Sixteen
“How is she?”
How she hated that. The hushed tones. The hovering.
“You should consider moving her soon. I can arrange a room at Mission St Joseph . . .”
She didn’t know this doctor. God knew how much Brice had paid to get him here from Asheville.
“Get out.” Tara turned, facing the windows, bringing her knees up to her chest. Seized by another coughing fit, she held a tissue over her mouth to catch the flecks of red. The light rain had given way to downpours, the sky hung ominous and dark, rivulets of water running down the windows. “Get out and leave me alone.”
They edged away, still undone from days ago when Brice had found her collapsed in the woods. He’d half-dragged, half-carried her, still sobbing, back to the car, and his face had blanched in terror when he saw her coughs were bad enough to bring blood.
Brice shut the door behind them, moving down the hall with the doctor so she could no longer hear them.
She put her hand over her head, twisting between twin demons, unable to choose between the pair.
A spaceship in the woods that left no trace. A beautiful, magical alien who loved her, one who vanished just when anyone else appeared. The secret passages that never were, a concealed room that couldn’t exist . . .
Had he simply left this world? Slipped off without a whisper and left her to die?
Insane?
Or abandoned?
Which was worse?
Sometime later Hannah returned, moving from lamp to lamp with soft footfalls, the lights bringing the flowers of the room into focus. The colors seemed to be draining away, all that silk and chintz faded and dull. With the lights on she couldn’t see any details of the woods now, just reflections on the glass of this room, of Hannah moving about.
“Not so many,” Tara pleaded. “The light hurts my eyes.”
Swiftly the housekeeper hurried to shut some lamps off again and dim others.
“I’ve brought you some broth.” Hannah’s voice was hushed. “Some crackers and tea too.”
“Not now.”
Hannah put the tray down on a nearby table. “How about just some tea?”
“Did you know?” Tara rasped. “Did you know about the safe in here?”
“You mean the one in your sitting room?” Hannah asked, bewildered. “Well, yes. My mother showed it to me years ago.
“Was it . . . do you know if it was locked?”
“I couldn’t say, Miss Douglas. I never tried to open it. Was something missing?”
“I never saw inside it before.”
“But you and Mr. Douglas, being family, you knew about it, didn’t you? I’m certain your father did.”
“Then that’s it.” Tara shut her eyes. “Papa must have said something about it. Something I didn’t even consciously remember. And I thought we . . . I found it.”
“Well,” Hannah said with forced cheer. “Looks like you discovered some treasures in any case.” She crossed to where Brice had piled up the contents of the safe and lifted the lid of the jewelry box. “Oh, isn’t that a sparkler! Why, you need to find somewhere to wear it.” When Tara didn’t respond, the housekeeper picked up the photo. “One of those old-timey photo shoots? Who’s this with you now?”
“That’s not me. That’s Rose and Allaster.”
“Rose? You mean the first Mrs. Douglas?” Hannah stared at the photo. “But . . .”
“There’s a painting of her too.” When Brice carried it up, he’d left it facing the wall. “Next to the dresser.”
Hannah pulled out the canvas, and turned the portrait around. She went still. “Why, you’re the spitting image of her . . .”
“It’s not supernatural.” Tara said tiredly at Hannah’s uneasy glance. “Rose must have been my great-grandmother, not Leta. And from the way Allaster’s looking at Rose in that photo, he loved her very much.” With a look Tara indicated the suite. “I think that’s why he didn’t change these rooms. Your grandmother was Rose’s housekeeper, she came down from New York with her—did Mrs. O’Neil ever say anything about it?”
“Gran was pretty closed lipped about the whole thing.” Hannah eased the painting back against the wall. “And your father said I was to keep the house ‘same as always’. I just assumed he meant leave this suite as it was. I didn’t think too much about it when I started, but then,” she spread her hands, “I had Lydia to raise.”
Tara sighed. “Maybe it’s just not something that I’m supposed to figure out.”
“Have you shown this to Mr. Douglas?” Hannah picked up the photo again. “He won’t believe it when he sees! I’ll just run it down to him.”
“Don’t bother. He thinks I’m crazy.”
“But to look at the two of you—”
“Trust me, he’s not interested.” Tara stirred and Hannah hurried over to help her sit up. “I’ll try some tea now, please.”
The housekeeper poured some and put the cup in her hand, helping her keep it steady while she drank.
“How about some broth?” Hannah asked.
“Maybe later.”
“Would you like me to sit by you? Maybe if you close your eyes, rest for a bit, you’d feel up to eating in a little while?”
“I’ve been resting all day.” Tara shifted, trying to find a comfortable place against the pillows. “I’m okay for now.”
Hannah stood awkwardly at her side, her hands clasped. “Well,” she said finally. “I should go see about getting Mr. Douglas’s dinner on the table. I’ll be back up to check on you soon.”
Tara turned her face toward the windows, not bothering to answer as Hannah left, leaving the door to the hall open a crack.
