Rose for Rose: Book Two in the Angels' Mirror Series (10 page)

Ten

Gloucester, Massachusetts… August 12, 1930

Steven stood in his sister’s room and tried to decide which set of clothes to toss out to sea. As he was just picking up the least favorite of her blouses and the most favorite of her skirts, his eyes began to water.

Did they match? Had he ever seen her wear them together? He couldn’t recall, and he was no fashion expert. But… they were both green, and that should suffice, right?

Warren, Michael, and Peter were watching him from the doorway, tears streaming down their faces.

They had pled with him before they had gone to bed not to do this; Peter asking, “wanint there another way?” and Steven had said, “no, Peter… I see no other way.”

All Michael did was watch in his gloomy silence, eyes wide, taking everything in. His eyes had filled with tears like his other brothers’ had, but instead of trying to fight and query with words, his eyes did the talking. And then, he went back to watch blankly out the window, like he’d done after Mother and Sarah Jene had died. And after Nanama and Gram-Papa had died; even after they got a letter that Grand’Mere Amarante, their Father’s Mamma, had died. And as for Grand ’Pere Steven, he’d died before Michael was even born, and though they’d come to America, they’d settled in an entirely different area, and so never once did he meet his grandchildren.

With Grand’Mere Amarante, they had a few memories, but they were sparse. She’d spent the most time with Michael and Rosie, probably since Rosie was the only girl, and she saw something of her own quietness in Michael.

“Will she come back,” he heard Michael whisper from his stance at the window. “Will Rosie ever come back? Don’t toss her things away, Steven. She might come back for them.”

Oh, Steven wished with all his heart another way would show clear; that the storms would pass and that Rosie would come walking through the door, drenched but safe, yelling, “ha-ha, surprise! Gotcha again!” But in spite of his hopes, he knew
that
reality wasn’t going to play out.

There was no way around the fact she had disappeared, however it really happened, and he almost believed the younger boys, who were still sticking to their story this morning. He really needed to get to that letter and read it again. And he needed to figure out a way to help Michael understand that no, Rosie probably wasn’t coming back; not today and not tomorrow.

Maybe never again.

A knock on the window opposite where Michael stood jolted Steven out of his thoughts.

He glanced, hoping against hope it was Rosie, only to see that it was pretty Roisin Mac Bradaigh from further up Commercial; one of the regulars to come check on them. Dowdy, kind, pleasantly boring Mrs. Mac Bradaigh.

Steven ventured she had always wanted to give in to life’s whimsy but had never done it, staying kind but staid no matter what came. Even when her husband had died not too long ago, God rest his soul, Steven never really saw much swing in her emotions.

“Warren, go let Mrs. Mac Bradaigh in,” he called over his shoulder, trying to hide the clothes now in hand. He’d been caught rifling through them by a neighbor who was well-meaning but spread word of all she saw and heard like wildfire if she got the hankering for excitement. Or, so he heard…

He hoped this didn’t count as such.

He followed Warren, Michael, then Peter, into the main room of the house, a cozy warm room of reds and browns that wasn’t exactly pretty, but was put together with Mother’s love and care.

Mrs. Mac Bradaigh came in, shaking her hat out and mumbling something about wishing her umbrella was working and sat in Father’s good chair; just plopped down right there, as though she were, in fact, Father.

Nobody sat in his chair - even when he was gone – for fear he would find out and get riled up into one of his wild moods.

“What… what are you doing here, Mrs. Mac Bradaigh? I mean… welcome, but… why come in all this rain?”

Steven stumbled through his words, trying to figure out a way to distract her from what she’d seen.

Maybe if they got her to talking, she would forget about the clothes he’d been holding as she’d knocked on the window.

Her gentle smile unfolded as she answered him, “Why, young Steven, where is Miss Rosie?”

Alright, God, uh…. How do I answer that?

