Chapter 34

CHAPTER 34

ROSE

E ven from the grave, my mother influenced my actions. It had been a few weeks since her funeral, and I didn’t know what I expected to change, but hardly anything had.

The house was still somber. It felt like she would come marching down the halls, her heels clicking as she searched for a victim for whatever tirade she was having. I still expected to see a new maid scurrying around the corner in fear.

I was still being forced to take part in throwing this church bazaar. I hadn’t been back to the church since the funeral. My father didn’t push, and I didn’t want to see anyone, especially Thomas.

After the funeral, several people called to offer their condolences and check on how I had been doing, for precisely three days. One woman, whom I didn’t know very well because my mother stuck up her nose at the woman’s “new money,” sent over an entire catered dinner. It was unusual; not just the act itself, but the food was almost entirely simple carbs, which were practically outlawed for women to eat, and different soups and stews. I didn’t understand the gesture, but it saved me from having to feed myself, and I may have let the plastic tub of macaroni and cheese provide more comfort than was probably healthy.

After that, it was silence.

It seemed as if society was ready to move on from my mother’s reign and decide who the new queen bee was going to be. It took less than a week for another one of the society women to run circles around everyone else. I stayed back, receiving updates on the carnage through the other daughters, who were fascinated by their mothers’ escapades. Unlike their mothers, however, these girls had figured out the brilliance of group chat.

It didn’t matter how many times I left those chats. Despite the fact I didn’t consider a single one of these women as friends, they put me right back in, saying things like, “It’s really important to be around people you care about in times like these,” or “I know you’re grieving, but locking yourself away from your friends and family will only make it worse.”

Never mind that I hadn’t locked myself away from my family at all. In fact, my father and I were growing closer. I also spent more time with Amelia at her school while I figured out what I wanted to do with my life.

Still, I had separated myself from most of the society women and was slowly pulling away from what could only be described as the world’s most toxic, Chanel-wrapped people on the planet. It wasn’t until Mrs. Donahue contacted me about the Christmas bazaar that I was forced to rejoin society.

That woman would not take no for an answer.

First, she sent a message via courier because apparently we lived in the year of our Lord 1735, asking for my help running the Christmas bazaar. When I said no, she just took it upon herself to show up at my door to check on my well-being. She forced me to serve her tea and entertain her while she went on and on about how tragic my mother’s death was, her garish orange lipstick staining the bone china tea set that had been in my family for generations.

Still, I politely refused her request, stating that I simply was not up to running social events at this time. I thought she would allow me the time to grieve properly, even if my grief was over my own soul being tainted by my hand in my mother’s death and not by the loss of a motherly influence, as Mrs. Donahue kept saying.

The way she kept repeating the words “motherly influence” and taking me under her arm made me nauseous and wonder if her ploy wasn’t about getting me to help but rather an attempt at trying to sink her claws into my freshly widowed father. After all, her husband left her a year or two ago for a much younger woman.

I genuinely did not care who my father dated, or even if he dated, but I certainly would not let this woman control me like my mother had.

I was about to tell her just that when she pulled out a manila envelope and showed me the brochures and flyers that she had created. The beautiful gold script at the top stated that the Christmas bazaar was being dedicated to Mary Quinn Astrid. There were even a few lines about her dedication to charitable work and how her loss would be felt for generations.

I had never wanted to roll my eyes more in my life.

“I understand this might be hard for you, sweetheart,” she said, patting my hand condescendingly. “But I think doing this in your mother’s name might help you heal.”

She had a point.

Maybe doing this, in my mother’s name or whatever, would help make up for the fact that I’d had a hand in her death. I wasn’t expecting it to cleanse my soul or erase my sins, but maybe it was a start?

“Besides,” Mrs. Donahue said, interrupting my thoughts. “I simply just don’t have the time right now. There are so many galas and other things that require my full attention, and even if I had the time, I’m afraid I’m unable to read your mother’s handwriting.”

She pulled out another envelope with the church basement blueprints and an outline of where specific tables and set ups were supposed to go. My mother’s distinct chicken scratch in her favorite fountain pen ink, Herbin Emerald of Chivor, feathered on the cheap paper she had written on.

