CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR: Lily White, Rose Red

"Ah! ‘La Belle Sultane’. This is one of my particular favorites.”

Jameson Legard cupped a delicate purple blossom in his hands and proudly showed it off to his companion. Alexandra stifled a weary sigh and responded instead with a dazzling smile. Feigning delight was nothing new to her – she had, after all, been married to John St. Peter, but after the thirtieth varietal it was becoming a challenge.

“The 'Sultane',” Jameson continued, encouraged, “is one of the Gallica roses, which, as you might know, are famous for their rich colors. I myself am partial to it for its fragrance – spicy but not overwhelming…”

Alexandra let his words wash over her. Although the sun had passed its peak it was still quite warm out, and of course Jameson had insisted she wear a hat and bring a parasol to keep off the sun. That it did, but it didn’t make all the damn clothes she was wearing any less stifling.

It was late October back in my own time – why the hell is it the middle of summer here? Oh god, what I wouldn’t give right now for an ice-cold gin and tonic!

But she had accepted Jameson’s invitation for a specific purpose; one that had nothing to do with what was inside his form-fitting breeches. She was burning to get back up to her room and examine more closely the grimoire she’d discovered. Surely the spells it contained could help her get back to her own time! Why had it been hidden? And by whom? She thought she knew the answers to both questions, but before she attempted anything she needed information that she hoped the handsome young man beside her would be able to supply.

“Oh please tell me more, Jameson,” she urged. “You make it all so interesting!”

“Now, many people will tell you that it is impossible to grow roses in Maine, but as you can see, ours are flourishing,” he said earnestly. “Roses seem so fragile, but in actuality they are usually quite sturdy and tenacious growers. Quite…resistant to disease…” His voice faltered and he looked away from her.

Alexandra rested her hand gently on his arm. “You’ve made me see it all in a new light, Jameson. I never knew we had – that the estate had – so many different roses!” She took a deep breath of the fragrant air. “It really is lovely here.”

He turned back to her with a grateful smile. “This is one of the few places where I can find peace from my concerns. It was Augusta’s pride and joy, before she…well, before.” He gazed down at the flower once again, and then back up at her, his eyes full of emotion. “Flowers are so simple. You plant them and care for them, all they need is water and sunshine and good soil, and they repay your love ten-fold in the simple beauty of their being.“

“Sometimes the simplest things are the most beautiful,” said Alexandra.

Jameson moved closer and took her hand. “But you, Alexandra, you are full of contradictions and yet you are the loveliest creature I’ve ever known. You are not like any woman I’ve ever met.”

Nor likely to, sweet boy.

He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it gently, then reached down, plucked one of the roses and offered it to her. “La Belle Sultane pour la belle dame de mystère,” he murmured huskily.

Oh dear. In French, yet. He does have it bad.

“Now, Jameson,” she said lightly, accepting the rose and the compliment. “You know full well there is nothing so very mysterious about me, other than how I managed to lose every scrap of my luggage while traveling here.” She coquettishly tapped him on the chest with the flower. “Might we sit, Jameson? There’s something I have been wanting to ask you.”

“But of course!” he said eagerly. “Perhaps the gazebo? It is shady there, and…private.”

***********************************

From her window, Augusta watched the pair walk arm in arm towards the gazebo. She dug her fingernails deeper into the sill, scratching long grooves along the wood. He took that whore into my garden! The garden I tended and cared for. He gave the harlot a rose and kissed her hand. Oh, yes, I have heard of such women, I have heard much. “My husband. My rose. My garden. Mine,” Augusta hissed. She’d been tired and achy all day and now it felt as though her head would split in two.

She felt a sharp pain and looked down at her hand – she’d cut herself on a splinter. Blood was oozing out of her forefinger and onto the sill. Fascinated by the color, she felt the hurt die away. “Rose red, rose red,” she sang in a high, faltering voice, “my true love’s heart in anguish bled.”

Raising her finger, she daubed three long streaks across the window – one vertical and two horizontal – just the way dear Brigid had shown her. “Dear, dear Brigid who they say is now dead; you lily white and I rose red. You’re not the only one he took to bed...”

