Black Rose (11 page)

“Ever just jump off the ledge, Roz?”

“I’ve been known to. But, except for the regrettable and rare occasion, I like to make certain I’m going to land on my feet. If I wasn’t interested, I’d tell you, flat out. I don’t play games in this arena. Instead, I’m telling you that I am interested, enough to think about it. Enough to regret, a little, that I’m no longer young and foolish enough to act without thinking.”

The phone rang. “That’ll be Hayley again. I need to get that or she’ll panic. Drive carefully.”

She walked out to get the phone, and heard, as she assured Hayley the baby was fine, was sleeping like an angel, had been no trouble at all, the front door close behind him.

A
LITTLE DISTANCE
, Mitch decided, was in order. The woman was a paradox, and since there was no finite solution to a paradox, it was best accepted for what it was—instead of puzzling over it until blood leaked out of your ears.

So he’d try a little distance where he could funnel his energies into puzzles other than the enigmatic Rosalind Harper.

He had plenty of legwork, or, more accurately, butt work. A few hours on his computer and he could verify the births and deaths and marriages listed in the Harper family Bible. He’d already generated a chart of the family ancestry, using his on-line and his courthouse information.

Clients liked charts. Beyond that, they were tools for him, as the copies of family pictures were, as letters were. He pinned everything onto a huge board. Two in this case. One for his office in his apartment, and one in the library at Harper House.

Pictures, old photos, old letters, diaries, scribbled family recipes, all of those things brought the people alive for him. When they were alive for him, when he began to envision
their daily routines, their habits, their flaws and grievances, they mattered to him more than any job or project could matter.

He could lose hours paging through Elizabeth Harper’s gardening notes, or the baby book she’d kept on Roz’s father. How else would he know the man who’d sired Roz had suffered from celiac at three months, or had taken his first steps ten months later?

It was the details, the small bits, that made the past full, and immediate.

And in the wedding photo of Elizabeth and Reginald Junior, he could see Rosalind in her grandfather. The dark hair, the long eyes, the strong facial bones.

What else had he passed to her, and through her to her children, this man she barely remembered?

Business acumen for one, Mitch concluded. From other details, those small bits, found in clippings, in household records, he gained a picture of a man who’d had a sharp skill for making money, who’d avoided the fate of many of his contemporaries in the stock market crash. A careful man, and one who’d preserved the family home and holdings.

Yet wasn’t there a coolness about him? Mitch thought as he studied the photographs on his board. A remoteness that showed in his eyes. More than just the photographic style of the day.

Perhaps it came from being born wealthy—the only son on whose shoulders the responsibilities fell.

“What,” Mitch wondered aloud, “did you know about Amelia? Did you ever meet her, in the flesh? Or was she already dead, already just a spirit in this house when your time came around?”

Someone knew her, he thought. Someone spoke to her, touched her, knew her face, her voice.

And someone who did lived or worked in Harper House.

Mitch moved to a search of the servants he had by full names.

It took time, and didn’t include the myriad other possibilities. Amelia had been a guest, a servant whose name was not included—or had been expunged from family records—a relative’s relative, a friend of the family.

He could speculate, of course, that if a guest, a friend, a distant relation had died in the house, the information would have trickled down, and her identity would be known.

Then again, that was speculation, and didn’t factor in the possibility of scandal, and the tendency to hush such matters up.

Or the fact that she’d been no one important to the Harpers, had died in her sleep, and no one considered it worth discussing.

And it was just another paradox, he supposed as he leaned back from his work, that he, a rational, fairly logical-thinking man, was spending considerable time and effort to research and identify a ghost.

The trick was not to think of her that way, but to think of her as a living, breathing woman, a woman who had been born, lived a life, dressed, ate, laughed, cried, walked, and talked.

She had existed. She had a name. It was his job to find
who
,
what
,
when
.
Why
was just the bonus question.

He dug the sketch out of his file, studied the image Roz had created of a young, thin woman with a mass of curly hair and eyes full of misery. And this is how they’d dated her, he thought with a shake of his head. By a dress and a hairstyle.

Not that it wasn’t a good sketch. He’d only seen Amelia once, and she hadn’t looked calm and sad like this, but wild and mad.

