The Haunting of Brier Rose (9 page)

"Can you?"

"I'm perfectly capable."

He studied her in a calculated sort of way that would have put
most people on pins and needles. But Rose stood tall, never flinching, her eyes
never blinking.

"That isn't the point."

"No?"

He shook his head at her feigned innocence. "You haven't
told me where he is. If I were a suspicious kind of person, I might think you
and Mrs. Jacoby were hiding something from me."

"Why would we hide anything from you?"

"Damned if I know. You two seemed to be hatching all kinds
of trouble." He put his forearms on the blotter and leaned forward.
"So where is Mr. Jacoby?"

Her blank stare didn't fool him in the least. She might be a
great little actress with a commendable blank look, but her blue eyes glinted
with an intelligent gleam that betrayed her mask of innocence.

"Damn it!" He lost patience and slapped the desk top
with the flat of his hand. "Where is he?"

“I don’t wish to say.”

"Where, Rose!"

"He's dead."

"Dead?" He sat back, shocked.

"Mr. Jacoby died over a month ago."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?"

"We thought no one would care if we kept silent for a
while."

"You did, did you?"

She nodded, her eyes even wider.

"Why keep it secret?"

"I was afraid Bea and I would be sent away." She
stepped closer. "It's not that I'm trying to trick you or anything, Mr.
Wolfe, it's just that I need to stay here, at least for this last week,
because—"

He held up his hand to silence her outburst. "That's not the
point, Rose. The Wolfe family has been paying good money for wages that have
not been earned."

"I'm sure the Jacobys didn't cheat your family. They've just
been getting on in years and—"

"Letting the place go to seed. So that's what's been going
on here." He grabbed his cane and pushed away his chair with the backs of
his legs. "And how do you figure in all this? Why are you at
Brierwood?"

"I was left on the doorstep as a child. The Jacobys took me
in—"

"At my mother's expense. That was big of them."

"Show some mercy, Mr. Wolfe. Your family doesn't seem to be
hurting for money."

"Really? And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Well, they own Brierwood, after all, and I'm sure much more
than—"

"Looking to get a piece of it, are you?"

She stared at him, her face blanching. She had such amazing
control over her expressions that he had to admire her acting abilities. Taylor
walked around the desk, his cane tapping on the parquet floor.

"Just remember one thing, Rose Quennel. I may share the
Wolfe name, but that doesn't mean I share their wealth."

A shadow of confusion passed through her blue eyes, as if she
didn't know what he was getting at.

"I may not be as wealthy as you assume. Think about that the
next time you jump into a brier patch."

She stepped back, her hand splayed across her breast.
"You're not implying that I did that on purpose—"

"Don't bother with theatrics, either. If I want to watch
melodrama, I'll take in a play downtown." He motioned toward the door.
"Now go on and get yourself cleaned up."

For a long moment she said nothing, but he could tell from her
expression that she was furious. Then, without breaking eye contact with
Taylor, she held out her forearm. "Come, Edgar."

The words and the tone of her voice could have formed icicles on
the Taj Mahal.

Taylor felt the tips of his ears burning as he stared at her. Her
rage gave her a majestic bearing he had never witnessed before, as if she had
turned into a marble statue—chilling, regal and unforgivingly rigid. For
an instant he wondered if he was wrong about her, if he had misjudged her
actions. Then again, she could still be acting. Before he could decide, he saw
the raven glide across the room and perch lightly on Rose's wrist.

She turned and walked stiffly out of the study. Taylor watched
her go and didn't move until she had disappeared from view, as if her coldness
had frozen him in place. What if he had misjudged her? What if Mrs. Jacoby had
jumped to conclusions about him that had nothing to do with Rose? He hadn't
even given her a chance to explain herself. Taylor straightened his leg and winced.
It didn't really matter. He didn't care what Rose thought of him. And he didn't
have to concern himself with her feelings. In fact, having her angry with him
would create an emotional distance between than that would make it easier for
him to avoid her. With her out of the picture, he might find some peace and
quiet here at Brierwood after all.

