Ivy Secrets (55 page)

    Jenny huddled against Grover under the covers of her favorite bed in the world, and felt like the luckiest girl alive. Suddenly, it seemed as though everyone cared about her: Aunt Tess, her mother, her father, even Dell and Joe Lyons, even that woman Marina who’d found her, and who was going to give Aunt Tess her big break.

She knew now that Tess had been right—her mother and father loved her, and her mother had always tried her best. Jenny hugged the dog and hoped that things would be better now. Aunt Tess was her friend, but Jenny knew she had to go home. She’d be starting the tenth grade this fall, and maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. They’d have a new house that wouldn’t be dark and lonely, and wouldn’t have Grandmother Hobart’s old stuff everywhere. Besides, Bluebell needed her even though the new groom was awfully cute.

Jenny smiled and closed her eyes, wondering if her father would let her date any boys this year, and if her parents
would let her come back to Northampton next summer. Maybe she could help Aunt Tess with her new job … maybe she’d get to see that woman Marina again, and thank her for saving her life.

    Charlie and Peter mounted the stairs to the small attic room in Tess’s house. They had decided to tell Jenny the truth so they wouldn’t have to worry about her finding out for herself. Marina would not have to know they had told Jenny. They would explain to Jenny that this was their secret, their secret together, for as long as it needed to be. For sometimes—only sometimes—secrets could be good.

They went into the room and sat on either side of the bed. Jenny lay there, Grover on one side, one of Dell’s rag dolls on the other. Charlie smiled as she saw Peter take Jenny’s hand.

“How’re you doin’, kid?” he asked.

“I’m okay, Dad,” Jenny answered. “I don’t think I really understand what happened, but I’m okay.”

Charlie placed a hand on Jenny’s brow. It was cool and safe. She thought of the great gift Marina had give her: the great gift of this child, greater even than the gift of her sapphire and diamond ring on Christmas Day so long ago. She wondered if Marina had any idea of her true worth as a person, the true goodness that was within. She hoped that Jenny had inherited some of that. “Honey,” Charlie said, as she squeezed her other hand lightly, “there’s something we want to tell to you.”

“Mom,” Jenny chided, “I’m a little old for bedtime stories.”

Charlie smiled. “Bear with me. This is a bedtime story with a very happy ending.”

Jenny closed her eyes and smiled. “Okay,” she relented, then settled back against the pillow.

Charlie looked over at Peter. He nodded at her in support.

And then, Charlie drew in a slow breath. “Once upon a time,” she began, “there was a beautiful princess from a faraway land.…”

J
EAN
S
TONE
is also the author of
First Loves
and
Sins of Innocence.
She ran her own award-winning advertising agency for fifteen years before becoming a full-time writer, and she now lives in West Springfield, Massachusetts, where she is at work on her next novel.

THE EDITOR’S CORNER

Welcome to Loveswept!

Satisfy your craving for romance with our next two titles:
RIDE WITH ME
and
SEE HOW THEY RUN.

We’re really thrilled to be publishing Ruthie Knox’s original eBook
RIDE WITH ME
, a cross-country romantic adventure. Sparks fly when two stubborn biking devotees are paired with each other for a long-distance bike ride, in this searing and steamy contemporary romance that’s peppered with humor and wit. I know this fantastic story will make your heart race for all the right reasons.

And then there’s Bethany Campbell’s exhilarating
SEE HOW THEY RUN
, an enthralling romantic suspense story that will keep you on the edge of your seat.

If you love romance … then you’re ready to be
Loveswept
!

Gina Wachtel

Associate Publisher

P.S. Watch for these terrific Loveswept titles coming soon: March brings us two wonderful books from Sandra Chastain:
RAVEN AND THE COWBOY
and
THE REDHEAD AND THE PREACHER
. And in April, we have Linda Cajio’s brilliant novels,
ALL IS FAIR
and
RESCUING DIANA
, as well as Debra Dixon’s unforgettable
BAD TO THE BONE
. Jessica’s vibrant second book in her Coming Home series,
BACK TO YOU
, is our May title, along with Judith E. French’s exciting
MORGAN’S WOMAN
and Katie Rose’s enchanting
A CASE FOR ROMANCE
. Don’t miss any of these extraordinary reads. I promise that you’ll fall in love and treasure these stories for years to come….

Read on for excerpts from more
Loveswept
classics …

Read on for an excerpt from
Rexanne Becnel’s
The Rose of Blacksword

1992

When the breeze is right and the flowers are in full bloom, the fragrance of roses permeates even the far reaches of the battlements at Stanwood Castle. The enduring stone, hard and unyielding, seems an unlikely setting for the romantic mood created by the gently wafting scents. Yet it is those very incongruities that contribute to the idyllic setting, for the forbidding protection of those ancient stone walls provides the environment that coaxes such exquisite blooms from the extensive rose gardens.

The castle is a popular stop for tourists and is wellknown for its gardens, which are said to have been tended without break since the time of King Henry II. A formal herb garden laid out by an early chatelaine still provides milfoil and vervain, lungwort and sallow root. A small stand of beautifully espaliered pear trees are said to be descended from an original planting from the time of King Stephen.