She set the cup down. Pressing her lips together, she pushed herself up to standing. She had to hold onto one of the bed’s carved Cupids till her head stopped spinning. With slow steps, she dragged herself to the window and leaned hard against the edge, straining to lift the heavy window open. Tara rested her palms on the sill, the wind misted her face and throat and she filled her lungs with the sweet smell of rain before the coughing hit again.
The garden was shadowed, the forest nothing more than the silhouette of trees in the storm.
Her shoulders slumped. She used the wall for support, leaning against the dresser, and picked up the heavy silver frame. Frozen forever, a single warm moment between the two; Rose smiling, her dark eyes meeting the adoring gaze of her young husband.
Rose, too, once thought herself loved . . .
Tara pushed the lamp aside to see better her own reflection in the mirror. A wave of dizziness made her sway. She caught herself, losing her hold on the frame. The photo clattered to the floor.
“Damn it.”
Gripping the dresser for balance, she bent to retrieve the picture.
The glass hadn’t broken, and the heavy silver had also escaped the fall without damage. But the backing, brittle with age, bowed out, the heavy paper pulling away from the frame. The photo was smooth against the glass but behind it, under the backing, a corner of paper poked out.
Using her thumbnail, Tara worked it free enough to clasp it between her fingers and draw it out.
It was folded neatly, a small, fine piece of paper. It had been white once but now was yellowed with age, spotted with rust in places.
She lay the photo down and unfolded the paper. The handwriting was beautiful, looping but unsteady, as if it had been written with a shaking hand.
My dearest Allaster,
I weep to remember you once called me brave, for I am none of it now. Tonight you took our boy from my arms and now I wish only to hold him again, to break the bargain I begged you to strike. I think, it is not too late to have my baby back. Let Mrs. O’Neil have the caretakers’ lodge and the monies promised, even if we have no need for her to keep our secret. And surely we can provide handsomely enough for Leta to be happy mistress of her own house, and not our Heatherbell.
But I am a foolish, selfish woman. I know it better to be a stranger to our Charles. To let our boy have a living mother, not a childhood spent longing for one taken from him or stained by her lunacy. I vow I have command of my senses again as I write this, free for the moment of the madness that has kept me confined. I cannot cease in weeping. I fear cannot go to my peace if our baby never knows me at all. Someday, when our Charles has grown into a man as fine and good and strong as you, please tell our boy of his true mother, how very much I loved you both—
“September twenty-seventh, eighteen ninety-eight.” The same date carved over the crypt; the day Rose died. “But Allaster never did tell him.” Tara swayed. “Why wouldn’t he tell his own son the truth?”
She felt something, a coldness at her back. She raised her gaze to meet that of another in the mirror’s reflection, one who now stood at her shoulder, the face was pale with fever bright cheeks and mouth, her eyes shadowed, pained, and dark as Tara’s own.
The letter slipped from her fingers as the world went black . . .
“Tara—oh my god! Hannah!”
“Mr. Douglas? What is it? What’s—”
“Call an ambulance! Then take my car, see if you can catch the doctor before he gets to the road—”
There was the pounding of footfalls on the stairs. Brice hoisted her up, his breath shallow as he carried her to the bed.
“Brice. . .” She was cut off, caught by a coughing fit. “I saw—”
“You’re freezing.” He rolled her to her side, yanking the covers out from under her hip to tuck them around her. He slammed the window shut and went to the sitting room, returning with another blanket and threw that over her too. His hand was warm, touching her forehead for an instant. “I’ve got to get the heat on in here . . .”
Old pipes, deep in the house, rattled. Her head lolled to the side.
“Tara!” Frantic tapping on her cheek got her eyes open again. “You need to stay awake, okay?”
“She’s here . . .”
“Hannah? She’s gone after the doctor.”
“No. Her.” Tara looked up into her brother’s frantic eyes. “Rose.”
“They’ll be up in just a minute—Hannah and the doctor,” Brice said as if she hadn’t spoken. “Just hang on.”
“There’s a letter—He was her baby. Rose was dying and she wrote a letter . . .”
“Rose had a baby. Okay.” He glanced toward the hall. “Where’s the damn doctor?”
“Listen.” She gripped his hand. “There are passages behind the wall, all through this house—a secret room . . .”
“Tara,” he broke in. “You’re not making any sense.”
“He left me.” Hot tears blurred her vision. “He promised, and he didn’t even say goodbye . . .”
The heavy front door slammed shut.
“Hannah!” Brice shouted toward the hall. No answer came, and he straightened. “I’ll be right back. I’ll just be in the hall.” He squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back.”
Then Brice was gone, racing through the room, leaving her alone with the ghost.
Rose’s long hair hung over her shoulders like a dark cape. Her high-neck white gown floated around her, this sad woman, younger even than Tara herself. Driven by love to hold herself here, fretful, her letter languishing year after year unread, as her baby grew up and grew old.
The edges of Tara’s vision darkened. Rose reached for her, her eyes kind now, shape shifting as she bent. She became larger, dark and looming: the familiar shade of Death. But that spirit’s touch was not icy after all but fever hot, with eyes bright as golden fire—