When the Black Roses Grow

by Angela Christina Archer

  “And, what is the worst that could come to pass if we court and marry?”

  “Death, James . . . death is the worst that could happen.”

  He inhaled a deep breath. His eye twitched, and he wrapped his arms around me, drawing me tight into him. We both fell silent, listening to the birds chirping outside the windows with the shared wish they could drown out the words I had just laid upon us. I never desired to speak them, and yet, I needed to, needed to speak the honesty lurking in the shadows of our actions.

  “Will thy take a walk with me?” His voice barely a whisper.

  “But—”

  “I do not mean a walk around the village. No one will see us where we are going.”

  The sincere, loving sparkle in his eyes was difficult to ignore, and although hesitation simmered in my mind, I nodded.

  He gently kissed me, then rose to his feet, offering me his hand. “Shall we?”

  Before my mind wrapped around the concept of leaving, he had slipped on his boots and now waited for me by the door. He cleared his throat as he clasped his hands together and smiled.

  I envied his excitement, desiring to share in it and savor it as much as he did. However, as I slipped my feet into my shoes, my thoughts only twisted in my gut. Solace in my four walls bestowed me with a deep sense of comfort. Comfort that, although I dwelled in sin, the sin was my own knowledge and no one else’s.

  James patiently watched me. He smiled every time I caught his glance as though he sensed the nervousness pulsing through my veins.

  “No one will see us.” Confidence sparkled in his eyes, an oath I clung to with a tight grip. “I promise you.”

  Within minutes, we trekked down a tiny path through the trees. Hand in hand, I followed James as my shoes crunched on dirt and rocks. Every few steps, his fingers squeezed mine, and he glanced over his shoulder to bestow a seductive smile or a playful wink, both of which fluttered in my stomach and amused me.

  The peaceful afternoon sun peaked through the tall forest trees, as birds chirped and jumped from branch to branch. Their wing feathers casted fluttering shadows down upon the forest floor. ‘Twas spring time in New England, a beautiful splendor of bright green that soothed the soul.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  “’Tis a surprise. But, I think you will rather enjoy thyself.”

  “I hath never been this deep into the forest.”

  “How long hath you lived in Salem?”

  “My parents purchased their land and built their home about three months after my birth, I believe.”

  “Must be difficult to live in one place for so long.”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I do not know any place else.”

  “I could not live with that yoke. I desire to see the world, not live a life in one place.”

  “Unfortunately, women are born with one choice—to marry. It is not for me to choose a different life than the one forced upon me.”

  “’Tis such a sorrowful truth.”

  “And, yet, ‘tis still the truth.” I shied away from his gaze, unable to evade the pity that lurked behind the blue hue. I cleared my throat. “Do thou not care for living in Salem?”

  “Salem has been an interesting place to live—different, and yet not. It mirrors other villages and towns we’ve passed through. While intriguing, there is still a level of monotony in Salem I cannot deny.”

  “Monotony?”

  “Church, praying, meals, praying, chores, praying, every day over and over, the same recurring mundane daily life, like a prison one cannot break free.” He inhaled a deep sigh, then exhaled slowly.

  I hid my smile. I understood his grievance all too well. “And, how do you desire to live differently?”

  He reached for my waist to help me through the thick brush. His fingers squeezed as they slid against my cotton dress. An embrace that sent my heart racing as branches of twigs and leaves rustled around us, whipping back and forth, as he held me.

  “I want to live, not just exist.” Fierceness glistened and a wild passion seized his movements, and with his words, he pointed in every direction. “Do you not ever wish to hath freedom in thy life? To explore new places and learn about everything you can learn about?”

  His intensity stirred in my blood, piquing a zest, unfamiliar to me. “I cannot deny the thought after hearing you speak of it. After my mother died I wanted nothing more than to leave Salem, but dreams rarely echo reality, especially when one doth not hath the means.”

  “And, what if you acquired the means? What if the chance to explore and live somewhere else happened upon you? Would you then snatch the opportunity? Or, would you surrender to the mundane?”

  “Are you asking me to leave Salem, Mr. DeKane?” I laughed.

  His hands gripped my waist tighter with a roughness that set my body on fire. His eyes darkened, though not in anger, but in seriousness that stole my breath.

  “Perhaps.” His unexpected answer was nothing more than a bold, quick response, all with a casual, and yet, audacious diplomacy.

  My heart plummeted into my gut. My eyes darted to the ground.

  His honesty toyed with my imagination and a bubbling anxiety rose in my chest. Images of far off lands and the unknown wilderness splendor I had never thought possible, now danced in front of me like a marionette.

  I only needed to grasp it.

  Could I grasp it? Could I leave everything I hath ever known?

  “Why did you choose Salem? To live, I mean, if you do not care for the town, why choose to settle here?” I cleared my throat, trying to distract myself from the thought of leaving my home.

  I cannot think of such an idea at this moment. I simply cannot.