Yet he hadn't the faintest idea what he would do if he did manage
to acquire peace and quiet. Being locked away in a huge dark house on an
overgrown estate was a far cry from the peace he found in the open air of the
sea. On board the
Jamaican Lady
,
there was always something to fix, polish or adjust. He hoped his books would
be delivered early tomorrow, so that he would have something constructive to
do. The pace at Brierwood was so damned slow that he might regain his vision
but go mad in the process.

Rose hurried to her room to take off her dress and try to pull
some of the briers out of her back. The tiny brown spines were hard to see in
the light of her bathroom, and the job was made doubly hard because she had to
operate by looking in a mirror, which meant each movement had to be made in
reverse. The mirror frustrated her by making her feel clumsy and uncoordinated,
and the heat in the upstairs bathroom only added to her foul humor. The entire
time she was plucking
briers
, her mind centered on her
maddening conversation with Mr. Wolfe. He had all but accused her of lying. He
hadn't listened to a single word she'd said and had told her she was
melodramatic. Melodramatic! Fury and frustration bubbled within her until the
tweezers shook in her hand.

With a frustrated sigh, Rose gave up plucking the briers and
realized she had succeeded in removing only a fraction of them. Since Bea's
vision wasn't good enough for such a close-up job, Rose would probably have to
see a doctor to get than removed. But she hated going to doctors and knew she
would put off the inevitable for as long as possible.

Steeling herself to endure the irritation of her scratches
meeting water, she took a quick shower and gingerly dressed in a light cotton
shift she had hand-dyed with stamps made from Edgar's feathers. Then she
twisted her hair into a simple knot at the base of her neck and slipped her
feet into a pair of sandals. She probably wouldn't meet Mr. Wolfe's
expectations of the way household help should dress, but she couldn't bear to
wear anything else on her injured skin.

Stiff and sore, Rose went down to help with dinner.

Bea's nervousness of the morning had increased to the point where
she was dropping mixing bowls on the floor and forgetting to check the chicken
breasts under the broiler. While Rose made a romaine salad, she watched Bea
drop and break a water glass, a measuring cup and a plate.

Rose put aside the long green romaine leaf she had been tearing.
"Bea, what's gotten into you today?"

Bea shot an agitated glance her way and then opened the oven door
to get the singed chicken, burning her hand on the oven rack in the process.

"Oh, heavens!" she cried, running to the sink. Rose
rushed to her side, took the rack of chicken and turned on the cold water so
Bea could hold her hand under the cool flow. "Oh, thank you, Rose! Oh,
that smarts!"

"Bea, I know there's something wrong. You're a nervous
wreck. Tell me what it is."

Bea blinked, looked at Rose as if searching for an answer in her
face, and then focused her attention on her injured hand.

"Is it Mr. Wolfe?" Rose asked, leaning closer to see
the changes in Bea's expression. "Are you worried that he'll fire
you?"

"No, it isn't Mr. Wolfe. It's just that—" She
broke off and looked down.

"What, Bea? Tell me!"

"We have to leave here, Rose. We have to pack our things
tonight and leave."

"What?" Rose stepped backward, stunned.
"Why?"

"I can't tell you why. But we must get out of here."

"But what about my scarf? My client?"

Bea turned off the water. "Some things are more important
than money, Rose."

"What's going on?" Rose put her hands on her hips, as
if to trap Bea at the sink until she revealed all. "Tell me, Bea. I know
you're hiding something from me."

"Don't you understand, my dear?" Bea laid her hand on
Rose's arm. "I can't tell you. You simply must trust me."

"Trust you?" Rose jerked her arm away. "Why can't
you tell me what's happening? I am a grown woman, Bea. I'm not a little girl
anymore. If there is something going on here at Brierwood, I deserve to know
about it. You're getting on in years, Bea. You may think you can protect me
forever, but you can't. And you can't keep me in the dark like this."

Bea pinched her lips together and shook her head. "It's just
that I promised someone." She hugged herself. "I promised! But I
never thought—" She shuffled to the pantry door. "We didn't
think they would find—" She turned back to face Rose. "It's
almost your twenty-first birthday and if—" Bea cut off the jumbled
confession and stared at her, a plea in her eyes. "Please, Rose. Just
this once don't
ask me to explain. Just do as I say and pack
your things."

