The Rose of Winslow Street (21 page)

She needed to get back to the house on Winslow Street immediately. Perhaps the neighbors could shed light on where the Dobrescus had gone. Libby whirled around and clattered up the stairs. The faster she could stash her belongings into a bag, the sooner they could set off for Winslow Street.

By the time Libby arrived home, the sun was setting and the gloom of night was overtaking the town. In the dwindling light, Libby ran from house to house on Winslow Street, pounding on the doors and asking if anyone had knowledge of where the Dobrescus had gone. No one could tell her anything until she came to Judith Barclay's house at the end of the street.

“I went blackberry picking and saw them heading down Storybrook Lane,” the woman said as she bounced a toddler on her hip. “They looked well enough to me, except the younger boy was crying.”

At the thought of Luke's tears, Libby's mouth thinned. But at least she had a good idea of where they were headed. The old threshing barn she and Michael had taken shelter in was just off Storybrook Lane.

“Thank you,” Libby said before turning back to her own home. Walking up the familiar slate path and beneath the wide-spreading branches of the maple trees should have been comforting, but everything felt surreal. Inside the parlor there was no trace of the Dobrescus. No laughter from Luke, no ravenous Andrei forever on the prowl for something to eat. Most obvious, Michael Dobrescu was gone, and the house lacked something without his brusque, booming presence to fill the ordinary rooms. Instead, a dense crowd of well-wishers from the neighborhood was streaming into her home, bringing bottles of wine and homemade cranberry bread.

The sting of Michael's ham-fisted marriage proposal was a distant memory. Now all she wanted to do was run out into the night and be sure he and his family were safe. Her father's laughter grated as he clapped Jasper on the back and she winced at the scent of the cheese and wine passed around by her neighbors. All she could think about was a family huddled outside in the darkness.

L
ibby set out in the morning before the sun had fully risen, carrying a basket stuffed with as much food as she could find. There was little in the house save what the neighbors had brought the previous evening. She took the half loaf of cranberry bread, a large wedge of cheese, and two flasks of wine. It wasn't the best nutrition for the children, but it was something and the market was not yet open for business.

A vague feeling of guilt swirled up inside her, combining with the damp heat of the morning to make her feel sick. She had played no role in what had happened to the Dobrescus yesterday, but Libby still felt complicit in the rough manner in which they had been treated by the town.

A blister rubbed her heel raw and the basket was cutting grooves into the sweaty palm of her hand, but she kept up the brisk pace. If the Dobrescus were not at the abandoned threshing barn, she would need to borrow a horse and start a more extensive search. As she approached the apple orchard, Libby had to balance the basket awkwardly against her hip as she hoisted herself up the embankment and into the orchard. Relief flooded through her when she saw the wagon beside the barn, a horse casually grazing on the overgrown grass.

She dropped the basket and ran toward the barn. “Michael? Michael, are you there?” she asked breathlessly.

The broken barn door was propped against the opening, but it tilted outward as one of Michael's massive men poked his head out to look at her. She froze at the sight of the rifle clasped in Turk's hand.

“It's just me,” she said, holding her hands up in a placating fashion. “I mean you no harm.”

“Are you alone?” he asked bluntly.

Before she could answer, Libby was surprised to see Lady Mirela duck beneath Turk's arm and slip into the field. “Libby,” she asked softly, “why have you come?” The clothes Mirela had slept in were grubby and strands of her silky black hair had sprung free of the haphazard bun.

“I want to help,” she said simply. “And I brought a little food. There isn't much, but enough for a decent breakfast, I think.”

Mirela looked exhausted, but she managed a smile and her eyes softened. “You have always been so kind to us. It is ironic, don't you think?”

Libby dropped her gaze. She was no hero. In truth, if she didn't have an unseemly fascination with Michael Dobrescu, she probably would never have gone out of her way to befriend this family in the first place. It was Michael's huge, generous spirit that had broken through her hostility and forced her to regard these interlopers as decent people. Walking a few paces, she retrieved the basket from where she had dropped it, then cleared her throat.

“Is Michael here?” she asked.