I never understood why she insisted on writing with a fountain pen on paper that wasn’t fountain pen friendly, leaving her writing nearly impossible to decipher.

Montblanc made rollerballs too.

I pushed that annoyance aside, realizing that because of her terrible handwriting, the bleeding of the ink, and the feathering on the cheap paper, I really was the only one who could decipher the notes my mother had all but scribbled. Even then, it was because she had trained me to know what she wanted, more than any ability to read her handwriting.

My refusal was on my lips when Mrs. Donahue kept talking.

“I’m afraid that if we don’t get your help, the Christmas bazaar may not happen at all. Father Manwarring was the one in charge of seeing us through and doing the day to day, but he got called away on some type of assignment, and I don’t even think he’s in the city anymore.”

“Father Manwarring won’t be there?” I asked a little too quickly. If Mrs. Donahue noticed, she said nothing.

“He won’t be, which is really just putting us out so much. Between losing your mother and now losing him, the other volunteers simply don’t have the required breeding and taste to truly make this event something your mother would have been proud to have her name on. Not to mention the charities that count on this?—”

“What do you need me to do?” I interrupted with a defeated sigh.

“Oh, that’s wonderful.” She clapped her hands as she stood, gathering her purse and brushing the wrinkles from her pantsuit. “I’ll tell the church’s secretary now. Really, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate this.”

She pulled out a few more files and left them for me to figure out on my own as she rushed out.

That lying bitch.

When I got to the church, I headed down to the basement where the bazaar would be held, expecting to see a room with bored-looking teenagers and boxes of things that needed to be sorted and organized. Instead, when I got there, the room was already full of energy and people were running around getting things arranged.

And none other than the devil himself, Father Manwarring, standing in the middle of it all, directing a kid holding a Tiffany-blue Christmas tree that by the end of the day would be decorated with both contemporary and antique ornaments that the jewelry store had donated.

I refused to think of him as Thomas anymore. He was a priest. Even though his actions were as far from godly as anyone could get.

He must have felt my gaze on his back because when he turned and saw me, he didn’t look surprised. He looked like he had been waiting for me.

I hated how even in this crowded room, surrounded by people, my body still responded to his presence.

No.

I could not let that happen.

Quickly, I turned and headed to the far side of the room, where others were unboxing the donations for the silent auction. If only he could take a hint.

“We need to talk,” Father Manwarring said, his hand brushing mine as he placed an 18k gold plated manger scene on one of the snow-white tablecloths.

“No,” I said. “We don’t.”

“Where does the Waterford crystal go?” one volunteer asked.

I turned my back on Father Manwarring, so grateful for this little high school freshman I could kiss her.

“The Winter Wonders baubles should go on the sales table over there. They should have tags that say five hundred dollars each. The smaller crystal ornaments need to be hung from the gold tree when they get here, and they should be marked at two hundred dollars each. The gold ones should be hung too. They are one hundred each. The rest of the boxes should be drinkware sets, barware sets, things like that. Those should be placed on the silent auction table with the clipboards in front of them.”

The girl stared at me, her eyes wide, as she lifted an ornament out of the tissue paper it was wrapped in. “This golden triceratops is one hundred dollars?”

I gave her a knowing smile. It was a little ridiculous. I couldn’t wait to see her face when she found the golden shrimp.

“Yes, they were donated by Waterford Crystal. It’s a pretty prestigious brand.”

“It’s a golden triceratops, as a Christmas ornament.”

“Angel,” Father Manwarring said again, trying to get my attention, reaching out and touching my hand.

Waves of warmth and electricity spread from his touch through my skin, making my spine tingle.

I ignored it.

“You know what? Let me help you. There is really a lot in here, and that triceratops isn’t even the weirdest one.”

I walked away from Father Manwarring again, hoping he would just back off. Of course, I could never be that lucky.

The entire day, Father Manwarring would find reasons to be close to me. His hand would touch the small of my back, and if, for whatever reason, my back was to a wall, it would slide lower. Every time he looked at me, I could feel it. Every time he touched me, it felt like my entire body was set alight.

I hated how much power he had over me.

“I would have preferred to talk to you in private,” he came out of nowhere and whispered in my ear. “But if you insist on having this conversation in public, that can be arranged.”