"No!" For the first time in her life, Rose defied Bea
Jacoby. She'd had enough coddling. She wanted answers now. Bea's distress had
something to do with the Bastyr family, of that she was certain. Were the
Bastyrs connected to the Quennel family? Did Bea know of the connection? And
what did her twenty-first birthday have to do with anything? Rose stared at the
old woman and felt her chest constrict with heartache and betrayal. Had Bea
lied to her all these years, claiming that she knew nothing about the Quennel
family? Had she kept the past a secret from Rose, the very person to whom that
past belonged?

A hot snake of outrage uncoiled in Rose. How could the people she
had trusted and loved as her own parents have lied to her for fifteen years?
Was anything they had told her the truth? Reeling with shock and betrayal, she
stumbled out of the kitchen and fled up the stairs.

Bea called after her, but Rose refused to listen to her
entreaties.

Rose skipped dinner, too disturbed to eat, and too shattered to
look at Bea. Instead, she spent the early hours applying more silver swirls to
the scarf, working carefully, even though her mind was a million miles from the
silk beneath her brush. The night was warm, the air unmoving, yet taut with an
unnatural calm, as if a huge storm were coming over the horizon. Edgar sat on a
perch by the window, quiet but watchful, and
Rose
was
thankful for his steady friendship. At least Edgar had never told her a lie.

To blot out her thoughts and nagging unease, she plugged her
smartphone into the stereo system and turned on Mozart, filling the old
ballroom with the lively strings and brass of the overture from The Magic
Flute. She worked on, but the music raised her spirits only slightly.

At eight, someone knocked on her door.

Though Rose didn't want to talk to either Bea or Taylor Wolfe,
she bade the visitor to come in.

Bea slipped into the workroom, carrying a small chest made of
wood and carved in an intricate pattern of circles and stars. Rose's
glance
darted from the box to Bea's face, which was lined
with worry and fear. For all Rose's anger at her, she couldn't help but feel
pity for the old woman.

Bea shuffled past the desk and stood near the end of the long
table, as if waiting to be asked to stay. Her lower lip trembled, but her eyes
remained steady and intense. For the first time Rose saw Bea for what she was:
an elderly, plump, gray-haired woman who had aged ten years in the last few
hours. She seemed tired, frazzled, but undeniably focused. Rose knew that
beneath Bea's soft and nurturing exterior beat a heart of iron, which had been
displayed over the years whenever Bea thought
Rose
was
in danger. Now the iron was back, but
Rose
wasn't
certain how long Bea would be capable of defending her. Bea was old and had
been deeply affected by the death of her husband.

Rose wondered if the roles were reversing and she would soon be
the one rising to the defense of Bea. She sighed and capped her paint.

"Oh, Bea!" Rose walked over to her and slipped her arm
around Bea's rounded shoulders. "I didn't mean to yell at you in the
kitchen like that."

"
It's
all right, dear. I
understand."

"I don't deserve to be lied to, Bea, that's all."

Bea nodded. "I know. It was for your own good, though, Rose.
You must believe we did it for your own good." She threw a furtive glance
over her shoulder. "Come, child, I must show you something. But we mustn't
be seen or overheard."

"By whom? Mr. Wolfe?"

Bea nodded again and her mouth drew down at the corners.

Rose glanced around the old ballroom, wondering where they could
find the most privacy. She decided on a salon across the room, once a place for
playing
cards,
now used as a storage area for yard
goods. The
sound of their voices would be muffled by the
bolts of fabric and the hanging panels of cloth
. There were no windows or
doors to the salon, other than the one opening onto the ballroom. If someone
wanted to eavesdrop, they would have to resort to mechanical means.

She turned up the music as an added precaution and then led Bea
across the parquet floor to the salon. A spider web stretched across the
doorway. Rose batted it away and opened the creaking door. She flipped on the
lamp,
a small brass fixture that hung from the ceiling and
barely afforded any light. In the old days, decorative wall sconces would have
furnished most of the light, but the bulbs had long since been removed. Dust
wafted up as she urged Bea to sit on an old straight-backed chair with cabriole
legs, which had lined the ballroom to seat wallflowers and the elderly. Bea
held the box securely on her knees and looked up.