Black Rose (27 page)

“Pilfering old bitch,” Roz grumbled and went directly to the desk. She turned the key, and couldn’t quite hold back the gasp when she saw the stacks of old leather-bound journals.

“This is going to be a kick right in your bony ass,” she decided and, opening the satchel she carried over her shoulder, carefully slid the books inside.

To make certain she had them all, she opened the rest of the drawers, riffled without qualm through the nightstands, the bureau, the chest of drawers.

Though she felt silly, she wiped off everything she’d touched. She wouldn’t put it past Clarise to call the cops and claim burglary. Then she left the key, plainly in sight, on top of the desk.

“Stella took her down,” Hayley announced when Roz stepped out. “She was shaking so hard we thought she might have like a seizure unless she got out of here. Roz, the poor thing only had one suitcase. She got everything she owned into one suitcase.”

“She’s young. She’ll have plenty of time to get more. Did you touch anything in here?”

“No. I thought, you know, fingerprints.”

“Smart girl. Let’s go.”

“You got them?”

Roz patted the satchel. “Easy as taking candy from a baby, which Clarise has been known to do.”

It wasn’t until they’d settled Jane into her apartment and were well on the way home that Roz noticed Hayley was uncharacteristically silent.

“Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts, guilty qualms, whatever.”

“What? Oh, no. No. Those journals are yours. If it’d been me, I’d have taken the other things that belonged to Harper House, too. I was thinking about Jane. I know she’s younger than me, but not all that much. And she seems so,
I don’t know, fragile and scared about everything. Still, she did a brave thing, I guess.”

“She didn’t have what you had,” Roz said. “Your gumption, for one, and a lot of that’s just the luck of the draw. But she didn’t have a father like yours. One who loved her and taught her, and gave her a secure and happy home. She doesn’t feel strong and attractive, and you know you are.”

“She needs a good haircut, and better clothes. Hey, Stella, wouldn’t it be fun to make her over?”

“Down, girl.”

“No, really. Later when we’ve got the time. But I was thinking, too, how she looked when she walked into that little apartment. How grateful and surprised she was that you’d sent some things over, Roz. Just basic things like a couch and bed, and food for the kitchen. I don’t guess anyone’s ever done anything for her, just to be decent. I felt so sorry for her, and happy for her at the same time, the way she looked around, all dazzled and weepy.”

“Let’s see what she does with it.”

“You gave her the chance to do something. Just like you did with me, and Stella, too.”

“Oh, don’t start.”

“I will. We all came to this corner, and you’re the one who gave us a hand to get around it and start down the road. Now Jane’s got a place of her own, and a new job. I’ve got a beautiful baby and a wonderful home for her. And Stella’s getting married tomorrow.”

She began to sniffle, and Roz rolled her eyes toward the rearview mirror. “I
really
mean don’t start.”

“I can’t help it. I’m so happy. Stella’s getting married tomorrow. And y’all are my best friends in the whole, wide world.”

Stella passed tissues over the seat, and kept one out for herself.

T
HERE WERE SIXTEEN
journals in all, five of her grandmother Elizabeth Harper’s, and nine written by her great-grandmother Beatrice. And each was filled, first page to last.

There were some sketches as well, Roz noted on a quick flip-through—her grandmother’s work. It made her feel warm to look at them.

But she didn’t need Mitch to tell her that even though they had the books, the job of reading them and finding anything pertaining to Amelia was daunting.

“They’re not dated.” Rubbing her eyes, Stella leaned back on the sofa in the parlor. “From what I can tell at a quick glance, Beatrice Harper didn’t use a journal per year, but simply filled each, however much time that involved, and moved to the next.”

“So we’ll sort them as best we can,” Mitch said, “divide them up, and read each through.”

“I hope I get a juicy one.” Due to the circumstances, David had put together an elaborate high tea, and now helped himself to a scone.

“I’ll want them all accounted for, at all times. But we have a wedding tomorrow. Stella, I don’t want you to overdo it. I’m not going to be responsible for you getting married with circles under your eyes. Who could that be?” Roz said when the doorbell rang. “Everyone’s here. No, sit, David. I’ll get it.”

She walked out with Parker prancing at her heels, barking as if to let her know he was on the job. When she opened the door, Roz’s eyebrows winged up. And her smile was sharp as a blade.

“Why, Cousin Rissy, what an unpleasant surprise.”

“Where is that useless girl, and my property?”

