Upon a Midnight Dream (3 page)

“Rose is dying?” Stefan asked. His chest began to hurt. It felt that his mother had finally been able to reach him, for it seemed all the air in the once large room was sucked out and he now sat suffocating. His breath came in short gasps as he tried to regain some semblance of control over his physical reaction to the news.

“Very much so,” his mother said. “And I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but from the sound of it, the girl doesn’t have much time left.”

“You swear it?” He had to ask it, for his mother was not above stretching the truth in order to get her way.

“Not that it matters, but yes. I swear it. Stefan, it was your father’s last wish. His only wish, for us to continue aligning the families.”

Suddenly exhausted, he allowed his body to fall back into the confines of the chair. “There has to be another explanation.”

“But there isn’t!” his mother snapped.

“She’s right, Stefan.” Fitz spoke up, his voice sounded weak with fever, it was strained, absolutely void of any luster. “You must do something.”

Stefan looked into his brother’s expressionless eyes, and his heart gave way again. How had things spiraled so far out of his control? And so fast?

“I’ll leave as soon as I can,” he said, looking down at the cold slate floor. It was, as he thought, a moment in time where he would always remember the look on everyone’s face. His mother, in mourning and thinking nobody noticed as she continued to drink more and more sherry until her features took on a rosy appearance. And Fitz, silent as the grave, because even he knew he hadn’t much time left.

The sunlight poured in through a crack in the drapes, tiny dust particles sprung to life all around Stefan’s face, and it seemed the universe was frozen in place. His family utterly broken, silent, and grieving in that tiny death trap of a room. And he, the savior of him all, had just agreed to marry a girl with one foot in the grave. It was madness.

But it was also love. True love for his father who had died before his time, and his mother who was slowly dying every day, and Fitz. He owed it to Fitz for life had been the cruelest to him over the past few months.

Stefan had thought he was over Elaina. That hopefully through the passage of time, her beauty would cease to affect him.

Instead, he found it was worse. So when Fitz began his downward spiral into his sickness, Elaina had sought comfort elsewhere. The thought alone made Stefan ill, for Elaina had gone to James, of all people, for that comfort.

“How long shall it take?” James asked, breaking his sulky silence from the corner of the room. He was ruined more than anyone, for he had publicly announced a matron of the ton as his mistress, making him not only the laughingstock of the family, but also bitter for the woman who had denied him. Which was why he took his solace where he could find it—Elaina’s bed.

“I’ll be as quick about it as I can,” Stefan said.

“Good,” James excused himself from the room, not quite sure on his feet, for he had consumed nearly as much whiskey as his mother had sherry.

“Stefan?” With tremulous hands, his mother held out a crumpled piece of parchment. “It must be done this year or else…” Her weak voice trailed off.

“Or else?” Stefan asked, not sure he wanted to know the end of her tragic tale.

“The curse will take us all, Stefan.”

Biting back another oath Stefan took the paper and stuffed it in his jacket pocket. “I’ll return as soon as I am able.”

“You cannot fail, my son.”

His mother’s last words haunted him as he quit the room. The only sounds in the depressed house were those of James’ and Elaina’s stolen laughter, Fitz and his coughing, and his mother weeping into her hands.

“I will not fail,” he vowed, and went in search of his horse.

It is never too late to be what you might have been—George Eliot

That same cursed day…

The snow fell throughout the afternoon. Rosalind watched as the flakes danced through the darkening sky. The solitude in her hiding spot should feel lonely, but instead she relished the few silent moments to herself.

With her godmother running around the manor like a little mother hen, it was a shock she could even find a place to hide. Why, she had asked when she was little, did she need a godmother? Was having a full staff in the house not enough? Her father had merely patted her head and said she was extra special and in need of more than one guardian. Though her godmother scoffed at such an idea and swore up and down it was merely a precaution in case one of them died.

They believed Mary to be his insurance policy. But Rosalind knew better than that. Mary adored her, and she Mary. Since leaving her mother in London, her godmother was all she had. Her family had all but abandoned her since the night of her father’s death, in hopes that the curse would follow only Rosalind.

“What have you done?”
he had said. Shivering, she pulled her arms closer to her chest and sunk deeper into the chair.

“Rose!” Mary’s high voice pierced the once silent afternoon. “Rose! I know you are hiding! Come here at once!”

Hide? From her godmother? Rosalind laughed. That was impossible, for Mary was everywhere every second, constantly watching Rosalind as if she were breakable. It was irritating to say the least.

“Here, I’m in here!” Rosalind yelled back, snapping the book in her lap closed. She straightened her shoulders and waited for the little woman’s entrance.

Within minutes, Mary stomped into the room, face flushed with exertion. “Child! You simply cannot give me such a scare as to disappear for a few hours without a peep!”

“Peep,” Rosalind offered with a devious smile.

Ignoring her, Mary marched towards the window where Rosalind sat. “Have you nothing better to do the day before your birthday than read?”

Rosalind stretched her hands over her head. “What would you have me do, Mary? It is snowing, after all. Would you like me to go for a ride out in the snow?”

