by Lisa Greer
“Wonderful. And I made sure everything was stocked for her as well, so anything we need is here, or we can certainly get it,” Carla said, shifting slightly from side to side with the baby. “Has she been napping long?”
“Just for a bit. She will probably sleep for another hour or so.”
“I’ll just put her down, then. I’ll be right in here with her or right next door in my room. It adjoins the nursery.” Carla said, putting the baby gently in the crib and covering her with a warm blanket to her torso.
“Thank you,” Sophie said, feeling a bit awkward. She wasn’t used to having someone there whose sole job was to care for her child.
“If you need anything, you can pop in any time. I’ll take her off your hands as you want me to. I can also check on her and do feedings at night if and when you’d like,” Carla said as she began to put away the supplies in the diaper bag.
“Oh, yes. I’ll let you know about that,” Sophie said. “I’ll check on her later.”
“Your room is just on the other side of this one,” Carla said with a slight smile. She was like a Sphinx—pleasant, but unreadable.
Sophie wasn’t sure if she liked her or not. Carla Roche was lovely but cold somehow.
“Of course. I’ll head there now. Thank you.” Sophie left the nursery and walked tentatively to her bedroom. She opened the door and let out a tiny gasp. The room was painted in a blood red, dark maroon, and the cherry wood furniture only highlighted the hue. The carpet was a dark gray color, lending a somber tone to the room overall. But the most striking element of the furnishings were the roses everywhere in the room in vases of various sizes on every possible surface—all hues of them in white, crimson, yellow, peach, pink, and red tipped.
She wondered who had decorated the room. Could it have been John? Somehow, Sophie hoped not. It was somehow too much—strange, overdone, and disturbing. She determined to ask him later if he had ordered it to be decorated this way. This was obviously the room she would sleep in until they were married. Sophie hoped that the master bedroom was more to her liking. Even masculine colors and themes would be preferable to the blood red hue of this room.
Sophie took off her shoes with a sigh and turned down the bed. She was so tired, as if she had traveled for days and not just since this morning. She had been getting little sleep, though, in the past month and a half since she had made her decision to marry John Granger. Though she was certain it was the right one, such a momentous choice still made it hard to rest at night.
She quickly set a bedside alarm for an hour later, so she would have time to dress for dinner. The house ate formally in the dining room most nights unless it was decided otherwise, she had been told by John. The thought sent butterflies teeming through her stomach. Almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, she was oblivious to the world.
The next thing she knew, the scent of roses pervaded the room, and someone was singing softly—a haunting ballad she didn’t recognize:
"O what is the matter?" Lord Lover, said he,
"O what is the matter?" said he.
"Lord, a lady is dead," an old lady said,
"And her name was Lady Nancy."
He ordered her grave to be opened wide,
Her shroud to be torn down,
And there he kissed her cold pale lips,
Till the tears came trinkling down.
Lady Nancy was buried in the cold church ground.
Lord Lover was buried close by her;
And out of her bosom there grew a rose,
And out of Lord Lover's a briar.
As the song went on, the woman’s voice young and tremulous, the scent of roses grew heavy and cloying, then rancid. A great feeling of sadness swept over Sophie—an overwhelming sense of loss.
The voice faded, along with the shadow of a woman, standing beyond her vision in the corner of the room. Sophie woke up with a start.
“It was just a dream,” she whispered. But how strange it had been! The scent of roses in her room was no longer sweet. It gagged her as a cloying odor. As for the woman, it was as if she had been in the room, but Sophie knew that was impossible. There was no one there with her, and no one had been. It was only a dream—or a nightmare.
She shrugged the dream off as the nerves of being in a new place and yawned, stretching. The nap had done little good. She felt as if she hadn’t slept at all, likely due to the troubling nightmare. Just then, her alarm went off, startling her. Sophie shut it off with a slam of her hand down on the button.
* * * *
“The roses in my bedroom are lovely,” Sophie said to John at dinner, watching his response.