“I haven’t the vaguest idea what you’re talking about, and
care even less.” She noted her aunt had hired a sedan, and driver, for the trip from the city. “I suppose good manners dictate I ask you in, but I warn you, I’m not above arranging a strip search before you go—which would be traumatic for all parties—so don’t even think about taking anything.”

“You are, and always have been, a rude and dislikable creature.”

“Isn’t that funny?” Roz stepped back so Clarise could march into the foyer with her cane. “I was thinking the same thing about you. We’re in the parlor, having tea.” Roz stepped to the doorway. “Cousin Rissy is paying a call. Isn’t that unfortunate? You may remember my son, Harper. You always enjoyed complaining about him incessantly on your other visits. And David, Harper’s childhood friend who tends Harper House, and would have counted the silverware.”

“I’m not interested in your sass.”

“I have so little else to offer you. I believe you’ve also made the acquaintance of Dr. Carnegie.”

“I have, and will be speaking to my lawyer about him.”

He smiled broadly. “It’s Mitchell Carnegie. Two els.”

“This is Logan Kitridge, friend, neighbor, and employee, who is the fiancé of Ms. Stella Rothchild, who manages my garden center.”

“I have no interest in your motley arrangement of employees, or your questionable habit of crowding them into Harper House.”

“These are her children, Gavin and Luke, and their dog, Parker,” Roz continued as if Clarise hadn’t spoken. “And a young cousin of mine, on the Ashby side, also an employee, Hayley Phillips, and her beautiful daughter, Lily. I believe that covers everyone. David, I suppose you’d better pour Clarise a cup of tea.”

“I don’t want tea, particularly any prepared and poured by a homosexual.”

“It’s not catching,” David offered, unfazed.

“Why, David, you’re a homosexual?” Roz feigned surprise. “How amazing.”

“I try to be subtle about it.”

“Where is Jane?” Clarise demanded. “I insist on speaking to her this instant.”

Roz picked up a tiny cookie and gave it to a delighted Lily. “And Jane would be?”

“You know very well. Jane Paulson.”

“Oh, of course, Cousin Jane. I’m afraid she’s not here.”

“I won’t tolerate your lies.” At her tone, Parker sent up a warning growl. “And keep that horrible little dog away from me.”

“He’s
not
horrible.” Gavin sprang up, and was immediately grabbed by his mother. “You’re horrible.”

“And if you’re mean,” Luke piped up, “he’ll bite you, because he’s a good dog.”

“Gavin, you and Luke take Parker outside. Go on, now.” Stella gave Gavin a little squeeze.

“Get the Frisbee,” Logan suggested, with a wink for the boys. “I’ll come out in a few minutes.”

Gavin picked up the dog, scowling on the way out, and Luke stopped at the door. “We don’t like you,” he said and strode on his sturdy little legs behind his brother.

“I see your employees are no better equipped to raise well-mannered children than you, Rosalind.”

“Apparently not. I’m so proud. Well, since you won’t have tea, and I can’t help you regarding Jane, you must want to be on your way.”

“Where are the journals?”

“Journals? Do you mean the journals written by my grandmother and my great-grandmother that were taken out of this house without my permission?”

“Your permission was not required. I’m the oldest living Harper, and those journals are mine by right.”

“We certainly disagree on that, but I can help you as to their location. They’re back where they belong—morally, legally, and ethically.”

“I’ll have you arrested.”

“Oh, please, try. Won’t that be fun?” The dangerous iceberg was back as she sat on the arm of a chair, crossed her legs casually. “Won’t you just relish having your name, the Harper family name, smeared all over the press, talked about all over the county?” Her eyes went hot, in direct contrast to the chill of her voice. “Because I’ll see that it is. I’ll grant every interview and discuss the whole unseemly mess over cocktails at every opportunity. Such things don’t concern me.”

She paused, leaning down to take the cookie Lily was holding up to her. “Why, thank you, sugar-pie. But you?” she said to Clarise. “I don’t think you’ll enjoy being the butt of gossip and innuendo and jokes. Particularly when it’ll come to nothing. I have possession of what is my legal property.”

She picked Lily up, set her on her knee, and gave the cookie back while the room remained silent but for Clarise’s outraged breaths. Roz decided it was one of the rare times she could actually, and accurately, describe a scene with the phrase
her bosom heaved
.

It was glorious.

“If you want to have the police question how I came to regain possession, I’ll be happy to tell them. And I hope you enjoy explaining to them how you had what belongs to Harper House, and therefore me, locked away in your desk. Along with several other expensive pieces that are catalogued as Harper House property.”

