Chapter 14

Fourteen

THE HAWTHORN SUITE

I sat in bed, Kindle in hand, unsure if this was the right thing to do.

That bouquet.

The story of Joan.

I did it.

I opened Steve Clifton’s book, The Woman in the Orange Dress, on my e-reader.

He’d dedicated it to, Aunt Dorothy, for all the talent you weren’t given the time to share.

Also, To Mum and Dad, for believing in me.

Then I hit the Preface.

It began:

To understand what happened to Dorothy Vera Clifton, you have to understand the stories of Virginia Alcott, Joan Alcott and Rose Alcott. The broken three.

On a spiked heartbeat, I immediately closed the cover.

The broken three.

The broken fucking three.

I had not read that before Virginia said the same thing to me in a dream.

No, I had not read that before she said the same damn thing in my dream.

My heart was beating too fast, and my hands were shaking.

Those flowers weren’t right.

Someone was toying with me.

I had no idea how, or why, but they were.

Or maybe, two nights, not enough sleep, I needed to get a handle on myself and a good night’s rest.

Ian had been sharing about Virginia. I’d looked up and read about Joan. I must have read about Rose somewhere, since Virginia mentioned her in the dream. I just forgot. I’d done a lot of reading about Duncroft. I’d read about Dorothy. And the word broken wasn’t a rarely used word.

The bouquets, who knew? Maybe they only had carnations. It wasn’t like they were right next door to a flower shop. It also wasn’t like they weren’t generous with food, drink, in-house dry cleaning. They could give whole bouquets as gifts for guests. It could be their thing. All I had to do was ask.

I was blowing this out of proportion.

It was dark and it was time to go to bed, and it’d been another roller coaster day.

And truth, I was anxious about having another bad dream.

I’d accepted Ian’s sleeping pill, but I hadn’t taken it.

I got up, went to the bathroom where I put the two halves in a pretty, crystal dish set out either because it was pretty, or to put jewelry in.

I took half of one.

There was a multitude of lighting in the bathroom, including dim light that shone on the floor under the vanities.

I turned that on and left it on.

It lit my way back to the bedroom, and, once I turned off the lamps on the nightstands, the light coming from the bathroom took the edge off the dark.

I did one better, going to all the windows and pulling open the curtains.

The moon shone in.

Good.

I was learning.

I crawled into bed.

I’d never taken a sleeping pill. I didn’t know how long it would take to work.

I pulled the covers up high.

And within minutes, I was out like a light.

* * *

We were on the moors, walking and holding hands.

“It was a perfect moment, wasn’t it?” I asked.

“Perfect,” Ian agreed.

The wind swept my hair into my face.

I shook my head to shake it away.

“Why don’t you give me heather?” I asked.

“Because you’re carnations.”

“Not roses?”

“Roses are for countesses. You’re nothing but easy pussy.”

I turned to him, pulling my hand away.

He lunged at me like he wanted to harm me.

I started running.

I made it to the stairs at the front of Duncroft in a blink.

It was now dark.

I had to get there.

I had to stop it.

Or she’d be broken.

I leaped up the steps two at a time.

I made it to the foyer, but the chandelier and sconces were all lit and all that light bouncing off the white, it was so bright, it was blinding.

I skidded to a halt.

That was when I heard the scream.

I looked up.

The dress was orange.

So orange.

She was falling so fast, the silk was beating against the air, slapping against her body.

She hit with a thud, the same thud I’d heard my first night there, and a nauseating crunch.

I screamed.

Her head was turned my way, eyes open and lifeless. Then the blood came out of those eyes, her mouth, her ears, creeping across the white marble, mingling with her platinum hair, the orange silk of her dress. All that orange and red, stark against the white.

The diamonds wrapped around her forehead and her wrist twinkled expensively in the lights.

Her arm was twisted wrong, as were both of her legs.

Even so, she lifted her head.

I started backing away.

One side was caved in, the blood dripping in thick globs from the wound.

Her jaw came unhinged as her mouth moved.

“Broken.”

I turned and ran into Ian.

He was now in old-fashioned eveningwear, staring down at Dorothy.

“No more carnations for her,” he said.

A tap on my shoulder and I looked that way.

Marble-white Persephone had left her post.

“Will you come with me?” she asked. “It’s time to go to the fields.”

I shook my head, heart in my throat, fear coating my skin, and raced by Ian and into the night, onto the lawn, through the trees, to the moors, going in the direction I saw Daniel take. Running. Running.

I saw them, all three of them, pushing and fighting among the nighttime shadows of heather. Virginia in a pale dress that shone in the moonlight.

It was blue.

“You pushed her!” she screamed.

“No, you pushed her!” David shouted back.

They both turned on a shadowed man, just a body wearing evening clothes, no face.

William.

“No, you pushed her!” They yelled at him.

Virginia then looked to me, and her screech felt like it shattered my eardrums, “BROKEN!”

I whirled in fear and found myself in a big space made from stone. There were large fireplaces. Coarse furniture. Hanging tapestries.

My eyes went direct to her.

She smiled at me.

Rose.

“They’ll burn me alive for this,” she said gleefully. Then, like she was of my time and not wearing a gown and kirtle, her hair hidden behind a structured hood and veil, she cried, “Worth it!”

She cackled.

Wet splashed on me.

I spun and more hit me.

Blood.

Everyone in the room was vomiting blood.

I tried to back away and slipped on it.

Fell.