He sat across from her, wearing a chocolate brown sweater and slacks. The color suited him and brought out the amber in his eyes. “Oh?”
“You didn’t have them put there?” She asked and took a drink of tea.
“No, I’m sorry to say I didn’t. That is, if you like them.” He looked distracted as he took a bite of lamb.
“I do, I think. They are a bit overwhelming. There are so many of them.” She laughed lightly.
He frowned. “I’m not sure who had them put in. Perhaps it was Mrs. Garson, the housekeeper.”
“Perhaps,” Sophie said. “It’s a nice touch.”
“I’m glad you like them.” He smiled. “That green dress suits you. It brings out the emerald of your eyes,” John said, gazing at her thoughtfully.
“Oh, thank you.” She already knew it, and that was why she’d worn the dress.
“I’m only telling the truth,” he said. “I hate to say it, but I have business I must attend to tonight. I lost most of today, and we have some major issues going on at work.”
“Oh, yes,” Sophie answered stupidly. She felt bereft for a moment, but hadn’t she spent months of nights alone now or with only Maya for company? Sophie was used to it. An engagement and marriage of convenience likely would change little.
“Does that upset you?” John asked, watching her face. “You won’t be along here.”
“No, of course not. I can find plenty to occupy myself with—unpacking my things for one and checking on Maya.”
“Oh, one other thing. My father is too ill to join us for dinners these days, but he will want to meet you shortly.” John finished his glass of wine.
“I see.” Sophie felt a frisson of nerves at the thought. She wondered if she would meet the expectations for the wife that the man had envisioned for his heir.
“I think it will go best if you meet him alone—without me.”
“Are you certain?” Sophie said, gripping her fork tightly.
“I am. He’s cantankerous, but he’s always disarmed by a lovely woman.” John winked.
“That’s...reassuring, I guess. Well, lead the way, then.” She took a deep breath, willing herself to meet yet another person, and this one, a man who held sway over the rest of her life by the stroke of a pen.
* * * *
They stood outside the patriarch’s door on the third floor. “There’s an elevator just over here—installed for my father a few years ago. It goes to all floors, and you are welcome to use it if you should ever need to or want to,” John said.
“Oh, I’m sure that’s helpful for him and thank you,” Sophie said, wishing fervently that she weren’t facing the old man alone.
“I’ll see you before bed if I might come by your room to tell you goodnight later on,” John said.
“Of course.” Sophie’s heart thumped an extra beat at the thought.
“It will be by 10:30,” he said and touched her cheek before turning away. “I’m a night owl, unfortunately, and that’s the earliest I can force myself into bed.” He chuckled. “Good luck with dear old dad. Just be yourself. He’s expecting you, and he’ll love you.” John gave her a solemn look that made her question his words.
Sophie gulped and squared her shoulders as she pushed the bedroom door open.
Chapter Four
“Who is it?” The old man in the bed asked i
n a loud voice.
“I’m Sophie Banister —your son John’s fiance.” Sophie walked slowly into the room, her legs shaky. She felt like a nervous schoolgirl before a harsh headmaster.
“Ah, yes. I’ve been waiting for you.” He took a deep, rasping breath. “Well, come closer, girl. He finally found himself a woman and from the big city of Chicago at that. I’m Thaddeus Granger.” He motioned toward her with a wizened hand. He was a shriveled figure, but his eyes blazed even from a distance.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Sophie said, sitting in a bedside chair. The room was dark with plaid print at the predominant décor. The shades were drawn, and a bedside lamp threw the only weak light over the scene.
“My John found himself an Irish lass, I see.” Thaddeus Granger laughed with gusto, studying her.
“I am half Irish, sir,” she said, feeling like a thoroughbred horse he was sizing up.
“Good. Good! We are as well. Scottish the rest of the way, of course.” He winked. “And how do you like it here so far?”
“The house is lovely, and South Dakota is cold but lovely. It’s my first time here,” Sophie said.