“Go away.”

“Oh, little angel, do you think that you’re free of me now?”

“Aren’t I? You got what you wanted. You had your revenge. So you have no more use for me,” I bit out and walked away, pretending that I couldn’t still feel where his hands had rested on my hips.

At every moment I was painfully aware of where he was. Stolen glances from me were returned with inconspicuous touches whenever he was near me. I hated how much I loved it.

Only twenty minutes later, he cornered me again.

“Are you going to pretend that you don’t miss me? That you don’t lie awake late at night thinking about me while your hands skim over your body, and you wish they were mine?”

I said nothing in response. There was nothing I could say. If I tried to deny it, he would see through the lie, and if I admitted it, then he would have far too much power over me again.

Stiffening my back and willing my body to ignore the way it was pulled to his, I walked away.

“You don’t have to say anything, angel. I can see the way your eyes linger on my body. I can even see the way your breath deepens when I’m around you. Your body craves me. Why deny yourself?”

“I’m only denying your delusion,” I lied. Then I went to greet a string quartet player and show him where he and the others would set up later that night.

When he cornered me again, we weren’t alone. Mrs. Donahue came to check on the progress we had made.

“Oh, this all looks so wonderful,” she gushed to Father Manwarring. “I’m so glad you could make it back in time. We would have been lost without you.”

And here I thought she simply needed me.

I cleared my throat, and I was pretty sure that was the first time she even realized I was there.

“Your mother would be so proud of how you’ve pulled this together,” she said, patting my shoulder like I was a child.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Donahue,” Father Manwarring said, gripping my arm and pulling me away from her. “I need Rose to go run a quick errand.”

I opened my mouth to complain, but he talked right over me.

“Can you go up to the main cathedral? Under the pulpit, there is a storage closet. There are several extra altar candles in there. Can you grab some for me? The silver candlesticks look a little empty, and I think they would be better served with candles in them. Don’t you agree?”

My cheeks flamed with his words. I ducked my head just enough so that my hair curtained my face as I turned to go fetch the candles.

It took me only a few minutes to locate a box of the white taper candles, images of what he and I did in this very room flashing in my mind.

The way he touched me, the way he punished me and how my body so willingly bent to his. He showed me I needed things I didn’t even know to want.

I could say I didn’t want it over and over. I could say he was holding my reputation over my head and that it was coercion at best. It didn’t change a damn thing. Because I wanted it. No matter how much I pretended I didn’t, how much I protested, my body wanted his touch and it wanted to bend to his will. It wasn’t the night he spent licking between my thighs that I thought about late at night. It was the way he spanked me, with his hand, with the belt. The way he put me on my knees and demanded I serve him. Those were the moments I replayed in my mind every night.

I liked the way he made me feel, even when he was punishing me, even when he hurt me. Although he never really hurt me. He was expanding the bounds of what my body could handle. What he called punishment was showing me everything that I was too afraid to admit I craved.

I shook the thoughts out of my head, reminding myself that he used me. That he didn’t love me. The acts that we did together were not expressions of love, they were of power. Not even a power struggle between me and him, but between him and my mother.

It took everything I felt for him and twisted it into something grotesque. I thought he was trying to break my will, to bend my body. Instead, he broke my heart.

I grabbed the box of candles and returned to the basement, ready with some excuse for Mrs. Donahue about why I had to go home. A migraine, perhaps? Being around everything my mother planned was just too difficult? It didn’t matter, I was going to make my excuses and leave.

When I got back to the basement, everyone had gone. All the volunteers, the other society women, they were all gone. The only person left was Father Manwarring.

“I said we need to talk.”

He took several steps toward me. I knew what he wanted, and worse, I wanted it too. But some things were more important than what I wanted. I needed him to leave me alone.

Dropping the box of candles at my feet, I turned and ran out of the room. If we were alone together, I knew exactly what was going to happen, and it couldn’t happen. I wouldn’t allow it. Not again. I couldn’t survive him wrecking me again.

Even the hallway had already been completely emptied as I ran, looking for a way out. Father Manwarring chased after me. His shoes slapping on the carpet as he called for me to stop.

His voice getting closer by the second.