Rose by Another Name (The Blythe Series Book 1)

by Melanie Thurlow

  However, the truth rarely settled well, and so she didn’t revel in disclosing it.

  Which was why, it was only after over two hours—after Robert had removed himself and returned to the house—that Rose lowered herself, climbing down from the tree that may have protected her from view but certainly hadn’t protected her from the plump raindrops that fell from the heavens as if they were a punishment.

  In Rose’s defense, she had not planned to stay outside for so long. Truthfully, when she had snuck out of the house that morning, she didn’t have a definite timeline for precisely how long she planned on avoiding the party and the guests, but she supposed that she would have returned when the rain started to fall. If she’d had the opportunity, she would have.

  However, she couldn’t convince herself to come down out of that tree when Robert was right there, so obviously waiting for her. What would he say? After everything. After deceiving him. And then hiding in a tree while he’d soaked himself waiting for her. If she feared his fury before, she feared it more so now.

  She stood for long minutes, shaking in the April shower, beneath that tree, upon the very ground that Robert had just stood. There was no logical reason why not to run to the house. Yet, something inside her held her back, rooted her to the place where the man she feared she loved had just stood. As though doing so, standing in his footprints, would entwine them on a spiritual level, would reveal to her his thoughts.

  It didn’t. Standing beneath the drooping willow, dripping with the rain, did nothing but make her shiver and sneeze with the cold. However, when she pulled herself out into the open, she didn’t find herself facing the stone façade of her home. She found her footsteps weaving her around the intricate labyrinth on the grounds, searching for the center that was near impossible to find.

  So many things in life were near impossible to find. Too many things.

  And yet, she had found love. In the most unlikely of places. She was in love with her husband-to-be. Or, at least, she had been, and could still be.

  She should be relishing in such a revelation. But instead, she was hidden from sight, twisting herself about the maze of shrubbery, ignoring the biting cold that seemed to have settled into her bones.

  Pain was good. It helped her remember she was alive, that she still had something to fight for.

  Love wasn’t the end. It was just the beginning. Love was the middle of this grand labyrinth, the center that all these paths radiated to and from. It was the beating heart of the world, and she had found it. Against all odds.

  But when Rose approached the hidden entrance to the middle, the center, the heart of the labyrinth, to her life, a small nondescript door hidden from sight by ivy, she didn’t open it. To do so would be to acknowledge exactly what this door represented—her love. And what if it wasn’t returned? What if this love was futile? She would never survive it.

  She had spent her entire life accepting less than what she deserved. She accepted her mama’s disdain and her papa’s wrath. She had accepted a marriage without love with a man she did not know or believe she would like. She accepted that she would have to sacrifice herself for her sisters so that they would never have to suffer. She had given so much and had never received. Now, not receiving love in return seemed the most abominable of fates.

  How could she live without Robert’s love?

  Rose closed her eyes against the onslaught of tears that overwhelmed.

  She couldn’t cry. If she was fated to not have her love returned, then she would have to be strong. Crying never made a situation better—it only made it that much harder to endure.

  So she turned her back on the door to her future.

  The center of the elaborate labyrinth did not hold all the answers to her destiny. Robert did. And she would not give him such power as to destroy her.

  Chapter 18

  When Rose finally returned to the house, she did so in clothes that were more wet than dry, and with skirts that seemed to triple in weight.

  Rose couldn’t be sure of the hour—she couldn’t be sure of a lot of things. For instance, why she was entering the abbey through the main door, instead of going through the servant’s entrance where her current state of disarray would go unnoticed—at least, by the myriad of guests. But to her surprise, and relief, she found the lobby thoroughly empty.

  Hitching the skirts of her dress up over her ankles, Rose took the steps up the grand staircase by two. She was so intent upon her feet, making sure that each one met firmly with a step, that she forgot to watch where she was going. Which was why, when she stepped off onto the second floor landing, already mentally approaching the steps that would lead her to the third floor, and ultimately her room, scurrying quick as a mouse being chased by a cat, she slammed right into the hard chest of none other than…

  There was no time for her to gasp her surprise at this sudden apparition. Although, how suddenly he had come to fruition Rose would not know as she had not been looking.

  Damn. That’s the word Rose would have uttered had she the opportunity.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, the force from stopping so abruptly, having run into what could only be described as a very solid wall, sent her ricocheting backwards.

  Her stomach launched itself into her throat as her feet lost footing. She threw out her arms instinctively to catch herself, but they met with nothing but air.

  Her head flipped back, her body stiffening, preparing for the blow, the fall, her death. For how could she fall down an entire flight of stone stairs—even if they were covered in carpet—and not die?

  It was just as well, she thought rather unceremoniously. At least she would have a spectacle of a death, go down in a grand fashion. Except that, as much as she would have preferred death to a life of misery, a life without love, she still couldn’t actually wish herself dead. She couldn’t stare death in the face—or down the staircase—and not be consumed with anything but fear.

  Besides, the outlook of spending her life with Lord Brighton was evolving, slowly, from a life of sure misery to a life that held the possibility of happiness, of love.

