Hunting Memories (11 page)
Authors: Barb Hendee
Then she looked upward and said, “Seamus, show yourself.”
The room grew cold. The air near Wade shimmered, and a transparent young man appeared from nowhere. Wade jumped backward in alarm. But the young man was glaring in open hatred at Philip.
“You bastard,” he said in a thick Scottish accent.
He had the look of someone from the distant past, like a painting in a museum, with shoulder-length brown hair and wearing a loose hand-stitched shirt over black breeches. But he also wore a plaid blanket over one shoulder, held fast by a belt. His knife sheath was empty.
A ghost?
Wade’s mouth hung open in shock, and Eleisha stumbled backward. A real ghost? She had come to view the reality of vampires as a fact of life, but it had never occurred to her that other forms of the dead might exist here as well.
“Seamus is my nephew. He found you,” Rose said, her serene composure returning. “It is a long story . . . hours in the telling, but I can swear that neither one of us has ever even seen Julian, much less done his bidding.”
Philip wavered, watching the ghost. He did not seem stunned by this revelation. He looked back at Rose. “Who made you?” His voice was not so threatening.
She drew herself up to full height. “Edward Claymore.”
Eleisha grabbed the back of a couch, her head spinning. “Edward? No, that isn’t . . . He would have told me.”
Regret colored Rose’s pale face. “Oh, my dear, I did not mean for any of this to spill out on the floor tonight. I did not expect . . . I was not prepared to . . .” She trailed off.
Then Wade finally said something. “You don’t have to talk at all.” He appeared to still be recovering from the sight of Seamus.
Philip glanced over at Wade. “Too soon.”
“No,” Wade answered. “I don’t think you’ll trust her until you’ve seen her past.”
Rose was watching them both in cautious puzzlement. “My past?”
“Whatever they want, don’t do it. We don’t need them,” Seamus said. “Any of them.”
Eleisha was shaken by Rose’s claim about Edward. It couldn’t be true, but why would Rose lie?
“What are you suggesting?” Rose asked Wade.
Eleisha agreed with Philip that it was much too soon to expose Rose to telepathy, but she also agreed with Wade that this standoff would not end until some foundation of mutual trust was established—and she had to know about Edward. He could not have kept such a great secret, not from her. Could he?
She reached out and grasped Rose’s hand. “Come and sit on the carpet with us. If you think back, all the way back, and then begin remembering your own life, we’ll be able to see your memories. No, don’t be scared! It’s all right. Just sit here.” She drew Rose over to an open space in the center of the room. “Philip, come sit down. Wade, can you act as her guide?”
“Rose, no!” Seamus shouted.
She held her free hand up to silence him and sank down beside Eleisha, her eyes searching Eleisha’s face. “You can see my memories?”
“If you drop any mental barriers and think back, remember what happened, we can all see them. After that, Wade can keep your memories linear. But . . . it can be painful, like reliving it as it happened. Are you willing to try?”
Rose offered one slow nod.
Wade dropped down on the floor, cross-legged, and then Philip finally joined them, glancing a few times at Seamus. But Philip’s expression was curious and intense, and he seemed to be losing his conviction that Rose was working for Julian.
“Just think back,” Eleisha said softly, “as far as you can.”
Carefully, she reached out with her thoughts and connected to Rose’s mind, finding access easier than she expected. Then the room dimmed, and that was the last conscious act she remembered for several hours.
chapter 5
Rose
Rose de Spenser had always been considered a strange child: big-eyed and serious and old beyond her years.
Perhaps it was because her mother died giving birth to her.
Perhaps it was because her great-great-great-grandfather had been French—and everyone knew the French were mad.
Perhaps it was because she stepped into the role of housekeeper for her father and brother by the time she was seven.
But whatever the reason, most people agreed that Rose was odd.
She was born in Loam Village, just south of Inverness, Scotland, in 1790, but were it not for the fact that Mary, Queen of Scots had become a young widow all the way back in 1560, it’s quite possible Rose would have been born—with a different face—on French soil . . . or never been born at all.
Queen Mary had been living in France for most of her life when her husband, Francis, suddenly died, and having no more use for her, the French royals sent her back to Scotland in 1561, along with a large retinue of servants and stewards.
When Rose was a child, her brother, Gregor, had sometimes mused that their migrating ancestor had been one of the noble envoys accompanying the queen, but her father insisted this was not the case. Although little else was known about Alain de Spenser, he had been only a minor wardrobe steward in the queen’s retinue. This was not important. What was important was that he’d remained in Scotland, married a local girl, and founded a line of de Spensers.
Having some access to Scottish land owners, Alain’s eldest son made a name for himself in estate management—and he founded the family trade.
By the time Rose was born, her people had been living in Scotland for more than two hundred years, and yet she was still singled out for her French surname.
She grew up cooking and cleaning and sewing for her father and brother, knowing the only way she’d ever get rid of her surname was by marrying into another family, but this idea hardly appealed to her. She liked her home, she loved her father and Gregor, and most important, she was poignantly aware that marriage led to pregnancy and pregnancy often led to death.
But she was fascinated with the process by which people arrived into this world—another element her neighbors found odd. She could always be found snooping around when a village baby was about to be born.
Her father made certain that she and Gregor were well versed in their letters and numbers, but Rose showed little interest. She loved herbs and gardens and animals, and she always seemed to know when one of the local women was close to giving birth.