“He and Joseph have gone into town in search of more substantial lodgings,” Mirela said as she beckoned Libby inside. It was dim inside the barn despite the morning sun that glimmered through the cracks in the weathered old boards. Luke and Andrei were sitting on the dirt floor, propped up against the side of the barn, watching her through suspicious eyes. A pile of apple cores gave evidence to what they had been eating. The boys accepted her gift of food, but there was no lightening of their spirits as they ate in silence. Who could blame them for being sullen? The barn was musty and filthy, and it was clear all of them had slept on the ground with only rolled-up clothing to serve as pillows. Three trunks, a few satchels, and some assorted weapons were all the belongings the family possessed, clustered into a corner of the barn.

And one very fancy box containing four vials of jasmine essence. It was unlikely Michael would have time for tapping juniper trees for resin, and each day that passed, the essence was a little closer to going bad.

After the hastily consumed breakfast, Libby and Mirela stepped outside for a walk in the apple orchard. Libby knew Michael was too deeply committed to this country to leave, but it seemed cruel to drag someone like Mirela into a life of such chaotic uncertainty. “Is it possible for you to return to Romania?” she asked gently. “I can understand why Michael wishes to remain, but it seems that you have sacrificed a great deal to come here. Somehow, you seem like the kind of person who should be living in a palace and waiting for some handsome aristocrat to sweep you away.”

A sparrow twittered in the branches above them and they had walked several steps before Mirela replied. “No, I will never go back. I will be able to heal in America, but I don't think that can happen in Romania.”

Libby glanced at Mirela's wrists. The bandages were gone and the scars had sealed over, leaving a series of angry red lines on Mirela's ivory skin. What kind of torment would drive a young, vibrant woman to take such an action? The polite thing would be to avert her gaze and pretend not to notice the scars, but Mirela had no friends in America. Or at least no female friends who might be able to understand her troubles better than the hulking warriors with whom she lived.

Libby stopped walking and turned to face Mirela. “What happened?” she asked softly. She glanced at Mirela's wrists. “You don't have to tell me, but if there is anything I can do to help you cope with what torments you, I would like to know.”

The faint smile that curved Mirela's mouth was infinitely sad. “I am afraid that medical science has already said there is no hope for me. Perhaps I will live five years, perhaps I will live fifty years . . . but I will do so as a single woman. I was told I must never marry or have children.”

The stark words sounded so cruel and final. What sort of terrible condition would condemn Mirela to such a fate? “Was there someone you wished to marry? Back in Romania?” she asked. It was easy to believe that Mirela's gentle beauty would have had suitors lining up around her father's ducal palace. Then again, a woman in Mirela's position might not be free to choose the man of her heart if she was destined for a political alliance. If even Michael had submitted to an arranged marriage to benefit the family, surely a prize like Mirela would have been a pawn in the aristocratic alliances that ruled Europe.

“Not really,” Mirela said simply. “It is no secret what happened to me in Romania, for there were many witnesses when my brother came to rescue me.”

Libby was confused by the strange statement. “Michael?”

“No, my brother Enric. The duke. I found myself in a terrible situation, but Enric rallied some soldiers and was able to save me.” Mirela turned and began walking down the grassy aisle between the apple trees. Libby scurried to catch up with her.

“It happened more than a year ago,” Mirela said. “The war with the Ottomans had been raging for months, but the fighting had never come close to Vlaska, so I felt safe. Enric had gone to the coast to negotiate the shipment of more armaments to the Serbs. Michael had been living in Serbia for more than a year, leading troops in the skirmishes against the Ottomans. You must understand, I lived in a palace, not a castle. It was a beautiful mansion, with wide glass windows and sweeping balconies. It was not designed for defense. So when a regiment of the Ottomans came storming through, there was not much we could do to defend ourselves.”

Libby felt her blood run cold, fearing where this story was going to lead. Mirela spoke calmly, as though it had happened long ago and to a different person. “They came as the sun was setting. I heard a crash of glass shattering and men yelling in a language I did not understand. Our servants screamed and ran for cover. It did not seem that the Turks were interested in killing us; they were simply looting whatever they could stuff into their bags. They were tossing silver, paintings, whatever they could grab onto the rugs and rolling them up to carry away. I tried to run for cover, but one of them spotted the necklace I wore. He tore it from my neck, the pearls rolling everywhere. I can still hear the sound of those pearls bouncing and rolling across the marble floor.”

Mirela's voice stayed calm, but her footsteps had quickened. No woman should be forced to recount the horrors of something like this, and she laid a hand on Mirela's arm. “Mirela, you don't need to tell me this.”