  Rose felt the shriek expel from her lips more than she heard it. It should have been nearly deafening in its power, but her tongue seemed to triple, her throat closed up—since it was, after all, housing her stomach, this was no great surprise—and her lungs… Well, she wasn’t entirely certain that she had lungs anymore, and the sound seemed trapped inside of her. It was a silent, guttural cry that rattled the aching bones in her bruised chest.

  She saw a footman running at breakneck speed up the staircase toward her in an attempt to stop the inevitable. But he was too far away and by the time he’d reach her she’d have already fallen down half the flight.

  Rose looked up at the intricate carvings on the elaborate ceiling far above and then finally closed her eyes in anticipation as time seemed to slow, allowing for her to relish in the moment of her death, to drink it in, make sure that the fear of God was firmly in her before she ultimately snapped her neck and the life went out of her eyes.

  But Rose did not fall.

  It all happened so quickly that she was not entirely certain that it had happened at all.

  In one moment, she was falling, her death imminent. The next, the footman had stopped in his approach as Rose felt an arm slide around her waist. She had nearly forgotten the reason—the somebody—who had caused this chain of events to occur. She whipped her head back around to face him, forcing her eyes open.

  It was Robert.

  Of course it was Robert.

  He was always saving her it seemed. It would have been poetic if it weren’t so tragic.

  It all happened in a second, a mere instant.

  Rose crashing into his chest and then careening backwards like a flailing bird.

  Robert lunging after her, grabbing her by the waist and pulling her back to him.

  But now the two were off balance, and instead of a valiant rescue of a damsel in distress tha
t ended with the two entwined in each other’s arms, their eyes locked together, love blooming in the nonexistent space between them, it ended with the pair toppling to the carpeted floor at the top of the stairs, Rose being crushed under the full weight of him.

  It was only then, when the danger of them toppling down the stairs was averted, that the footman resumed his advanced up the stairs.

  Rose was too shocked to do anything but lie there for a moment, her eyes bulging out of her sockets like a caricature, gasping for breath that would not come, beneath Robert.

  The pain was unbearable. More than she ever imagined she could endure. More than she thought anyone could endure. This was tenfold what it had been days earlier when her papa’s boots rained down on her, or the day before when she was squeezed into her evening gown. This was by far the worst pain she had ever felt.

  As Robert extricated himself from atop her, the pain did not subside. Not even in the slightest.

  She was shaking, growing ever more fearful when still no air made its way into her hungry lungs.

  She was going to die. Robert had saved her, again, but it wasn’t enough to stop her death. She seemed destined to die and she didn’t want to. She wanted to live.

  She needed to live.

  She had barely lived yet; she couldn’t die now. Not now that she had finally found what she had been looking for.

  Rose had been worried—beyond that. She’d been afraid beyond reason about Robert’s reaction to her identity. And now, looking up into his crystal eyes that had turned nearly black from dilation, she knew that her fear was unfounded. He was just as scared as she. She could see the concern in his eyes, his face, could hear it in his words.

  She had found what she was looking for. She had found him.

  “Rose, you’re okay,” Robert said, his hands finding her shoulders. “You’re okay. Just breathe. Stay calm and breathe.”

  She really tried to do as he asked, but the pain was excruciating. It was like every nerve ending in her body had been set aflame, only worse. She tried to listen, tried to do as he said, tried to stay calm and just breathe. But she couldn’t. It hurt too much.

  She wasn’t just shaking now. This wasn’t a mere shiver. It was a convulsion as she struggled for air.

  Then his hands were sliding out of his gloves and were cupping her face, his warm skin against the cold flesh of her cheeks, growing colder every second she remained without oxygen.

  “Just look at me. Look at me, Rose. You’re going to be alright. I’ve got you. Just look at me. Breathe,” he whispered intently, his nose mere inches from hers.

  And then a miracle happened. The tiniest exhale passed through Rose’s lips, followed by an equally miniscule inhale.

  Robert smiled, his eyes nearly swimming with tears, relief flooding his face. “Good,” he choked, letting go of his own breath that he’d kept held.

  “I’m going to help you sit up,” he murmured after a moment, but Rose could not hear him. She was staring deep into the depths of his eyes, too busy swimming in his soul to concentrate on the words he spoke.

  As she sat, as realization dawned, she couldn’t stop the tremor that shook her body. She found herself being drawn into Robert’s warm embrace, the terror of her traumatizing near death hitting her just as abruptly as the pain in her chest.

  “Rose,” he murmured into her hair. His voice was distorted, sounding like rolling thunder in her ears.

  There was so much she wanted to say, so much she wanted to explain. She wanted to confess her love and beg his forgiveness. But even as her breathing revived itself, she couldn’t find any words. Rose couldn’t speak. All she could do was stare over Robert’s shoulder and down the staircase to the floor below where she had nearly lost her life.

  Robert spoke to the footman, his voice making her head vibrate. Covering her ears with her hands she rocked back and forth within Robert’s embrace, her head butting his shoulder with the motion, until the footman disappeared and one of Robert’s strong hands steadied her, holding her to him.