“What a lovely idea! I’ll tell the groom at once!”

With that Mary ran out of the room, yelling at the top of her lungs to ready Rosalind’s horse.

She should have known better than suggest anything to Mary, the godmother who thought idle hands were the devil’s playground. And that any person with enough time on their hands to sulk had adequate time to do something about it.

Legs heavy with sleep, she made her way up to her rooms to don a warm riding habit lined with fur and a muff. The last thing she wanted was to meet her death in the freezing snow the day before her nineteenth birthday. Her last one, according to all the best doctors in London.

Rosalind took her time descending the stairs, careful as she added weight to each step. She must be mad to go riding in such a condition, but part of her wondered if Mary wasn’t just eager to get her out of the house. After all, she had been spending a record-breaking amount of time reading and gazing out the window. But her muscles were more fatigued now than ever. The woman, who was once fearless, was now full of fear. It seemed to choke the very life out of her.

The crisp winter air burned her nose. Though not extremely cold, it would most definitely be a frigid jaunt. Her legs continued to work properly as she made her way to the stables.

“And how is Duke today?” The smell of horses and sweat welcomed her as she noticed Duke already saddled and ready to go.

Hubert, her groom, laughed. “Aye, Miss, he’s as feisty as ever. Careful out there, Miss. Duke is itching to go for a long run.”

“We’ll do fine, I’m sure.” Closing her eyes, she ran her hand over his beautiful black coat, relishing in the warmth of his fur. Without assistance, she mounted and took off in a short trot.

Although she hated to admit it, Mary was right. The cool air invigorated her as the snow lightly fell around her, and absolute silence was her company—well, silence and the sound of birds singing and flying through the sky. How could everything around her seem so peaceful when war raged within her and her family?

The curse—it had caused all of this. And there was no way out, at least not according to her mother and two sisters.

So, she was not sent to Sussex for holiday. She was sent here to die. Away from her family, in hopes that the spell would lift once Rosalind paid the price of denying the demands of the family curse. Her sisters had argued against it, but it seemed her mother was slowly going mad since her father’s death. In a way, Rosalind was the sacrifice her mother was all too willing to make in order to rid the family of the generational hex.

Was it really so wrong of her to want to marry for love? Had she known that decision would have cost her father his life, she would have run down the aisle, dragging that Nordic god kicking and screaming if need be.

But all hope was lost. It was the beginning of December, and if her mother’s madness were any indication, the curse would lift only if Rosalind married before the end of the year. And not just to anyone. No, it had to be one of the late duke’s sons. Last she heard, the youngest was ill with some sort of deadly disease, and the second oldest was utterly ruined. Rosalind’s own mother wouldn’t let her speak of him, let alone marry him, even if it meant the end of the curse. According to her mother, it would be better to die than be tied to such a man.

Leaving only the current Duke of Montmouth,
Stefan
. The rogue. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the warmth of his skin, and smell the spices on his jacket as he carried her through the thick night air.

Shuddering, she pushed the thought away. Surely, he had already found a more suitable bride. Looking around, she let out a large sigh. Nobody in sight.

It was safe to say that any sort of marriage for Rosalind was an impossibility. Not that it mattered, for the tonics had stopped working, her sickness was getting worse. Though nobody could explain it, the spells were less frequent but when they happened Rosalind had little control over her body in those times. What man would want to marry someone who was struck with sleeping spells? It seemed the only time she could sleep was when the spells hit her. To make matters worse, she had started to become somewhat of an insomniac at night, finally resorting to a family recipe for tea that was said to help her relax, though for some reason the recipe was safeguarded by the staff in London. She had sent a missive earlier in the week to obtain the recipe.

Lost in thought, she kicked her heels into Duke who bolted forward, sending her hat flying. Her hair, now released from the confines of its pins, spread wildly about her shoulders. Long locks of red whipped down her back as she galloped, small tendrils brushed across her cheek as the cold air stung her face. Laughter bubbled out of her as she urged Duke to go faster and faster.

“Ho.” Pulling back on the reigns, she brought the horse to an abrupt stop at her favorite creek and jumped off. “Good boy, you liked that didn’t you?” Duke neighed in response, his head bobbed up and down. She pulled an apple out of her satchel and shared it with him.

Humming, she closed her eyes. Allowing her daydreams to take hold. Her dreams were all she had, for she was plagued by them. She was constantly falling asleep. The spells would never last a long time, but dreams always accompanied them. Ones with dancing and laughter, bright colors and teasing. And always his face. It was the only face she continued to remember after she tried so hard to forget.

And always in her dreams, he would pick her up in his arms and carry her to the dance floor. Wrapping his large arms around her, he would dance and dance. The music never ended. And Rosalind would laugh in his arms, relishing the feel of his strength. Admiring the beauty of his perfectly sculpted face.

Lost in her fantasy, Rosalind curtsied, held out her hand, and began twirling in circles. Flurries of snow swirled about her feet as she flew around and around. She hummed and then began singing.