her arm so high that he nearly pulled her off her feet. In the darkness, his eyes blazed at her.

  "What in the hell was that for?" he demanded.

  "Let me go!"

  "What's the matter with you! Are you hallucinating or something?"

  "You monster! Let me go!" she tried to yank her arm free, but he held her tightly. She raised her other arm to pummel him into releasing her, but he caught her forearm in midair and pinned both arms to his chest, trapping her between his body and the railing of the balcony.

  She froze, highly aware of the great drop behind her, while he stepped closer until each hard plane of his lower body pressed into her soft curves. Up close, he seemed even more magnificently built than he had appeared that morning with the towel draped around his shoulders. And the intimate posture of his hips against hers sent a flush creeping up her neck.

  "Bad dream, Brier Rose?" he growled, tightening her grip on her wrists.

  "It was no dream!" she retorted, glancing up at him, outraged. His face was much too ne
ar, his mouth far too close for comfort. She struggled, but he only stepped closer, impressing his male flesh against her. To her alarm, she noticed he was becoming aroused. Frantic, she arched backward in an attempt to distance herself from the powerful plane of his torso, but she only managed to present her breasts to him. He looked down at her, and she flushed anew with shame and helplessness. "Let me go!"

  "Not until you tell me what's going on.”

  “Creep!”

  “Why did you hit me?"

  "Because," she retorted, "you crept up on me when I was sleeping and touched me."

  "I didn't touch you."

  "You did so. In places you had no business touching."

  "The hell I did." His grip eased, but he didn't let her go. "Why are you up here anyway?"

  ''Why are you?"

  "I heard you shouting and came up to investigate."

  "A likely story, Mr. Wolfe."

  "You were ranting and raving out here. You were having a nightmare."

  "Nightmare, hah!"

  "Probably from a bad batch of that herbal tea of yours."

  Rose glared at him. Was he trying to be funny? She was in no mood for humor. Not in the least. But he obviously wasn't going to release her until she quieted down. She tried but failed to break eye contact—disturbed by the way his eyes had changed from impersonal black to an intimate brown full of warmth and dancing lights. Even his posture had changed. He still pressed against her, but the pressure had gone from rigid strength to a languid weight that created an unfamiliar tightening between her legs. The sensation soon blossomed to an intense throb. She felt as if she would melt from the inside out if she allowed Taylor to go on pressing against her.

  She knew she should pull away, but the sensation drugged her. She seemed to have no self-control when it came to this man. How could she react this way to him? She hardly knew him. He had insulted her, had dismissed her with a wave of his hand, and had taken such liberties with her that she should be slapping his face again, not succumbing to the touch of his body. She had to get away from him, had to sort through the flood of emotions he unleashed inside her. Rose forced herself to relax, knowing the only way to free herself was to trick him into thinking she was calm. She closed her eyes, willing her breathing to slow, even though she was highly conscious of Taylor's own uneven breathing.