  With that, she snapped. Tears drowned her vision and there was no holding them back. She couldn’t stop the drowning.

  It was not a moment later that she was in Robert’s arms, being carried, then once again set down upon her bed in a repeat of the evening prior. Only today, she did not lie back and let sleep wash over her like a blanket. No, today she remained sitting, rocking, hugging her arms to her chest, and Robert was there, kneeling at her feet, his hands clutching her knees, whispering to her. Whispering her name, again and again.

  She didn’t know Lord Brighton, but she did feel like she knew Robert, and right then, kneeling before her, he was Robert. And she knew one thing for certain: even if he never loved her back, he would always protect her, and she would always love him.

  How many times had he saved her life within the last four days?

  Despite everything, he still saved her. That meant everything.

  She owed him a great deal more than her life in gratitude towards this man. She owed him more than her love.

  She owed him his freedom.

  Even if he did love her, Rose knew that what he truly wanted most was his freedom, the freedom to choose for himself. And if she were a better person, she would give it to him.

  But she wasn’t a better person. She wasn’t selfish, but she certainly wasn’t acting selflessly. Robert had given her everything—he had given her back her life. She owed him everything. Yet, his freedom was the one thing she could not give. Because, what if he didn’t choose her? What if she gave him the choice to leave and he took it?

  She couldn’t risk it. She needed to marry him to protect her sisters, to secure their futures to better men than her father.

  It hurt, nearly as much as her hopelessly crushed ribs.

  It hurt not to give him the one thing he deserved. Not to give back his land and his life, and let him choose what to make of it.

  It hurt.

  It felt like her heart had been smashed in the fall, but the pain was not contained to just to that organ. It made everything hurt. Especially her thoughts.

  Things couldn’t stay the way they were or she would perish of the pain. She dragged her eyes from where they were fixed over Robert’s shoulder, and back to the man himself. He was so unexpectedly close that it took a moment for her eyes to adjust to his proximity, causing her body to sway of its own volition.

  Robert’s hands tightened on her knees, steadying her.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose whispered painfully, closing her eyes. Robert’s were so clear and so blue that, in that moment, they were impossible to look at. It was like staring straight into the sun. Blinding.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, the tears coming once again, unbidden.

  How had she made such a hash of everything?

  After spending her entire life following the rules, walking a straight line, how had everything suddenly gone so crooked?

  How many times had she nearly died this week? And it was all because of her own stupidity.

  She hadn’t wanted to marry Lord Brighton, but she had always known that she would. What she hadn’t expected was to actually like him, and here she was in love with the man.

  Even if he didn’t look the way he did, even if he truly was nothing more than a stable hand, she would still love him. What she didn’t understand was why that frightened her so. He clearly cared for her. Or at least it seemed he did, now, in this moment.

  If she had known that this was the man she was to marry, that he would be so kind, that he would have such care as to save her life literally every day, she wouldn’t have been running the way she had. She wouldn’t have run at all.

  True, she hadn’t run away—not really—but she was running. She’d ran from the house, desperate to escape the dreaded reality to come.

  Dreaded no more.

  Because reality was a future. But not with Lord Brighton, the memory of the boy he had been and the fears of the man he’d become. Reality was a li
fe with Robert, the man of her dreams, the man of her heart. He was everything.

  Rose found that scared her more than anything.

  If she had known this before, she wouldn’t have run at all. She would have stood patiently on the terrace with her family and greeted him properly, welcomed him into her home. She would have acted every bit the duchess-to-be in every moment, just as he expected her to be. She would have fallen in love with him properly and made him fall in love with her.

  Instead, she had gone and run off, met him in the woods, stolen away with his horse. She had gone and set herself the most horrid of impressions. It would be surprising if anyone wanted to marry her, let alone the man she now fancied herself in love with.

  Even as he looked so clearly at her, his eyes fountains of emotion she could only label love, she couldn’t trust herself, couldn’t trust what she believed she saw in his eyes. And if she couldn’t trust herself, how would he ever be able to?

  He might be concerned for her welfare and save her life, but he could certainly never reciprocate her love, not now, because how could he ever trust her? That realization was what haunted her, was what made loveless misery more desirable than this alternative. She would bear the cracked remains of her heart for all of eternity, the heart which had broken because she had stupidly fallen in love with someone who could never love her back.

  Just like that, her life had turned upside down and everything she knew, all that she expected her life to be, had changed.

  She had never wished for a fairytale or even a happy ending. She had known better than that. But now she couldn’t help but long for both.

  And so, the tears spilled forth, only to be dabbed away by Robert’s fingers, supped away by his lips.

  He cared. Robert cared, but that would be the extent of his affections and Rose knew that she would have to steel herself to that fact, that she would have to accept it as truth or it would tear her apart piece by piece until there was nothing left but the pain.

  “I’m sorry,” Rose said more firmly, clearing her throat of the tightness there and forcing her eyes to dry.