  He smirked at my deflection and as he released my waist, then grabbed my hand to lead me through the trees once more. “We happened along the village one night and decided we had traveled far enough away from Charles Towne that we would be safe.”

  “Thou resided in Charles Towne?”

  “For many, many years, actually.”

  “My father used to tell me stories of Charles Towne. He always said it bustled with life every single day. He loved those stories.”

  “I used to spend every second I could down near the Ashley River harbor watching the vast sea vessels sail in and out, either returning from or departing to some adventure. I use to dream that I would, one day, work on one of those ships, sailing off to distant lands.”

  “My father loved the sea . . . my mother did not.” I laughed.

  “I wanted to explore the world for myself, instead of listening to others speak about what they had seen.” All of the shimmering excitement is his eyes vanished, along with his beaming smile, and he breathed a few deep breaths. “I was determined to see as much of this world as I could. Of course, my plans changed after my parents died.”

  “How did they die?”

  He shook his head as the crease in his brow deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but said nothing, and shook his head again. His pace quickened as he march down the path—an obvious subject he did not wish to broach.

  “My apologies for asking, I did not mean—”

  “I never wish to cast the notion that you cannot ask me any question you desire. I apologize if I did. I suppose ‘tis just difficult to speak of, even after the long years.”

  “I understand if you do not wish to speak of them.”

  “But, I do wish to speak of them with you.” He glanced over his shoulder and squeezed my hand tight in his. “They were hung for their treason. Hung because they chose to protect their children and hide them from the rest of the world.”

  “You mean thy sister?”

  He nodded. “One afternoon, during the fall harvest an Indian tribe attacked. They swept across our land an
d into Charles Towne, murdering anyone who crossed their path. In protecting my sister, I exposed her, our family, and what my parent’s had done.”

  He bit his lip to silence himself. Grief flickered in his eyes again, a deep sense of torture that I empathized. I had witnessed myself the horrifying thoughts in his head—the agony of a loved one dying in front of you, and you, powerless to stop it.

  “I hath not lived a day where I have not wished I could return to that day to change the events that happened. I should not hath forsaken my oath to keep our secret. ‘Twas the only mistake I hath ever made or will ever make.”

  “She is alive, though. You protected her. What would hath happened if you had not done what you did? If they were alive, would she be dead?”

  His brow furrowed, deepening the crease in his forehead. He shrugged his shoulders, but a plaguing doubt tormented him, even years later.

  “I suppose the past is the past, and I can no more change it than anyone. But, I wanted you to know I understand thy sorrow for the loss of thy mother. I know what it feels like when a loved one is stolen from you beyond thy control.”

  He gave me a half smile with a whisper of sadness, then continued to lead me along the path and through the trees.

  His words spoke to the deepest part of my soul. He traveled down the same solitary road of losing someone dear to him, allowing the demon to strike him and hold onto him, chained, as I had allowed mine.

  He understood parts of me that no one else did.

  “We are almost there, just another bit to walk.”

  ELEVEN

  A secluded, breathtaking cabin rested amongst the trees in a quiet corner of the meadow. Vines of ivy grew in all directions along the outside walls, like fingers, they stretched from the ground and spread up the wood to the rafters. Smoke billowed from the chimney and floated through the branches, leaving a lingering haze above the tiny roof.

  “’Tis beautiful here.” My astonishment was not more than whispered breaths as I halted along the trail.

  Bushes of wild flowers and plants outlined a path down to the front door, their soft petals fluttered in the light breeze. Even in the daylight, the umbrella of trees cast shadows down upon the cottage, and candlelight flickered from the few windows.

  Emerged from my dreams, I only believed something as this could exist in my imagination, not in real life.

  “Thank you.”

  “No, James, ‘tis absolutely a beautiful home. How did you find it?”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “We just found it. Logan and I spent a few days working on fixing a few loose boards or broken windows. Logan doth not care for the place, but I like it, and Willow loves it.”

  “Willow?”

  “My sister.”

  “Quite a unique name.”

  “She is quite a unique girl. My parents chose her name—my brother and I did not, but the story of her began with a willow tree, so they named her as just.”

  “Do you know the story?”

  He shook his head, and a spark twinkled in his eyes. “’Twas their secret. Not kept out of malice, but for them to share with one another and no other.”

  He drew my body into his, kissed my forehead, and wrapped his arms around me. The deep breath he sighed blew my curls and tickled my ears.

  “I suppose such is part of the enjoyment,” he whispered. “A husband and wife who share their own language that no one else knows—secrets, hopes, dreams, even desires.”

  Leaving me speechless, his words tickled through my mind. Each one brought life back into deep thoughts of love and a life lived with a husband. Desires and dreams, I buried months ago, casting them aside with the delusion that I did not need them or want them.