“Well,” he began, “You see… it’s like this…”

Steven stumbled through his words and as he was about to continue, Warren and Peter both emptied their sad story of the disappearing sister before he could even try to stop them. Michael just looked at her with sad doe eyes that were rimmed with tears and softly whispered, “Help Rosie.”

The words were a plea.

Inwardly, Steven cringed.

The shriek Mrs. Mac Bradaigh gave in reply, hand to heart, then up to the pendant of the Virgin Mother she wore, surprised him before she finally composed herself, and spoke.

He jumped at the unexpected noise even as she answered.

“I always knew there was something fishy – please excuse the pun – something fishy with that mirror, I did. Just… wonky-like, I used to tell poor Declan, Lord keep him. Your Mother, God rest her soul, had said there was, and your Gram-Papa and Nanama did, too, God rest their souls.”

She spoke in the broad brogue of her motherland, and so rapidly it was hard for Steven’s mind to wrap around what she was saying.

Finally, as she began again, he caught up.

“Was there lightning and thunder at the time Miss Rosie went through the mirror,” she asked the younger boys, sending a quick glare his way, as though he’d done something wrong.

Why, I never
, Steven thought.
I’ve never seen her give a harsh look to a soul, and here I am on the receiving end of one?

With effort, he did his best to cover his tracks regarding the clothes. He felt his embarrassment flush into his cheeks; Peter and Warren had had more guts and grace than he to tell the tale of the mirror, since he hadn’t replied yet. Even Michael looked at her with sad concern, his eyebrows furrowed into a caterpillar like they always did when he thought too hard.

Still, he didn’t speak another word.

Finally, Steven began. “You see, Mrs. Mac Bradaigh, I… we thought that if Father didn’t know she fell through the mirror; that she had drowned instead, out on the Harbor, he might be able to… take it a little better. With Mother gone now, and… the baby; poor little Sarah Jene… and now here is Rosie, gone, too, we thought…”

With a sigh, Mrs. Mac Bradaigh laid a hand upon his shoulder as his tears began to flow once more.

The younger boys sat on the floor near her feet, openly weeping, whispering their apologies to him for telling their secret to the woman.

Well, it’s too late for it now,
Steven realized, missing Rosie all the more.
Maybe this is what was meant to happen?

“You know boys,” she began, “since Mr. Mac Bradaigh died last winter, I’ve been pretty lonely. And I know you think I’m some old sourpuss, but truth be told, I’ve always wanted an adventure. I’ve always wanted to be a heroine like in the books they have at school; like Elizabeth Bennett, Anne Elliott, Jane Eyre, or Edith Wharton’s fabulous Lily Bart…  or maybe even like Moll Flanders, but without the whoring.”

The woman flushed, and kept on talking.

“So what I propose is simple: if I go through the mirror, should another strike come, maybe I can see young Rosie in the mirror, if she’s close to it… and just maybe I can bring her back!”

Bring her back?

Was there really a way to do such a thing?

Steven liked the sound of it, even though Mrs. Mac Bradaigh had gone over his head completely with her little speech. He had never heard of most of the people she just mentioned, though he’d heard Rose talk about Jane Eyre and Elizabeth Bennett, with passion.

It was as if he was seeing Mrs. Mac Bradaigh with a new set of eyes all of a sudden, and Steven wondered how old she could be. She was younger than Father, he knew… and he’d heard Father mention he might see about courting the woman. Could she be thirty? Thirty-five?

He wasn’t sure.

He just knew he’d always had a sense she was holding something of herself back from the world around her… was this it? Because he’d never seen or heard her so passionate about anything in his life.

“And please, now that we’re in cahoots together on this… as it were… then, why don’t you call me Miss Roisin. Declan would have told you so, and I’m sure it’s easier for you to say that to stumble through Mac Bradaigh, which you’ve pronounced two different ways since I entered.”

There was cheer in her voice, and Steven had never seen her face so lit up.

Warren held onto her hand for dear life, and Peter was now sucking his thumb for the third time that morning. And Michael, well… he was taking it all in, mute and wide-eyed.