“You’ll dirty the family name!” Her face dark with rage, Clarise stepped forward. “You have no right. You have no business digging into what is best left buried.”

Calmly Roz passed the baby to Mitch, where Lily
babbled and generously offered to share her mangled cookie. She heard Mitch’s murmured “Take her down, honey” as she got to her feet. “What are you afraid of? What did they do to her? Who was Amelia?”

“Nothing but a tramp, a low-class whore who got no more than she deserved. I knew, the minute you were born, that blood would tell in you. I see it has.”

“So I am from her,” Roz said quietly.

“I’ll speak no more about it. It’s a crime and a sin that a woman like you is mistress of this house. You have no right here, and never did. You’re no-account, grasping, nothing but a blight on the family name. My grandmother would’ve set the dogs on you before she let your kind cross the threshold of Harper House.”

“Okay, that’s about enough.” Before Roz could speak—and she had plenty to say—Harper was up and across the room. “You’re leaving, and you’re never coming through that door again.”

“Don’t you back-talk me, boy.”

“I’m not eight anymore, and you’re not welcome here. You think you can stand here and insult my mother? A woman with more class in one eyelash than you could cobble together out of every dried-up bone in your body? Now, I can show you the way out, or I can kick you out. Your choice.”

“You’re just like her.”

“That’s the first genuine thing you’ve said since you came in. This way,
Cousin
Rissy.”

He took her arm and, though she tried to swat him away, led her out of the room.

There was a beat of silence, then Hayley’s low whistle. “Go, Harper.”

U
PSTAIRS IN THE
sitting room, Mitch lifted Roz’s feet into his lap, and began to rub. “Long day for you.”

“Wasn’t it just.”

“You got in some mighty swings, Slugger.”

“I did, but Harper sure did bat clean-up and knock it out of the park.”

“I know I’m in love when my girl can talk in baseball analogies.” He lifted her foot higher to kiss her ankle. “I’ll take my share of the journals with me. I should be able to get a start on them tonight.”

“You’ve had a long day yourself. After the wedding’s soon enough.” She tipped her head back, closed her eyes as his thumb pressed into her arch. “Besides, if you go, you’ll stop rubbing my feet.”

“I was hoping this would be a suitable bribe.”

“You don’t need a bribe. I was hoping you’d stay.”

“It so happens I have my suit for the wedding out in the car.”

Her eyes stayed closed; her lips curved. “I like a man who thinks ahead.”

“I wasn’t sure there’d be a place for a man in the house tonight. Wedding eve, female rituals.”

“We started our rituals at the salon this morning, and we’ll pick them up tomorrow. They’re going to make a lovely family, aren’t they?”

“They already do. I enjoyed watching those boys stand up to the old woman, and your elegantly executed shots. Followed by Harper’s base-clearing run.”

“We were all wonderfully rude, weren’t we? Of course, she won’t speak to you again. Won’t help you with your book.”

“I’m not worried about it. And—we’ll call it postseason play—she’s unlikely to be entertained by what I write about her.”

“I will be. She knows. She knows who Amelia is, what happened to her. I suppose she always has. There’s a possibility she destroyed any journals with a mention of her—a small one, as anything pertaining to Harper House is sacrosanct to her. But it’s something we should be prepared for.”

“We just need a few seeds. I can propagate from there.”

She opened her eyes. “Aren’t you clever? I know I’m in love when my guy can talk in gardening terms.”

“You haven’t seen anything yet. Rosalind, I’m seduced by your feet.”

“My feet?”

“Crazy about them. I just never know . . .” Slowly he drew off one of her thick socks. “What I’ll find. Ah.” He brushed a finger over her toenails, painted pale shell pink, with just a hint of glitter. “Surprise, surprise.”

“They’re often one of my little secrets.”

He lifted her feet, traced his lips down her arch. “I love secrets.”

There was something powerful about pleasuring a strong woman, watching her, feeling her surrender to sensation. A tiny quiver, a quiet sigh was unspeakably erotic when you knew the woman yeilded to no one.

From attraction to passion, from passion to love. It was a journey he’d never planned to make again. Yet here he was. When he touched her, he knew she was the woman, the only woman he wanted to spend his life with. He wondered how he’d reached this point in his life without knowing, and needing, her scent, the sound of her voice, the fascinating textures of her skin.

When she rose up, locking her arms around him, fixing her mouth warmly on his, his heart nearly burst.