But the castle’s true claim to fame is its roses. No modern hybrids, these—grown for their long, spindly stems in regular rows for ease of cutting. Stanwood’s roses bloom in riotous abandon, climbing up walls, clambering along eaves, sprawling over the outside stairways. They spring
up in crevices and flourish in the most outlandish places. Even in the dead of winter there is bound to be some tenacious
Rosa
bravely putting forth blooms along a protected south-facing wall.

But one area above all others within Stanwood’s mellow walls seems to beckon to the observant visitor. In a level spot at one end of the bailey, a thick hedge of
Rosa Gallica
surrounds an inviting green lawn. A solitary walnut tree shades a pair of carved stone benches at one end, while an ancient cast-bronze sundial stands at the other, supported on a simple fluted column and surrounded by a thick carpet of creeping thyme.

The years have given the bronze a deep patina, burned in by the sun and washed clean by centuries of English drizzle. But the letters on the sundial gleam as brightly as if they were newly cast. They are worn down, of course, and in some places barely distinguishable due to the many hands that have rubbed the message engraved there. A tale, so old that no one knows its source, promises long and happy life to those newlyweds who trace the sundial’s aged words.

It’s a legend many have come to believe in.

England,
A.D.
1156

The spindly rosebush was more thorns than foliage. Devoid of even a bud, it looked forlorn against the barren soil. It might have been only a dead stalk, not worthy of all the care being lavished upon it. But to Lady Rosalynde the meager bush was everything in the world she had left to give her little brother.

Her face was pale and sober as she knelt on the ground. She was unmindful of the dirt that stained the light blue of her celestine overtunic. She only concentrated on digging a suitable hole in the rich black earth, then added a generous portion of well-rotted stable sweepings to it. She wiped at her face with the back of one hand, leaving a black smudge upon her tear-streaked cheek, but she did not pause at her work. A sob escaped her, and then another as she centered the shrub. By the time she scraped the mound of soil back into the hole, she was weeping openly. But that did not deter her in her task. With hands now grimy and nails ruined quite beyond repair, she packed the soil firmly around the roots. It was only then that she sat back against her heels and stared pensively at the lonely little grave before her, marked now by the thorny rosebush and a new stone marker.

Beyond her, standing bareheaded and awkwardly gripping his Phrygian cap, the young page, Cleve, watched his mistress. He was hesitant as he approached her with the wooden bucket of water he had drawn from the garden well.

“Shall I water it now, milady?” he asked in a hushed tone.

Rosalynde looked up at him. Despite her own all-consuming grief, she recognized that he too was sorely distressed by young Giles’s passing. But he blinked hard against any threat of tears, and she gave him a sad and rueful smile. “I’d like to do it myself.”

He gave her the bucket without argument, but Rosalynde could not mistake the concerned expression on his normally matter-of-fact face. She knew everyone thought she was behaving most strangely and that they were all humoring her only because they did not know what else to do. Death always seemed to make people uncomfortable, as did dealing with the surviving family. When she had told Lady Gwynne that she wanted to plant a rosebush at Giles’s grave, her poor aunt’s eyes had filled anew with tears. But she had only wiped her eyes, compressed her lips tightly, and nodded. When Rosalynde had told Cleve that she would plant the rose herself—she wanted no one to do it but herself—he too had accepted her wishes and silently acquiesced. But now as she carefully poured water around the spindly plant’s roots, she felt as if this gesture of hers toward her only brother had all been for naught. The rosebush changed nothing. The fact that she had labored so hard at it would not undo what had happened.

She drew the empty bucket against her chest and gripped it tightly to her. Giles was still dead, still lost to the fever that had racked his frail body for three torturous
days. Giles was dead despite all her frantic efforts to save him, and she had never felt more alone. First her mother. Then, for all practical purposes, her father. And now Giles. Despite her aunt and uncle who had been so good to her, she could not help but feel utterly abandoned.

Cleve shifted uneasily and once more his cap made the slow twisted circuit through his hands. Aware of his discomfort, Rosalynde took a slow, steadying breath.

“ ’Twill bloom in his place,” she said softly, as much for her own comfort as Cleve’s. “I know it looks quite meager now, but by summer’s end …” One last sob caught in her throat and she forced herself to look away from the lonely little grave.

“Please, milady, come along now. Let me see you back to Lady Gwynne and Lord Ogden. Your aunt was most concerned that you should rest.…” He took a hesitant step toward her small, bowed figure. “You’re finished here now. Come away.…”

He trailed off as she turned a pale and haunted face up to him. Her eyes became even more brilliant than usual, their pale gold and green centers glistening with her tears.

“I
am
finished here,” she agreed in a soft, wistful tone. She rubbed absently at the dirt clinging to her hands as the thought that had been lurking in her mind these past two days now became clearer. “I no longer need tend my little brother. There’s truly no reason for me to stay here at Millwort Castle any longer, is there?” She sighed and looked down at her hands, unaccountably frightened by what she realized she must do. “Giles is beyond all help now. It’s time that I went home.”

“Home?” Cleve ventured nearer the mourning girl. “But, milady, this
is
your home. You needn’t leave here. Why, my Lady Gwynne would be quite distraught to lose you. And anyway, until your father hears of Master Giles’s
death—” He hesitated and then made a quick sign of the cross. “Until he is told and decides what to do, then you mustn’t think of leaving here atall. No, not atall,” he stated quite firmly.