Giggling, she leaned in closer, relishing the cool feel of the glass and the coppery smell of her own blood as she pressed her cheek against the window. Her window. The one she’d pleaded and wept for so bitterly that only yesterday Brother had finally relented and ordered the boards removed. At first it was like being reborn, seeing the sun and her beloved rose garden again. She’d hoped that Brother would realize how good she was; he’d see how it would be all right to let her outside again – even for just a little while. She just knew it would have made the voices go away if she could have felt the sun. But then last night the beast had returned, she’d seen it, crying up at her in anger and pain, but no one believed her, and that woman was still here, sneering at her and making cow’s eyes at Jameson, rummaging around in bookcases and desk drawers, scratching about and pulling up secrets secrets secrets…She had to get rid of her, she had to ask Brigid for help, Brigid would know what to do, yes…

Augusta clenched her hands into fists; the thrumming of her blood started to pound in her head again, pounding louder and louder and harder and harder until it felt like it would CRACK-

“Mother of God, Augusta! What have you done?”

Brother’s harsh voice startled her out of her daydream. Augusta turned to him and wondered what had frightened him so. He was staring in horror at her hands and arms. Somehow they’d become covered in red. The windowpane was shattered, and on the floor before her, fragments of glass nestled in drops of blood. They looked, she marveled, just like diamonds strewn upon a blanket of rose petals.

She gazed up at Brother again, thinking to share the image with him, but for some reason his eyes were filled with tears. And then with a great, wracking sob, he fell to his knees beside her.

“Oh God oh God oh God,” he moaned as he rocked back and forth amidst the red drops and the broken glass, destroying the pretty picture she had made and adding his own blood to hers upon the floor.

“Confiteor Deo omnipotenti quia peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo opere et omissione,” he cried. “Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”

“Do not weep, dear Brother,” she said, smiling. “I know how to make everything right again. See?” Augusta cupped her crimsoned hands together and held them out to him. “I brought Brigid a present.”

***********************************

Jameson leaned against the gazebo rail and felt a familiar stirring as he watched Alexandra gracefully settle herself one of the benches. What was it about this woman, he marveled, that made him want to forget his vows, his obligations to that poor, mad creature in the house? Alexandra was so compassionate, so wise, and yet so…worldly. How many nights since she’d arrived had he lain awake in his cold, solitary bed, imagining the two of them…together? Was it only the simple animal fact that he’d been without the comfort of a woman for so long? Augusta, god help her, was really more like a child now, and their marriage…well, they’d not had what one would really call…a marriage for nearly half a year…

“Please sit with me, Jameson,” Alexandra said, patting the bench. “You really are the only one who can help me.”

“I am at your service, dear lady,” he said, swiftly sitting down beside her.

“As you know,” began Alexandra, “I only received the barest information about Brigid’s death. Cousin Roderick is, well, so imposing. I swear, the man frightens me nearly speechless!”

“Ah, I know how difficult he can be – he was always a sensitive man, and within the last year, he’s become even more so.”

“And he’s always so involved in his…religious studies. Obviously the subject of my cousin's death is still painful for him and I've been loath to upset him. But I really must know. You see, I’m afraid there were rumors about my cousin that we heard even in Italy…”

“Rumors? What sort of rumors?”

“There was…talk, let us say, that Brigid dabbled in certain arcane subjects and rituals that some would consider dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” Now he was thoroughly confused.

Alexandra gave a little sigh and seemed to take a moment to collect her thoughts.

“Jameson,” she said in a firm voice, “it was said that she was well-educated in the mysteries of the black arts.”

“You mean…sorcery? Witchcraft?” Alexandra nodded and Jameson burst out laughing. “Good heavens!! What a ridiculous notion! It amazes me that in this day and age there are still some people who insist on believing in such superstitious twaddle. Brigid was a God-fearing, sensible, intelligent woman. She’d have no truck with anything of that sort! Yes, it is true she likely read more than is good for any woman, but she always impressed me with her kindness and gentility. Why, she was the one who arranged the marriage between myself and-” He faltered for a moment and the words died on his lips.

“…and Augusta.” Alexandra finished. “Of course. Forgive me, dear Jameson. I knew I would be touching on a painful subject, and depended upon our friendship to bear it. I certainly never thought it possible of Cousin Brigid. I only wanted to be able to reassure our family back home that the rumors were utterly without foundation.”