The dress could have been ten, even twenty years old. Or brand-new. The hairstyle a personal choice or a fashion
statement. It was impossible to pinpoint age or era on such, well, sketchy information.

And yet, from his research so far, he tended to think they were close to the mark.

The talk of dreams, the bits of information, the lore itself appeared to have its roots during Reginald Harper’s reign.

Reginald Harper, he thought, kicking back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. Reginald Edward Harper, born 1851, the youngest of four children born to Charles Daniel Harper and Christabel Westley Harper. Second and only surviving son. Older brother, Nathanial died July 1864, at age eighteen, during the Battle of Bloody Bridge in Charlestown.

“Married Beatrice . . .” He rummaged through his notes again. Yes, there it is, 1880. Five children. Charlotte, born 1881, Edith Anne, 1883, Katherine, 1885, Victoria, 1886, and Reginald Junior, 1892.”

Big gap between the last two kids, considering the pattern beforehand, he thought, and noted down possibilities of miscarriages and/or stillbirths.

Strong possibilities with the factors of unreliable birth control, and the natural assumption that Reginald would have wanted a son to continue the family name.

He scanned the family chart he’d generated for Beatrice. A sister, one brother, one sister-in-law. But neither female relation had died until well after the first reports of sightings and dreams, making them unlikely candidates. And neither had been named Amelia.

Of course, he hadn’t found a servant by that name, either. Not yet.

But for now he circled back to Reginald Harper, head of the house during the most likely era.

Just who were you, Harper? Prosperous, well-heeled. Inherited the house, and the holdings, because the older brother ran off to be a solider, and died fighting for the Cause. Baby of the family on top of it.

Married well, accumulating more holdings through that marriage. Expanded and modernized the house, according to Roz’s notes. Married well, lived well, and you weren’t afraid to spend the dough. Still, there’d been a consistent turnover of housemaids and other female staff during his years at the helm.

Maybe Reginald liked to play with the help. Or his wife had been a tyrant.

Was the long wait for a son frustrating and annoying, or was he happy with his girls? It would be interesting to know.

There was no one alive to say.

Mitch went back to his computer and contented himself, for the moment, with facts.

S
INCE SHE HAD
so many houseplants from the division of her own, Roz rotated some into store stock, and at Stella’s suggestion worked with her to use more in creating some dish gardens.

She enjoyed working with Stella, and that was rare. Primarily when she was potting or propagating, Roz preferred only the company of her plants and her music.

“Feels good to get my hands in the dirt,” Stella commented as she selected a snake plant for her arrangement.

“I figure you’ll be getting plenty of that soon enough dealing with your new gardens.”

“Can’t wait. I know I’m driving Logan crazy changing and redefining and tweaking the plan.” She blew a stray curl out of her face and slid her gaze over to Roz. “Then again,
plan
isn’t exactly the word for what he was doing with the landscape. It was more of a concept.”

“Which you’re refining.”

“I think if I show him one more sketch he might make me eat it. This coleus is gorgeous.”

“Focusing on the gardens helps keep down the nerves over the wedding.”

Stella paused, hands in dirt. “Bull’s-eye. Who’d think I’d be nervous? It’s not the first time around for me, and we’re keeping it small, simple. I’ve had months to plan, which hasn’t made him all that happy, either. But we had to at least get the living room and the boys’ rooms painted and furnished. You wouldn’t believe some of the gorgeous pieces his mother gave him that he’s had stuffed in a storage garage.”

“This dracaena should work here. Nerves are expected, I’d think. A bride’s still a bride, first time around or not.”

“Were you nervous the second time? I know it turned out awful, but . . .”

“No, I wasn’t.” Her tone was flat. Not bitter, just empty. “Should’ve told me something. You’re nervous because you’re excited and you’re happy, and because you’re the type who’ll worry over every detail. Worry especially when it’s important.”

“I just want everything to look special. Perfect. I must’ve been crazy, deciding to have the wedding outside in the backyard when the gardens weren’t even finished. Now we only have until April to get it all done.”

“And you will. You and Logan know what you’re doing about the planting, about each other, about everything that matters.”

“Remind me of that every now and again, would you?”

“Happy to. These look good.” She stepped back, fisted her gloved hands on her hips. “You got prices worked up?”

“Thirty-four fifty. Forty-five ninety-five for the large size.”