With effort, Steven stifled a sigh as he decided it would be better than nothing.

It had to be, didn’t it?

Silently, he nodded in agreement.

“Alright, Mrs.… I mean Miss Roisin,” he finally said. “…um, isn’t that the same as Rose? I mean, not the same, but doesn’t it…?”

The thought was all of a sudden funny to him. They’d traded one Rose for another if that was the case. She nodded, and he continued.

“You’ve got yourself a deal.”

Soundlessly, he prayed God wouldn’t strike him dead for the agreement, and he crossed his fingers behind his back before deciding it a better idea to finger his St. Peter’s medal: one that matched his sister’s exactly.

Eleven

Saint-Germain-en-Laye, France… August 12, 1695

James watched as the mirror was uncovered and brought into the main part of the house, then out to the main lawn, and over near the circle of lindens. Soon, there would be potential buyers here and he was still trying to come up with a story for its odd behavior.

He couldn’t have them finding out that the thing “ate people,” as Louisa Maria had so succinctly but aptly put it. So what was he to do?

“Can you put it a bit closer to the walk,” he asked, now beginning to pace, wondering what Cousin Louis would do once he found out that someone had finally been interested in the piece.

Louis would find out at the masque, no doubt about it, if not prior to it.

“And find something to rest it against, immediately. We don’t want it breaking,” James called to the men he’d recruited for the task.

He had couched his proposal to the three gentlemen who would be arriving shortly in a manner he found befitting the situation. It wasn’t the full truth, of course, but it was enough to pique his company’s interest and have the men come stay with he and his family while they deciphered the value and meaning of the mirror to each and bid on it.

He wanted the competition to be fierce and fruitful.

“You see, it used to belong to someone I was quite close to, who has since been long buried. It has a mystical quality to it, but only during a storm. It’s as if you can see into another world. The rest of the time, it acts like a normal mirror,” he’d said as he’d played with his whiskers absentmindedly.

Sir Benard Lefebvre of Tours – a burly, long-bearded man of perhaps sixty – had guffawed, and his younger, more stylish counterparts, the Sirs Alexandre Moreau of Toulouse and Gaspar Delacroix Aiton of Perpignan, had delighted in the idea.

They wanted to hear more.

And so, he had told them… maybe with a bit of embellishment, but nonetheless, how would they know the truth, unless God made him for a fool?

“The top is a golden heavenly paradise; cherubim angels rest upon it with ease, and I believe God has blessed the item Himself, bypassing even the bishops.” He had smiled sincerely, broadly as he’d said it.

It was lovely.

At this, they’d oohed and ahhed. Sir Gaspar had even clapped in excitement, just once, like a child would. As the youngest of the three, being twenty-two, it didn’t even phase the others. James had known the man to display such behavior before, but he was an otherwise wonderful person to discuss things with; a good head for business and a near-perfect gentleman.

Why, if Louisa Maria were old enough, he might have married her off to the man, were he interested in a betrothal.

“And in the firelight, or again, a storm with lightning, the sides look as though it were afire because the wooden sides… they are of mixed grains and types, and look as though they are tongues of fire from Pentecost itself!”

Oh, they had been wowed by that, and so he’d kept going, for who was it to hurt?

He’d had enough of the mirror and wanted to present it in the best possible light. And he was thankful for what he’d learned of the Bible before becoming Catholic, so he’d been able to mention that particular detail.

His smile had widened to match the Sirs Alexandre’s and Gaspar’s at this juncture.

After taking a moment to compose himself, he’d continued, telling the men that he believed the mystery of the mirror was its grandest feature. “It’s like watching pictures that move; nothing we’ve ever seen and I am not sure how else to describe it. The last owner of the piece just adored it for that quality… he found it… quite touching.”

There, that hadn’t been a lie, had it?

For if his son Edward had passed through the mirror, surely he’d had to have touched it!