“I can see you in the dark,” he told her. “I can hear you when you’re miles away.”

The small sound she made was pure emotion as she sank into him.

She held tight, tight a moment with her head on his shoulder, her heart knocking against his. How love could be so many different things at so many different times, she’d never understand. She could only be grateful for it, grateful to have found this love at this time.

She would cherish it. Cherish him.

She eased back to take his face in her hands, so their eyes met. “It’s harder when you come into something like this, knowing more, having more behind you. But at the same time, it’s more itself. Fuller, richer. I want you to know that’s how I feel with you. Full and rich.”

“I don’t think I can do without you, Rosalind.”

“Good.” She touched her lips to his. “Good,” she repeated and slid slow and deep into the kiss.

She curled around him, breathing him in. His hair, his skin. Here, unbearable tenderness, and there, a simmering excitement. While her mouth clung to his, her fingers flipped open the buttons of his shirt, lifted her arms so he
could draw her away and they could press together, warm flesh to warm flesh.

He pressed her back onto the couch, let his hands and lips roam over her. Breasts and shoulders and throat, down to that impossibly narrow torso.

There were signs of the children she’d borne, the men she’d made. For a moment he lay his cheek on her belly, amazed he’d been given the gift of a woman so vital, so potent.

She stroked his back, gliding on the shimmer that coated her senses, lazily working her hands between them to unbutton his jeans. She found him hard and hot, and felt her own muscles bunch and quiver in anticipation.

Now they tugged at clothes, and once again she rose up. This time she straddled him, staring into those bottle-green eyes as she slowly, slowly took him inside her.

“Ah. God.” She gripped the back of the couch, her fingers digging in.

With a brutal hold on control, she rode, hips moving in a tortuously gentle rhythm, strong thighs caging him as she set the pace.

She could feel his hands on her, a desperate grip on her hips as he struggled to let her lead. Then a smooth caress up her back, a slick stroke to cup her breasts.

She tightened around him, pressing her mouth to his when she came so he could taste her moan. He was buried in her, their arms locked around each other, when she threw her head back. When her eyes, glassy with arousal, finally closed.

And she whipped him, joyfully, to the finish.

R
OZ WOKE AT
four, too early to jog, too late to talk herself back to sleep. She lay awhile, in the quiet dark. It amazed her how quickly she’d gotten used to having
Mitch in her bed. She didn’t feel crowded, or even surprised to have him sleeping beside her.

It felt more natural than she’d expected—not something she had to adjust to, but something she’d discovered she no longer wanted to do without.

She wondered why it didn’t feel odd to wake with him, to start the daily routine with another person in her space. The bathroom shuffle, the conversation—or the silence—while they dressed.

Not odd or strange, she decided, maybe because some part of her had been waiting to make this unit again. She hadn’t looked for it, or sought it, hadn’t pined without it. In some ways, the years alone had helped make her the woman she was. And that woman was ready to share the rest of her life, her home, her family, with this man.

She slipped out of bed, moving quietly. Another change, she realized. It had been a long time since she’d had to worry about disturbing a sleeping mate.

She moved to her sitting room to choose one of the journals. She ran her hand gently over one of her grandmother’s. Those she would save for later, those she would read for pleasure and for sentiment.

What she did now, she did for duty.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to conclude she and her great-grandmother wouldn’t have understood each other.

Weather remains fine. Reginald’s business keeps him in New Orleans. I was unable to find the shade of blue silk I’m seeking. The shops here are simply not
au courant.
I believe we must arrange a trip to Paris. Though it’s imperative we engage another governess for the girls before we do. This current woman is entirely too independent. When I think of the money spent on her salary, her room and board, I find myself most dissatisfied by her service. Recently
I gave her a very nice day dress, which didn’t suit me, and which she accepted without a qualm. However, when I ask for some small favor, she behaves very grudgingly. Surely she has time to run a few simple errands when there’s nothing else on her plate but minding the girls and teaching a few lessons.

I have the impression she considers herself above her station.

Roz stretched out her legs, flipped through pages. Most of the entries were more of the same. Complaints, tidbits about shopping, plans for parties, rehashes of parties attended. There was very little dealing with the children.

She set that one aside for later, picked up another. Skimming, she found an entry on dismissing a maid for giggling in the hallway, another on a lavish ball. Then stopped, and read more carefully when an entry caught her eye.