But the unnaturally calm voice continued as though Mirela had not heard her. “The man who tore my necklace scrambled to collect the pearls, but another soldier noticed the silk of my dress, and his eyes narrowed with anger. They did not assault any of our servants, but I was a target. Their rage, their anger was all focused on me because I belonged to one of the aristocratic families that was leading the rebellion against Ottoman rule in Romania.

“They carried me out into the rose fields. The soldier flung me on the ground, and then one man after another crawled on top of me. It went on for hours. Sometimes I passed out, but I remember coming to when I was thrown over the back of a horse and carried farther away from the house. It was still dark, but I knew we were on Vlaska property because I could smell the roses all around me. There it continued. All the next day, and into the next night as well. The sun was rising on the third day when something alerted the men and they scrambled for their horses and fled. My brother Enric had been summoned from the coast. He gathered soldiers and they found me.”

For the first time, Libby could hear the pain as Mirela's voice wobbled over the words. “Enric was crying as he picked me up from the ground. I had never seen a grown man cry before, and it broke through the shell I had built around myself. I started to cry too, and we sat there in the dirt, holding each other as the tears flowed. The other soldiers Enric brought saw everything. It is no secret in Romania what happened to the Duke of Vlaska's sister.”

A gnarled trunk of a fallen apple tree lay on the ground, and Mirela stopped walking to lower herself onto the log. Libby sat beside her, overwhelmed by the horror of what she had just heard and at a loss for words. But Mirela's story was not finished, and she continued in that blank tone so curiously devoid of emotion.

“In the days that followed, I was numb. Aside from the looting, the house was not damaged and we were able to move back in. Enric hired soldiers to guard the house lest the Ottomans returned. I pretended nothing had happened. Each morning I would rise, bathe, and dress. I took control of the household and oversaw the servants. At mealtimes I dined alongside my family and made simple conversation. I went through all the motions of a normal life, but it was as though I was sleepwalking.

“The morning when I broke began like any other. My maid styled my hair and I wore a new dress made of light blue silk. I went downstairs for breakfast and saw a huge bouquet of roses that had been placed on the table. The smell was overpowering. It filled the room and sent me hurtling back to that night. It was a filthy, rancid feeling. The scent crawled over my skin and seeped into my clothes and hair. I vomited on the floor and started screaming. I tore at my dress and my hair to rip the disgusting stench off my body. Enric was horrified. He summoned the servants and they tried to stop me from clawing my own body to pieces, but their hands sent me into greater panic. I screamed until my throat was too raw to make sound, but that did not stop the hysterics. For days I could not bear to be touched or even looked at.

“I believe Enric thought he was acting in my best interest. Day and night, he stood guard over me, terrified I would try to hurt myself. But Enric could not help me, nor could any of the doctors he summoned to treat me. One of the doctors told Enric of a sanitarium in Bucharest that treated hysterical women. Enric was told it was the only hope for me.”

Mirela bowed her head and her eyes drifted closed, as though she could not bear to look at Libby. “When I became hysterical at the sanitarium, they put me in ice water baths until I stopped fighting them. Then they kept me in a darkened room, with no sound, no windows, and no stimulation. Do you know what it is like to be utterly alone, day after day? I started to shut down and go numb. It was easier to submit to the treatment rather than face the ice water baths and the restraints. I had been broken by the rape, but the sanitarium shattered me. I cannot think of those days without the terror coming back.”

“You don't need to speak of it,” Libby said. “I can understand why you don't want to go back to Romania.”

Mirela reached out to clasp Libby's hand. “But you must understand, Michael saved me. When he learned what happened to me, he came to Bucharest and got me out of that awful place. The first thing I heard was his voice cutting through the dark silence. I will never forget the sound, like the roar of an enraged bear coming from downstairs. Then the door of my room banged open and I saw him, silhouetted by the light streaming from behind. I felt like an angel had descended into purgatory to rescue me. Within five minutes, I had been taken out of that terrible place.

“When Enric heard what Michael had done, he was furious. The doctors had assured Enric I was getting better because I was no longer hysterical. Enric has always been jealous of Michael, and he was convinced Michael took me from the sanitarium merely as a power play against him. He came storming over to Michael's house. Never had I seen a man so brave as Michael as he faced Enric's rage. He did not move or flinch, even when Enric brought his riding crop down against Michael's face. The blood was running down his face, but Michael stood like a slab of granite in front of me, insisting that I be allowed to remain in Vlaska.