“That you may do with complete confidence, Alexandra.”

"Very well, then." Alexandra nodded and looked away.

A silence hung between them and Jameson shifted uncomfortably. Was he relieved or disappointed that information seemed to be all she desired of him? The woman was driving him mad! He leaned in a little closer, daring once more to take her hand.

“Was that…all you wanted of me?” he asked.

She turned back to him and held his gaze. “There is…one more thing.”

“Anything,” he breathed.

“But it might upset you…”

“Nothing you could ever do or say could upset me, Alexandra,” he assured her, gently squeezing her hand. “Please.”

“Thank you, Jameson,” she said. There a note of steel in her voice he’d not heard before. “I need to know how Brigid died.”

“Ah." He pulled back a bit from her and gathered his thoughts."Yes. Of course. You are correct, naturally. It is difficult to even think about, but I have often wondered if she’d still be alive if Augusta and I had been here.”

“You were both away?”

“Yes, only for a short time, however. It is hard to believe we have lived here for little more than a year, and that when we first arrived everything was so wonderful. It soon became obvious, however, that there was a strain on Roderick and Brigid’s marriage. I’m not sure if it had to do with us, or simply the fact that they were such opposites – Roderick the aesthete, restrained and reclusive, and Brigid so sociable and welcoming. The silences and rows between them escalated to such a fever pitch that the tension was beginning to affect Augusta. Even before she…started to decline, she was quite sensitive to jarring sounds and emotions. And her relationship with her brother was, and always has been, extremely close. You’ve seen for yourself how protective of her he is.”

“Yes,” Alexandra said slowly. “I most certainly have.”

“I finally felt the sensible thing to do would be to take a short holiday with her and allow Roderick and Brigid some time to themselves. Although the notion of us leaving upset Roderick considerably, Brigid agreed with me that it was a good idea, and so we packed our bags and journeyed to Boston for a fortnight. Augusta simply loved it. I tell you, I’d never seen her more alive and gay. Everything was new to her. I took her to the theatre, to restaurants, and far from being overwhelmed by the crowds and activity, she drank it all in and wanted more. I never wanted it to end. In fact, I was struck by the notion that it might be best if we stayed right there and began a new life for ourselves. Augusta just seemed so much more herself away from her br—“ He felt a blush creep over his cheeks. “Away from Halstead.”

“I understand.”

“In any case, a week into our holiday the point became moot. A letter arrived from Roderick, demanding our immediate return. Brigid was dead.”

The memory of that awful night when they'd received the news flooded back to Jameson and threatened to unman him. Once again he saw Augusta’s face changing from smiles to confusion, and then to comprehension and horror. He could still hear her guttural, inhuman wails as she collapsed on the floor of their hotel room - how she tore at her own flesh with her nails before he could restrain her - how a physician had had to be called in to quiet her with laudanum.

And how, before she fell silent she’d whispered the same words over and over again in an eerie childlike voice that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end…

'Lily white and rose red, both lie awaiting in their bed…'

A soft touch on his knee brought him back to the present with a start. Alexandra was looking at him steadily.

“Jameson? Forgive me, I know this is difficult, but you must tell me - how did she die?”

He took a deep breath and continued. “It was nearly another week before Augusta was in any condition to travel back to Halstead. We returned to find Roderick in a dreadful state, of course, nearly senseless with grief. I did, however, manage to corner Marcus long enough to find out the details of what had happened.

“Brigid was always a night person, you see. She had a habit of staying up long past the time the rest of us went to bed. She'd read, she told me once, or study or write letters; I believe she suffered from insomnia, actually. This one particular night, Marcus said, Brigid had apparently gotten the notion to explore the upper reaches of the East Wing, which as you probably know is the oldest part of the manor.

"She was found the next morning, lying in a heap at the foot of one of the circular stairways; she’d tripped or fallen and hit her head. By the time she was discovered, she’d passed into a coma and by the next day…she was gone. Roderick was wracked with guilt. He confessed to me that although he'd at first been opposed to my and Augusta’s departure, it had indeed been good for them to spend time alone with each other, and that some old wounds had finally begun to heal. He kept saying that if only he’d insisted she come to bed with him that night, she’d still be alive. ‘But she kissed me, Jameson, so sweetly, and said she’d follow me up shortly. How was I to know? What on earth could have possessed her to go up to the East Wing so late?’ I tried, of course, to offer him what solace I could. I told him she had always been a strong-willed woman, and that only God knew the answer to his questions. ‘Yes,’ he said to me. ‘Only God.’”

