The Rose Bride (8 page)

As it was, Laurent did send Reginer away and Celestine did make her fatal wish. And now, Rose moved through dark times. She no longer desired to feel pity for such a mean, spiteful woman. She became not so much hard-hearted as careful, for she knew if she showed soft feelings to Ombrine, she would cast them away as proof of Rose’s weakness.

The Marchands were in trouble. Men who might have courted the Widow Marchand when she was rich stayed well away. Her daughter and stepdaughter were still too young to marry, and without dowries,
they would be too poor to attract rich husbands. Hope was slim that some lovelorn gentleman would cast custom to the wind and marry one of the penniless women.

The estate itself was never meant to turn a profit, but simply to feed and clothe its inhabitants. So there was no income there. With no other way to make money, Ombrine’s only recourse was to sell the beautiful things she had inherited. First to go were Celestine’s dishes, then Rose’s harp. Next, the portrait of the blonde woman with the cat.

“If only we had that pink gown,” Ombrine muttered. “It was worth a fortune. I hope Valmont is suffering for his sins.”

“If he’s still alive.” Desirée sniffed.

That night, Rose went to the garden and pondered her next move. Was it time, at last, to give her dress to Ombrine? She’d thought often to hand it over, to ease their wretched circumstances. But that would admit some guilt on her part—for they had assumed Monsieur Valmont had stolen it. And it was the only thing she had to remember happier times.

“You are loved,”
said the roses.

She was wrong. She had more than the dress; she had the roses. So after many tears and second thoughts, she went to the chest beneath the eaves, pulled away the old furniture, and opened it. She moved the layers of muslin and tissue away.

The dress was as beautiful as ever. Elise had embroidered gold thread around the stain, creating a
beautiful rose. That would be the proof that she and Rose had had a hand in taking it.

Tight-throated with grief, Rose carefully tore out the stitches. Bit by bit, the rose disappeared.

Then she went to the herb garden and laid it over the bitter herbs carefully, as if perhaps it had blown there by some miracle. She hoped they would find it before the night dew.

A breeze caught the sleeve and it flapped at her as if bidding her
adieu
. She pressed her fingers to her lips and kissed them.

Adieu
, happier times.

With each firm step away from it, she was tempted to turn back. A hundred steps brought a hundred second thoughts. But in her deepest heart, it was done.

Grieving, she hurried to the stable and went into Douce’s stall. She buried her face against the little mare’s warm side. “Oh,
ma petite
,” she whispered, “let’s ride far away. Let us go. We have nothing to keep us here.”

Except that this was her father’s house and her mother’s rose garden, and she would be found and she would be punished.

Douce nickered and rubbed her forelocks against Rose’s arm. It was like a loving caress, the first one she’d had in months and months.

“I love you, too,” Rose told her.

“Where did you hide it?” Ombrine demanded shrilly.

She stomped into the stable with Rose’s dress in her arms. Desirée followed closely behind her, looking scandalized.

“What? My dress!” Rose cried, feigning surprise as she stepped from the stall. “So Monsieur Valmont didn’t take it? Where has it been?”

Ombrine narrowed her eyes. “Don’t think to play games with me, girl. You will always lose.”

“I play no games,” Rose said, lifting her chin. “I am dead serious in all I do:” She knew she shouldn’t have said it, but she was so angry. She had given the dress of her own accord and the Severine women did not deserve it. They deserved nothing. Not even her attempts to excuse them because of what they’d endured.

Desirée blinked. “What are you talking about? Where was it?”

“I should whip you within an inch of your life. What else have you kept back?” Ombrine demanded.

“You took an inventory of my possessions,” Rose replied. “And you took them all.”

“You are so impertinent. I don’t know why I bother feeding you:” Ombrine whirled on her heel as she spoke. “In my homeland, you’d be driven out for this.”

Desirée’s eyes were huge as she stared back at her mother. “I? But I didn’t have it!”

Ombrine huffed. “For the love of the gods, Desirée, not you.”

“You mean
she
had it? How could she have had it all this time Valmont confessed.”

The rest of their conversation was lost to Rose as she trembled, laying her hand on Douce’s back. She was surprised Ombrine
hadn’t
whipped her or at least demanded an explanation. But then, why should she bother? She had what she wanted.

Rose laid her head against Douce’s side, and wept.

The money for the dress went only so far, however. It was gone practically overnight and the family sank back into desperation. Ombrine Severine Marchand was no stranger to fair-weather friends. When her first fortune disappeared, so did the fashionable women of the region. It was no different in the Forested Land. Knowing just how desperate things were, her neighbors carted off coachloads of Marchand treasures that they’d practically stolen. Rose watched it happen, observed Ombrine ignore her humiliation as she tried to get the best deal she could on each and every treasure. Rose wondered if her mother, who had been so kind and gentle, would have done half as well. Perhaps baser instincts had their place in the world.

One evening, just before moonrise, something tugged at Rose. It was almost as if a ghostly hand wrapped around hers, urging her from her icy room into the icier night.

Outside, snowflakes stung her cheeks. Fog moved along the earth and she thought of the night she had tried to save her father’s life.

She followed her instinct to the rose garden and her heart leaped. A small square of white lay at the feet of the statue of Artemis.

She fell to her knees in the snow and grabbed it up. It was a letter. With shaking hands, she opened it. A single gold coin fell onto her lap. She closed her fist around it with a gasp.

Rose swallowed hard. She rather doubted Elise had taken the dress when she left and it cut her deeply to think of her toiling like a scullery maid, giving her meager wages away. Tears rolled down her cheeks, crystallizing as they dropped to the earth. Elise, her
tante
Elise, her only family. How she longed to go to her.