Then one day, when Rose was fourteen, their closest neighbor, Miriam Boyd, came pounding on the front door. She was pregnant and had gone into labor while her husband was away. Gregor ran for the midwife, while Rose took Miriam inside and put her in a bed.
Later, Rose considered this the most important day of her life because on this day, she finally caught Betty’s attention.
Betty was at least sixty years old—ancient in their world—and had been delivering babies since she was seventeen. Rose longed for her notice. Shortly after Betty arrived at the house that day, she could see how capable Rose was and began giving her instructions.
Rose wiped Miriam’s sweating face and held her hand when she screamed, and Betty allowed Rose to remain for the entire birth: a wriggling, blood-covered baby girl. Rose was in awe of Betty’s power, of her knowledge, of her position among the people.
In addition, Rose’s father was so relieved that the birth had gone safely—and Miriam hadn’t died in his house—that he paid the birthing fee himself.
Betty was a woman earning her own living.
Rose followed her outside.
“You have the gift,” Betty said.
“Teach me more.”
And Betty did.
But things changed, as things must, and the following year, Rose’s father developed a sharp pain in his right side one night, which grew agonizing in a matter of hours. Rose and Gregor did everything they could to try to help him, but he died two days later. This loss was hard, and the house fell quiet.
Gregor, who was five years older than Rose, took over his father’s position, managing two separate estates. The nature of her brother’s profession kept him away from home a great deal, but she managed his absences by continuing to increase her skill and knowledge as a midwife—and Betty grew a little weaker each year.
Then Gregor met a fresh-faced young woman called Briana, and the house magically came alive again. Briana was built like a small bird with a long, black mane. She laughed and smiled and sang. Rose welcomed Briana into their home when Gregor married her in 1806, and the couple was expecting a child soon after.
Rose was only seventeen when her nephew, Seamus de Spenser, came screaming out into the world, and she was the first person to touch him with her hands, to hold him and wash him, and to experience something besides the satisfaction of a safe delivery. She looked into his eyes and knew that he was her blood and kin.
Two years later, Seamus’ sister, Kenna, arrived, and Rose delivered her as well. The house had become full . . . and happy once more.
One night, Betty died quietly in her sleep, leaving Rose to take her place.
Years passed.
Life fell into a comfortable routine of meals and work. Gregor still handled two large estates—but he somehow managed to be home more often—and Briana kept the house. Rose earned a reputation as the most skilled midwife between Inverness and Elgin. She even purchased a pony and cart so she could travel farther in her profession. It pained her whenever she lost a woman or a baby, but childbed was a dangerous place, and she did her best to save everyone she could.
Her record was even better than Betty’s.
Besides daily work, the de Spensers also enjoyed each other’s company and celebrated holidays together in grand fashion: Christmas, Easter, Imbolc, Beltane, Lammas, and Samhain.
Kenna was the small image of Briana in looks and manner, but Seamus had little in common with either of his parents. He showed no interest in his father’s profession and spent a good deal of his time watching other men in the village train horses.
Then, one day, shortly after Seamus turned nine years old, he came running into the house, breathless with excitement, his shaggy brown hair in a tangled mess.
“Mother! Rose! Get Kenna and grab a few coins. A troupe of actors has arrived. All the way from London! They said they’re going to do Desdemona’s death scene in the market square. Hurry! They’re setting up now.”
Briana looked up from the dough she was kneading and laughed. “Calm yourself, boy. And what do you know of Desde mona’s death scene? Those actors are not going anywhere soon.” But then she seemed pleased at the idea of an afternoon’s entertainment. “Rose?” she asked. “Shall we take the children?”
The mood was infectious, and Rose bundled up Kenna while Briana washed her hands, and they all trekked off into the village.
“Oh, look,” Rose said, pointing at the brightly painted wagon and makeshift stage. Seamus ran ahead, pushing into a place out front, and not to be outdone by her brother, Kenna let go of her mother’s hand and ran after him.
“Mind your manners!” Briana called. “Don’t be pushin’ folks.”
Rose had a difficult time bringing herself to discipline Seamus. She loved him so much and he was just . . . high-spirited.
“Briana! Rose!” Miriam Boyd called to them. “Come and find a place here with us.”
The air crackled with the excitement, almost like a festival, or at least an event outside the daily routine.
A vendor who traveled with the troupe was working at a cart near the stage, selling questionable-looking meat pies, and some of the villagers were buying them as fast as he could take their coins.
“Don’t let the children eat any of those,” Rose said with a slight frown.
“Of course not,” Briana said, trying to see over the crowd. “I wish I was as tall as you.”
The crowd fell silent as the stage’s makeshift curtain parted. A woman in a long blond wig and wearing a pale blue gown lay sleeping on a bed. Othello stepped out into view, tall and impressive with his blackened face and leather armor and fur robes.
But he nearly tripped, as if his boot caught on a board. His eyes were glassy, and a feeling of unease began building inside Rose.
“It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul.” The actor’s voice rang loud and deep, reaching the very back of the crowd. “Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars!”
He took another step and faltered again. “It is the cause. Yet I’ll not shed her blood. Nor scar that whiter skin of hers than snow, and smooth as monumental alabaster.”
He unsheathed his sword and dropped it. The audience was en raptured, but Rose spotted a few lines in his makeup. She focused her eyes, trying to see his face more clearly, and she realized he was sweating in the cold day.
Her feeling of unease grew stronger.
“Yet she must die, else she’ll betray more men.” Othello’s voice rang out. He wavered during the next line. “Put out the light, and then put out the light.”
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