There was a long silence, and finally Alexandra spoke.

“Jameson, did you view her body?"

"Only...only at the funeral."

"Was there anything about it that struck you as unusual?"

“No, of course not…”

In his mind's eye, Jameson saw the lovely figure once more. She had looked so alive, albeit much more serene than he’d ever remembered her, poor soul. The bruises had been covered by the mortician’s art, of course, but when he reached out to…

“That was odd,” he heard himself saying.

“What?” Alexandra urged.

“Her hand. Her left palm, to be exact. I reached into the casket to place a rosary in her hand and saw that there were three long gashes on her palm. Not scratches, mind you, but deep cuts. And I remember wondering how she could have done that to herself by falling on the stairs. According to Marcus, her injuries had all been internal. Surely if it had happened before, Roderick would have remembered it, wouldn’t he?”

“Of course he would have,“ Alexandra replied. “Tell me, Jameson, did the three cuts look like this?” She turned over his palm and traced an exact replica of what he remembered: one long vertical line with two lines crossing it.

“Why…yes,” he said, shivering slightly at both the memory and at her delicate touch. “How did you know?”

Alexandra looked away from him and towards the house. “Because I’ve seen it before.”

“But…how? Where?” Jameson was bursting with questions, but Alexandra raised a finger in warning and with a tilt of her head indicated the approach of the servant Paxton. The elderly man was red-faced and gasping for breath – obviously he’d run all the way from the house.

“What is it, Paxton?” Jameson said, rising. “Has Augusta had one of her spells?”

“It’s worse than that, sir. Please come quick. She’s done herself an awful injury this time.”

***********************************

Good god and I thought our family had its problems! Alexandra sighed as she closed the door to the extra bedroom where they’d moved Augusta. She’d left Jameson weeping at the girl’s bedside. He was a mess, of course; who wouldn’t be with a wife like that and a brother-in-law who was as insane as a bag of rabid ferrets? Alex felt sure now that Brigid’s death was no accident and that the sanctimonious Roderick was no innocent. Strangely, she felt a growing connection with Brigid, a determination to get to the bottom of the mystery in addition to discovering a way back home. And now she was convinced that it was Brigid who had hidden that grimoire and amulet. Brigid was the one who’d worked the spells within it and knew what its strange symbols meant. If only there was a way Alex could communicate with her…

More eager than ever to start work on the book, she hurried down the hallway towards her room. As she approached Roderick’s study, however, she heard voices and slowed her step. She halted by the door that was slightly ajar, avoiding the spot where the floorboards used to creak, or would still creak, rather- time travel gives me such a headache- in the future Halstead. She could hear Roderick and Doctor Marcus inside, most likely discussing Augusta's condition. Marcus, she thought with a shudder. A vile man who’d smirked when they’d been introduced a few nights ago. He’d undressed her with his eyes and then managed to corner her long enough to paw at her waist and whisper in his oily, insinuating voice that ‘as a doctor he knew many secrets to please the ladies, especially those of a certain age’. The gall of the man! And the swift elbow she gave him in the ribs only seemed to increase his interest. She leaned closer to the door and peeked in – Roderick was slumped in his huge armchair by the fire. He was wearing a purple dressing gown, his long fingers clutched like a spider around a large balloon of brandy. He was staring up at Marcus with hollow, tortured eyes and his lean face was, if anything, even paler than usual. Marcus stood by the fireplace facing him, smirking of course, and rubbing his hands together, over and over - an irritating habit that Alex had noticed before.

When Roderick spoke again, it was as if the words were being wrenched from him. “It’s…not possible,” he finally managed.

“My dear Roderick,” Alex heard Marcus reply. “As you know all too well, in addition to my other…more esoteric interests I’m still a fully qualified physician. You called for me because you know I can be discrete…for a price. I didn’t see the signs the last time I looked in on her because we’d only been concerned with her mental state, not her physical condition. But I just gave her a thorough examination and I’m afraid there is no question about it. Your sister…is with child.”


LAG