  James outstretched his hand, and after I entwined my fingers through his, he led me down the pathway through the flower bushes. Rocks crunched under my feet, a rhythmic tone as I stepped: right, left, right, left. I tugged and twisted my apron with my free hand—a nervous fidget. My heart pounded, my pulse deafened.

  James opened the door, and nodded as his hand gently guided me inside. The scent of boiling stew and baking bread filled the air of the cozy home. Just as perfect on the outside, the inside breathed a flawless sigh.

  Each piece of furniture was carved out of thick wood branches and tree trunks. Some still wore bark in places, while others chiseled down to the bare entrails with the pale sand color and dark brown knots.

  A fire burned in the corner hearth, and a cast iron pot hung over the sparking and crackling flames. Next to the fireplace rested a carving stand and cabinets for the kitchen and a beautiful table with three chairs.

  On the other side of the room, four different chairs perched on thick legs, each with a tiny table at its side, home to a few books and candle holders. They surrounded another fireplace, a quite space for reading or worship in the evening hours before bedtime, and separated from the kitchen by a thin staircase that climbed up to another floor.

  I tiptoed around the room before facing James. “’Tis absolutely breathtaking.”

  “Do thy wish to meet Willow?”

  “Is she well enough?”

  “She was when I left yesterday afternoon.”

  I took his hand and followed him up the staircase. My knees trembled with every step.

  “James?” a weak voice called out as I stepped up the last rung. “Is that you?”

  Over in the corner, Willow lay in a bed with blankets covering most of her delicate and fragile body. Her head rested upon her pillow, and her long white silver curls dangled over the edge of the bed. Her pale skin was as white as snow, and yet darkened around her sunken eyes and gaunt cheeks.

  “Good afternoon, dear sister.” James leaned over and kissed her forehead. “How are thee feeling today?”

  “And, who is this?” She ignored his question and nodded toward me. Her every movement whispered an elegance unmatched by anyone else on this earth. She captivated me with an energy that seemed to light the entire dimmed room. Her utter beauty glowed in an amazing breathtaking way. It drew me into her with a force I could not explain.

  “Emmalynn Hawthorne.” James answered her.

  She stared at me with light blue eyes that as she slightly turned toward me faded into a pale red. No matter the color, they held a wisdom that spoke of an old woman who had seen a lifetime, although she was only eleven years old.

  “’Tis a pleasure to make thy acquaintance, Willow,” I whispered.

  “You are pretty.” A broad grin spread across her lips and she giggled. The sound warmed my soul and drew me toward her.

  Suddenly, her laughter ruptured into a ravaging cough, and James strode to her bedside table to fetch the glass of water collecting condensation that dripped down upon the wood.

  “My apologies,” I said as he helped her sit up ever-so-slightly. “I did not mean to—”

  She shook her head and stuttered in between sips of water and coughs. “’Tis . . . not . . . thy . . . fault.”

  “May I sit?” I motioned toward the foot of her bed and she nodded. “Thank you for the compliment. I think you are pretty, too.”

  She took a few more sips of water and leaned against her pillow as she drew the covers up to her chin. Although beautiful, her hair lay wet and tangled against her forehead—drenched with fever. She closed her eyes, licked her lips, and then sighed. “Not as much as you.”

  Certainly, I disagreed. I could not dream of anyone as striking as the young girl lying in the bed before me.

  “I saw you walking along the road a while ago,” she whispered. “When I took daily strolls with Logan through the forest.”

  “I remember.”

  “I wish Logan and James would allow me outside again. Sadly, they hath forbidden me to leave my bed.” She frowned before glancing a
t James.

  “We only mean to ease thy pain and suffering.”

  “I suffer in this bed.” Her voice rose an octave and another coughing fit threatened as she jerked the blankets.

  “Perhaps, when you feel better, they will allow you to enjoy walks through the forest again.” Although, I knew such would never happen, my only thought, my only concern was to ease the fury in her exhausted eyes.

  “That day I saw you, you were leading a herd of goats. Where were you taking them?”

  “To meet a peddler along the bridge so I could trade them for a cow.”

  “Do you live in Salem?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would like to live in town so I could hath more visitors. Logan and James never allow anyone to visit me.” She scowled at James, who smiled at the growl under her breath.

  “No one visits me, either.” I giggled at my confession. “However, I do not mind.”

  “Why? Are you not lonely at times?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “I suppose at times.”

  “Why are you not married?”

  “Willow.” James lifted his finger as a warning, but his tone held a hint of amusement. “’Tis not thy place to ask such a question.”

  “’Tis all right, James, she may ask any question she likes.” I inched myself a little further onto her bed, brushing the corner of the blanket from my ankle. “I am a widow, my husband passed to Heaven nearly a year ago.”

  “Why hath you not remarried?”

  James inhaled a deep breath, but Willow and I both ignored his unspoken argument.

  “I do not know.”

  The sound of the slamming front door echoed through the downstairs room and up through the stairs. I flinched and rose to my feet as I glanced at James who strode toward the opening in the floor near the staircase.