“A good description.” Thaddeus Granger coughed for a moment. “Excuse me. I’m poorly, as you know.”
At that moment, a knock sounded on the door.
“Who is it? I’m busy.” The words were a deep growl.
“Carla, sir.”
His tone softened. “Come in, then.”
The girl walked in without a sound. She was even more lovely than when Sophie had first seen her. She was wearing her hair down now, and she had a touch of blush and lipstick on. “How are you feeling? Is there anything I can get you before bed, Mr. Granger?”
The old man smiled, a twinkle in his eye. “Alas, no. Nothing that would be proper at the moment, dear.”
Sophie felt a blush start at her chest. Was he flirting with Carla? Why was she here? She was the nanny, but perhaps she also had a role in caring for the old man.
“Alright. Would you like me to check in on you later?” She stepped closer to the bed.
“Yes, that would be nice,” Thaddeus said, a lecherous smile on his face.
Sophie suppressed a shudder. The whole interaction was very strange. The man was old enough to be Carla’s grandfather. He had to be in his early 60s and must have fathered his sons in his thirties.
Carla nodded and left as silently as she had come.
“She’s helpful, that one,” Thaddeus said with a short laugh.
“That’s wonderful,” Sophie said, not knowing what to say.
His tone changed then. “You watch your step, girl. Snakes move about here, and you can’t tell who they are. I don’t even know,” the old man, eyes going wide. “Even she walks these halls nights now. She’s in my dreams. She won’t leave me alone.” He whimpered.
“Sir, who? How can I help you?” He was obviously distressed, and Sophie didn’t know what to do.
“No one can help me now,” Granger said and wailed like one of the damned. “I’ve seen the reaper. He stands at my bedside most nights now after everyone else is sleeping.” The keening continued.
Sophie’s skin shriveled at the horrid sound. She stood, wringing her hands, looking on the bedside table for something to calm the old man.
Carla appeared at her side with her usual silence, and Sophie jumped. “I’ll take care of him.”
Sophie nodded and hurried out of the bedroom. She opened the door and ran right into a man.
“Oof. Watch where you’re going. Who are you?” A man glowered at her.
He’d stepped on her toe, and she was sure she had wounded him, too. She had been looking at the floor, in a hurry to escape the mad, frightening scene with her future father in law.
She looked up, stepping away. “I’m Sophie Banister, John’s fiance.”
“Oh, of course you are.” The man gave her a nasty smile. “I’m Evan Granger, his little brother. I’m sure he’s at least mentioned me. That’s probably all he’s done.”
“Oh, yes, he has. I’m sorry for—”
“You were in a hurry. It’s understandable you were trying to get away from the mad old man in there. He is crazier by the day.” Evan sighed. “He’s still gibbering on.”
They could hear him outside the closed door and Carla’s softer tones.
“Maybe Carla can work her magic on him,” Evan said, smirking. His expression seemed to be stuck that way. His full mouth was slightly quirked, but no woman would miss that he was a Granger—dark, shorter hair than his brother, lighter hazel eyes, and a more compact build. He was a handsome, cynical devil—wiry where his brother was lithe—and meaner looking somehow.
“It was nice meeting you. I’ll just be going now,” Sophie said.
“Don’t be a stranger. We’ll be family soon enough,” Evan said, laughing softly.
She ignored the comment and hurried down the hall.
* * * *
Sophie made her way to the nursery. Her pulse had slowed now, and she felt a bit foolish for her panicky reaction to the scene in Mr. Granger’s bedroom. He was an old, dying man. Such things happened when death was near. But she remembering his words about a woman who wouldn’t leave him alone—and her dream. She brushed it off as she opened the nursery door. All was quiet.
The clock struck 8:00, and she nearly jumped out of her skin, clapping a hand over her mouth so as not to wake Maya. The baby slept sweetly in her crib, dark hair damp and a smile on her face. She was in a night time one piece, snug and calm.