And that had been the
pièce de résistance
for the Sirs Alexandre and Gaspar, with Sir Benard soon following suit. In fact, James had received the missive from him three days past via a messenger that he would also be joining the little group to bid for the mirror, and it thrilled James to no end.

The trio had no idea the true reason he was ridding himself of the object; nothing else could come through to haunt his dreams; nobody else in his family would disappear in the midst of a storm.

Of that he was certain.

Nonetheless, it didn’t hurt that his footman, Edmund Louis, had backed his story on the attributes of the mirror; it was, after all, one of a kind and caught the eye.

If it wasn’t, Mary would never bought it from the antique dealer in Paris. Of that, he was as certain that the next day would come.

James had never asked her about the story behind it; what she’d learned about it at the time of purchase, for he had thought it silly, knowing she felt bad for Edward, having refused his courtship in order to marry him, instead.

Had she married him instead of me,
he thought
, would he still be? Would she have gone and bought that crazy mirror?

James strolled over to the front of the mirror as he attempted to rearrange and clear his thoughts. It would do no good dwelling on the negative, or on the past; it wasn’t changeable.

Absolutely nothing could be changed they didn’t change in the current moment, as it came along. People needed to remember that.

Now, his guests would arrive any moment, and James was thankful that there was no thunder rolling through the air; there had been a bare sprinkle the night before, but that had been it. As the footmen moved the mirror closer to the door, he continued to think. It would behoove him well to have a full-on plan of action.

“Edmund Louis, may I speak with you a moment?”

The tall, chestnut-haired footman came and kneeled briefly before him in fealty and then awaited his continuation.

“When these guests arrive, I want to make sure that Governess Lourdes keeps the children out from under foot. I cannot have an accident of truth on my hands as regards the real reason I am looking for a different owner for it. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Let the rest of the men handle this undertaking. As you are my most valued footman, and I trust you even with my own life, I would have you go and discuss this with the governess. Help her understand the absolute importance of this assignment over the next three days. And it might go four, if things run long.”

“As you wish, Master James,” the young man said, bowing once more ever so slightly and then heading up the staircase toward the nursery.

James watched him until he was out of view, then turned back to his window.

The men would stay for three days, getting to know the family a bit, and discussing the ins and outs of the mirror’s particulars before James would allow any bidding on it. And then, after the masque the third night, they would decide.

He knew Louis and Françoise had been planning the party for weeks now, and it was likely to be a smash.

He laughed, thinking how odd that these men would be going and may not even know which man the king was. Unlike others’ masques, at theirs, they almost never revealed faces.

Again turning his attention to his task, James ran a hand through his beard a few moments, paused, and then continued pacing. He wanted there to be as much competition as there could possibly be. He hoped for a fourth day, even, for that would mean, likely, that the competition had gotten fierce.

Perhaps I should take them hunting tomorrow
, he thought. That way, they could become better acquainted and have a bit less time with the mirror itself.

Hmmm. That has possibilities… take them for a hunt and just… allow the day to languor away and perhaps we’ll actually find something to stock up. Either we can split it or, depending on the amount, I can just let them take it home. The hunting and dressing should take some time… especially if I limit it to knives and arrows.

As he was thinking things over, Mary had come down the stairs, up the long walk, and to his side.

“Mary,” he asked her as she arrived, “where did you say you got this mirror again, and what did you learn of the history at the time of sale?”

He didn’t bother to turn to her, his eyes looking out the window nearest the door, in the hopes his guests would arrive sooner than later.

“My Lord, it is a long tale I was told, and I remember much of it well. A tale that goes back into the twelfth century to a certain man named Alfonso. Where would you like the tale told? Here, before the men arrive, or shall I regale all of you at once?” Her tone was serious, but ran teasingly toward the tail of the comment.

James looked at the little woman at his side, her long hair bundled in braided glory atop her head, and smiled. For oh, how she loved to tease him whenever she could. She helped keep him young, even if it was truly his little Louisa Maria who was his true consoler.