I’ve miscarried again. Why is it as painful to lose a child as to birth one? I’m exhausted. I wonder how I can suffer through this process yet again in the attempt to give Reginald the heir he so desperately wants. He will want to lie with me again as soon as I am able, and that ordeal will continue, I suspect, until I conceive once more.

I can find no pleasure in it, nor in the girls who are a daily reminder of what I have yet to accomplish.

At least, once I conceive yet again, I will be left to myself for the months of waiting. It is my duty to bear sons. I will not shirk my duty, and yet it seems I am unable to bring forth anything but chattering girls.

I want only to sleep and forget that I have failed, once again, to provide my husband and this house with the heir they both demand.

Children as duty only, Roz thought. How sad. How must those little girls have felt, being failures because of their sex? Had there been any joy in this house during Beatrice’s reign as its mistress, or had it all been duty and show?

Depressed, she considered switching to one of her grandmother’s journals, but ordered herself to glance through one more.

I’m sick to death of that busybody Mary Louise Berker. You would think because she’s managed to birth four sons, and is once again fat as a cow with yet another child, she knows all there is to know about conception and child-rearing. This is hardly the case. Her sons run around like wild Indians, and think nothing of putting their grubby little hands on the furniture in her parlor. And she just laughs and says
boys will be boys
when they and their scruffy dogs—three of them!—come romping in.

She had the nerve to suggest I might see her doctor, and some
voodoo
woman. She swears she’ll have the girl she pines for this time because she went to this hideous person and bought a charm to hang over her bed.

It’s bad enough she dotes on those ruffians in a most unseemly way, and often in public, but it’s beyond belief that she would speak to me about such matters, all under the guise of friendship and concern.

I could not take my leave soon enough.

Roz decided she’d have liked Mary Louise. And wondered if the Bobby Lee Berker she’d gone to high school with was a descendant.

Then she saw it, and her heart took a hard jump into her throat.

I have locked myself in my room. I will speak to no one. The humiliation I have been dealt is beyond bearing. For all these years I have been a dutiful wife, an exceptional hostess, I have overseen the staff of this house without complaint, and worked tirelessly to present the proper image for our societal equals and Reginald’s business associates.

I have, as wives must, overlooked his private affairs, satisfied that he was always discreet.

Now this.

He arrived home this evening and requested that I come to the library so he could speak to me privately. He told me he had impregnated one of his mistresses. This is not a conversation that should take place between husband and wife, and when this was my response, he brushed it aside as if it was no matter.

As if I am no matter.

I am told that I will be required to create the illusion that I am expecting. I am told that if this creature delivers a son, it will be brought into our home, it will be given the Harper name and raised here. As his son. As my son.

If it is a girl, it will be of no matter. I will have another “miscarriage” and that will be that.

I refused. Of course I refused. To take a whore’s child into my home.

Then he gave me this choice. Accept his decision, or he would divorce me. One way or the other, he will have a son. He prefers that I remain his wife, that neither of us are exposed to the scandal of divorce, and he will compensate me well for this one thing. If I refuse, it will be divorce and shame, and I will be sent away from the home I have cared for, the life I have made.

So there is no choice.

I pray that this slatern delivers a girl child. I pray it dies. That she dies. That they all burn in Hell.

Roz’s hands shook. Though she wanted to read on, she stood first, walked to the terrace doors. She needed air. With the book in her hand, she stood outside, breathing in the early morning.

What kind of man had this been? To have forced his illegitimate son on his wife. Even if he hadn’t loved her, he should have respected her.

And what love could he have had for the child, to have subjected him to a woman who would never, could never, care for him as a mother? Who would always resent him? Even despise him?

And all to carry on the Harper name.

“Roz?”

She didn’t turn when she heard Mitch’s voice behind her. “I woke you. I thought I was quiet.”

“You were. You just weren’t there.”

“I found something. I started reading through some of the journals. I found something.”

“Whatever it is, it’s upset you.”

“I’m sad, and I’m angry. And I’m surprised that I’m not surprised. I found an entry . . . No, you should read it for yourself.” She turned now, held the book out, open to where she’d stopped. “Take it into the sitting room. I just need another minute here.”

“All right.” He took the book, then, because there was something in her eyes that pulled at his heart, he cupped her chin in his free hand and kissed her softly.

She turned back to the view, to the grounds and the gardens going silver with oncoming dawn. The home that had been her family’s for generations. Had it been worth it? she wondered. Had the pain and humiliation one man had
caused been worth holding this ground under one name?