“Sounds good. Nice profit margin since the plants are mostly all divisions.”

“And a good value for our customers since they’re not going to see dish gardens this full or lush anywhere. I’ll help you carry some in, then plug these into the inventory.”

They loaded a flat cart, wheeled it into the main building. When Stella started to shift stock to rearrange, Roz nudged her aside.

“Go on, do the paperwork. If you start here fiddling with display, you’ll be here an hour. You’re just going to come back when I’m done and fool with it anyway.”

“I was just thinking if we grouped some of the smaller ones over there, and used a couple of those tile-topped tables—”

“I’ll figure it out, then you can come behind me and . . . refine it.”

“If you put one of the larger ones on that wrought-iron patio table, and put one of the little brass lanterns with it, then set that sixteen-inch clay pot of bird of paradise beside it, it would be a strong display. And I’m going.”

Amused, Roz shifted stock, arranged the new. And since she had to admit Stella was on target, as usual, set up the table as outlined.

“Why, Rosalind Harper, there you are!”

Because Roz’s back was turned, she indulged herself in a single wince before schooling her face to more welcoming lines.

“Hey there, Cissy.”

She allowed the standard greeting, a peck that stopped an inch from her cheek, then resigned herself to losing a quarter of an hour in chatter.

“Don’t you look pretty,” Roz said. “Is that a new suit?”

“This?” Cissy waved one of her French-manicured hands, dismissing the cherry-red suit. “Just yanked it out of my closet this morning. I swear, Roz, are you
ever
going to gain an ounce? Every time I see you, I feel obliged to sweat an extra twenty minutes on my exercise machine.”

“You look wonderful, Cissy.” Which was invariably true. One of the skills Cecilia Pratt had most honed was in turning herself out. Her hair was an attractive streaky blond
worn in a ruler-straight swing that suited her round, youthful face with its winking dimples and walnut-brown eyes.

From the outfit, Roz assumed she’d just come from some lady lunch, or committee meeting, and had come by to sow and to harvest gossip.

Gossip was Cissy’s other keen skill.

“I don’t see how I could, I’m just worn
out
. The holidays just about did me in this year. Every time you turned around, there was another party. I don’t think I’ve caught my breath since Thanksgiving. Now before you know it, it’ll be the Spring Ball at the club. Tell me you’re going this year, Roz. It’s just not the same without you.”

“Haven’t thought about it.”

“Well, do. Sit down here a minute and let’s catch up. I swear I can’t stay on my feet another
minute
.” To prove it, she sat on the bench near the table display Roz had just completed. “Isn’t this nice? It’s just like sitting in a tropical garden somewhere. Hank and I are heading down to the Caymans next week for some sun. I need the break, let me tell you.”

“Won’t that be fun.” Trapped by manners, Roz joined her on the bench.

“You ought to take yourself a nice tropical vacation, honey.” Cissy patted Roz’s hand. “Sun, blue water, handsome half-naked men. Just the ticket. You know I worry that you just chain yourself to this place. But you’ve got that girl from Up North managing things now. How’s she working out for you, by the way?”

“Her name’s Stella, Cissy, and she’s worked for me for a year now. That should be a good indication it’s working out just fine for both of us.”

“That’s good. You should take advantage of that and get away for a while.”

“There’s no place I want to go.”

“Well, I’m going to bring you some brochures, that’s
what I’m going to do. I don’t know if I could get through the next day if I didn’t know we’d be sitting on a beach sipping mai tais soon. You were smart to skip most of the parties, though I was sorry I didn’t see you New Year’s Eve at Jan and Quill’s. Lovely gathering, really, though it didn’t come
near
the one you put on. Flowers were on the skimpy side, and the food wasn’t much more than mediocre. Not that I’d say so to Jan. Did you know she was going in for liposuction next week?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Well, it’s one of those ill-kept secrets.” Cissy edged closer, her dimples doing a conspirator’s wink. “Butt and thighs is what I hear. I just this minute came from lunch with her, and
she
says how she’s going to be spending a week at a spa in Florida, when everybody knows she’s going for the vacuum, then holing up in her house till she can get around again. And, bless her heart, since you could set a table for a family of four on the shelf of her ass, I’d say it’ll be more than a week before she’s walking straight again.”