Sophie ached to hold her, but she wouldn’t disturb her sleep. Perhaps she would tell Carla she wanted to do the middle of the night feeding. The baby had dropped to just one in the wee hours of the morning at ten weeks old. She left the nursery, reassured that all was well with her child. They were safe and warm, not fighting for food or the next month’s rent. How could she ask for more?
* * * *
Sophie decided to explore the house a bit. John hadn’t told her she couldn’t, and her nap earlier had made her restless. It was too early to sleep, and she wanted to see him when he came by her room later.
After changing into comfortable blue jeans and her least ratty sweatshirt and fuzzy socks, she descended the stairs to the first floor. The house was quiet now. Carla must have settled the old man down. After poking her head into a few rooms, Sophie found the library. It was impressive, with red leather bound editions of most of the classics, wall to wall and many other books, including well worn paperbacks. The Grangers obviously weren’t just collectors but also readers. Books had long been Sophie’s best friends, and never more so than in the previous few months. Many nights were spent reading herself to sleep, trying to forget her troubles.
A cozy fire roared in the fireplace, and a welcoming green brocade couch and matching love seat beckoned her in the center of the room. Sophie perused the shelves for a few moments and found an early edition of Dickens’ A Tale of Two Cities—an old favorite. A decanter of sherry caught her eye on the end table near the couch. She poured a generous amount of the red liquid into a crystal cut glass.
She swallowed and closed her eyes, sighing as she burrowed into the couch with the book. Sophie was lost in Dickens’ world and had forgotten her own troubles soon enough. Her eyes were growing heavy when a shadow fell over her.
She turned, startled.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” John said. “Pour me a drink, too?” He smiled.
“Certainly.” She poured a generous amount of sherry in a glass for him.
He took it and sat on the couch a comfortable distance from her. “Am I interrupting your reading? You look comfortable.”
“No, of course not. I was just trying to shut my mind off for the night. I often read before bed or in the evenings.” Sophie put the book down on the end table.
“It’s a good habit. I don’t read often enough—at least not anything other than business reports and stock tips.” He sighed. “I heard you had some
excitement earlier and that you ran into Evan.” He raised one dark eyebrow.
“Yes to both.” Sophie curled her feet beneath her on the couch.
“My father is often troubled these days—afternoons and evenings, mostly. That’s when it’s the worst.” John grimaced, swallowing a generous sip of sherry.
“I understand that’s common with ill health,” Sophie said. She didn’t want to say impending death, but she was thinking it.
“It is, but it’s still upsetting or at least annoying.” John sounded more annoyed, she noticed.
“Of course.” She waited a long beat for him to speak again. He seemed to have a lot on his mind.
“And Evan. What did you think of him?” John asked, a tight smile on his face.
“He was friendly enough.” She didn’t want to say anything ill of his brother. Sophie actually hadn’t found him polite or friendly at all, but there was no reason to stir up trouble between the two of them. Once he was the owner of Haven House, perhaps his brother would be moving out anyway. It was surprising to her that both brothers still lived with their father, even though the house was large enough for a family of twenty. It was an old fashioned thing to do, even for the wealthy, at least in America.
“I doubt it, but it’s nice of you to say so.” John grimaced. “He’s not so bad once he warms up to you, but Evan has more of our father’s personality.”
“And your mother?” Sophie asked. She realized he hadn’t mentioned her.
John frowned. “She died when we were very young—just boys. I remember less of her every year, it seems. I can still hear her voice in my head some days, but her face, I can’t seem to conjure it up anymore.” His voice shook.
“I don’t mean to upset you,” Sophie said, touching his arm.
“You’re not. It was a difficult year. I had polio as a young child, and she died at the end of the year.”
“I see. I can’t imagine how hard that must have been for you.” The polio explained his limp and the cane.
“It was, and my father didn’t make it easier. He and my mother fought bitterly over a mistress he had. God knows what happened to that woman.” John laughed bitterly.