I
could
, she thought. I
could saddle Douce and be gone from here forever
.

But she knew that was not possible. Ombrine would come after her. She would have her whipped, or worse.

She folded the letter into a tiny square. Then she scooped out a hollow beneath the purple rosebush and buried the letter. A tear hit the back of her hand. She was too afraid to leave a reply, but she longed to let Elise know that she loved her, too.

“
You are loved
,” the purple roses whispered to Rose.

And in that moment, she did something she had done only once before. Murmuring, “Forgive me,” she picked one of the purple roses.

She half expected it to protest or groan, but it remained silent. She kissed it and whispered to the petals, “Let her know that my heart is with her. Let her know that she is loved and that I have received the gold coin.”

Then she laid the rose at the feet of the marble statue.

“Let her messenger know to take it to her,” she asked the goddess. “If Tante Elise sees it, she’ll know it’s from me.”

The next night, when Rose stole into the garden, the purple rose had disappeared. Perhaps a deer had devoured it. Perhaps the wind had carried it away.

Or perhaps the statue of Artemis had shot it through the sky on the point of an arrow, to the village far away.

A fortnight passed, and then a month. No second letter followed the first. One night, sleepless and heartsore, Rose walked the stony terraces of the
château. She didn’t know that her mother had done likewise, for many years.

Then she stopped, and looked.

Far below her on the path, Ombrine and Desirée walked together, cloaked and veiled. Ombrine carried a lantern. Rose thought she saw a third figure trailing behind. It was either a tall, menacing shadow, or it was a trick of the light and her fretful mind. Rose squinted, trying to see if it was really there. Then clouds choked off the moonlight, and all Rose saw was a weak flicker of lantern light. When mother and daughter were revealed once more, they were definitely alone.

Three heartbeats later, a large dark bird cawed as it flew across the white face of the moon.

Ombrine turned her gaze toward the place where Rose stood; startled, Rose darted behind a hedge row. Her heart pounded.

“I thought I saw her,” Ombrine whispered. The wind carried her voice to Rose.

“She
would
spy,” Desirée hissed.

Ombrine raised her chin as if she were sniffing the air. Her profile was sharp and flinty. At that moment, a zigzag of lightning crackled across the sky. Thunder rumbled; the sky broke open and rain poured down.

“Alors!”
Ombrine shouted.

Rose took advantage and raced back inside the
château
. Hastily, she grabbed off her shoes and tiptoed in her stockings around the perimeter of the room, so
as not to leave wet footprints. Then she barreled up the stairs to her room and shut the door. She threw herself into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin.

She heard Ombrine and Desirée come inside shortly after. They stomped up the stairs, complaining and arguing. An imperious knock rattled her door.

“Rose?” Ombrine called.

Rose bit her lip. Holding her breath, she lay frozen and afraid.

“She’s asleep,” Desirée said. “She didn’t see us.”

“Perhaps,” Ombrine replied. “We’ll have to watch her.”

Rose stayed silent.

“Come, then,” Ombrine snapped. “It’s late.”

“You heard what he said. We need more money to pay the Circle for more power. Maybe you should marry her off.”

“She’s so thin, who would have her without a dowry?” Ombrine replied. “
Non
. We’ll cut expenses again to get the money.”

“How? What expenses? We already eat scraps. We wear rags.”

“
Silence
. We wore rags before and came into a fortune. We can do it again.”

The two moved off. Questions pelted Rose’s mind like the raindrops on the leaky roof. What circle did they speak of? Who was “he”? Empty of answers, Rose listened to the rain, and she didn’t sleep for the rest of the night.

After Ombrine fired most of the help, she passed their chores to Rose, who served the meals and cleared away afterward. She also did much of the cleaning and all of the mending. She was such a hard worker that Ombrine fired even more servants.

Rose’s soft hands became rough and her back ached most of the time. She remembered what her nurse had said, and made a promise to Artemis if she was ever in a position to hire people, she would treat them fairly and make their burdens light.

Although Rose heard no more talk of circles, Desirée often spoke of the need for more money ... and then she would look hard at Rose, as if she would shake more treasures loose from her. It chilled Rose, who worked even harder to make herself irreplaceable as a servant.

Then disaster struck again. A terrible disease moved through the livestock. The cows stopped giving milk, sickened, and died. The pigs, sheep, and lambs dropped dead. Ombrine commanded that no one should speak of it beyond the borders of the estate. When the pig boy suggested that their neighbors might have the same problem and may have found a cure, she had him flogged.

“The other estate holders are waiting like wolves for our downfall,” Ombrine said. “We must appear to be strong or they’ll take advantage of us again.”

On a grim gray afternoon, their last milk cow went the way of the others. Now, at supper, Ombrine, Desirée, and Rose ate in gloomy silence.
Ombrine’s gown was patched and unfashionable, and dark circles ringed her eyes. But since Rose acted as her maid, her hair, at least, was beautifully arranged.

Rose had dressed Desirée’s hair as well, in a circlet and braids that looped around her ears. She let her own hair hang free, unaware that the rivers of wavy gold accentuated her delicate features and starry midnight-blue eyes. With the many chores heaped on her shoulders, she simply didn’t have the energy to spend on her appearance.

Finally Ombrine broke the silence.

“This is all your fault,” she flung at Rose.

“All your fault,” Desirée hissed, pulling apart a chunk of coarse bread. Even when their animals had been healthy, the Marchands no longer ate like nobility. Sometimes, when sitting down to table, Ombrine would stare down at their peasant fare, cover her face, and sob.