It was all over the stone. I couldn’t get my hands under me. I kept falling into the blood.

I felt a presence loom over me.

I looked up.

It was Rose.

She was burning.

“Broken,” she said, smiling as her skin blistered, blackened, fell away. She reached toward me. “Be broken with me.”

I shot up in bed, then shot out of it.

Bare feet hitting the floor, I ran to the door, threw it open, dashed out, down the hall, around the landing, to Ian’s room.

I pounded, loudly, frantically, then pulled the door open.

The light switched on just as I ran into his sitting room.

I stumbled clumsily to a halt and looked left.

He’d thrown off the covers and was angling out of bed but stopped when he caught sight of me, his expression freezing.

“Daphne?”

“Do you put bouquets of flowers on guests’ beds?”

“What?”

“Do you put bouquets of flowers on guests’ beds!” I screamed.

He moved quickly to me—pajama bottoms, drawstring, navy…bare chest, wide, great chest hair, all over, even on his flat, boxed belly.

I backed away.

He stopped.

“Come here, love,” he coaxed gently, holding a hand to me.

“Do you? Answer me,” I demanded.

“I don’t know,” he said, dropping his hand.

“How did Rose die?”

“Rose?”

“The one who poisoned her fiancé, her family.”

“That was Margery.”

Margery.

Yes.

That was her name.

“Who’s Rose?” I asked.

“You need to calm down.”

“What’s happening?”

I reeled toward the door. It was Lady Jane in a beautiful cashmere dressing gown, looking like a deity.

I’d never seen her face so expressive. She was watching me, her beauty etched in worry.

“Do you put bouquets on beds?”

“Bouquets on beds?” she asked.

“Carnations.”

Her eyes darted to Ian.

“Tell me!” I shrieked.

She looked again to me. “No, dear, I don’t. We don’t. Is someone leaving carnations on your bed?”

While Jane asked this, Ian stalked out of the room.

“Yes. The first night. And tonight,” I told her.

“I don’t know who’s doing that, Daphne, but we’ll get to the bottom of it. Come,” she motioned to Ian’s couch. “Sit. Let me call down for some hot cocoa.”

I was shivering. So damned cold.

I raked a hand through my hair, shook my head. “I’m having nightmares.”

“It’s a cruel joke. Perhaps a prank. Not funny,” she murmured irritably. She got close, touched my arm lightly. “Will you sit with me?”

“Don’t wake anybody up. I just need to calm down.”

“All right. I won’t wake anyone up. But will you sit with me?”

I nodded.

She led me to the couch, carefully moved some papers, and we sat down.

“I’m so sorry this has happened,” she said. “I can’t…there’s no excuse. But I can assure you it’ll be dealt with.”

It hit me.

Daniel.

And maybe Portia.

Probably mostly Portia.

They were here the first night, and tonight.

But not last night, when I didn’t get any flowers.

Both nights, they’d disappeared early.

It was Daniel, but probably Portia.

I knew it.

I sucked in a breath.

It was then I realized Jane was holding my hand on her knee.

“I’m sorry I woke you up,” I mumbled.

“This house can be overpowering. You get used to it, though.”

Never.

I was having my talk tomorrow with Portia, then I was taking Lou, who this house and the people in it was giving migraines, and we were getting the fuck out of there.

I jumped nearly out of my skin when I saw movement at the door.

Daniel in nothing but boxer briefs, and Portia, in a baby-pink, short, lace-edged, obviously expensive nightie.

Ian brought up the rear.

The new arrivals both looked disheveled and that groggy-alert you get when you’re woken up by something important: you’re awake, but you’re still half-asleep.

“Tell her,” Ian demanded.

Daniel was staring at me.

“Tell her!” he roared.

“It was just a joke,” Portia said in a small voice, also staring at me, looking ludicrously guilty.

Goddamn it.

Portia.

“Oh my Lord,” Lady Jane breathed angrily.

“Get out of my sight,” Ian ordered.

“Ian—” Daniel started.

“Danny, get her…out of my…sight.”

Straightaway, Daniel herded Portia out the door.

But my sister kept looking back at me.

Guilty.

Ian turned to his mother.

“I’ve got this,” he declared.

“All right, darling,” she replied readily, giving my hand one last pat, putting it in my lap and rising with the grace of a ballerina.

She floated to Ian. He dipped down to get her peck on his cheek.

She turned at the door. “I’m truly so sorry, darling,” she said to me. “But as ever, tomorrow is another day.”

Trust her to quote Scarlet O’Hara and not sound like a twit.

“Thanks for checking in, Lady Jane.”

The ends of her lips curled minutely.

She closed the door behind her.

A glass of liquor I smelled instantly was whisky was shoved in my face.

I looked up at Ian. “I don’t like whisky.”

“Drink it.”

“I—”

“Drink it, Daphne.”

I gave him a glare and took the glass. Then I threw back the entire contents.

I nearly retched. I did breathe with my mouth open like fire would come out.

Whisky.

Bluh.

“I didn’t say chug it, for fuck’s sake,” Ian muttered, taking the glass from me and slamming it down on the table on top of some papers. “Up. In bed.”

I stood. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

“I’m sorry about why you woke me up.”

“I’m sorry I woke your mum up too.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s over. Get in bed.”

“How did you know it was them?”

“You don’t make two billion pounds before you’re twenty-eight not knowing how to read people. Your sister has a nasty streak. Hence only two dates.”

And no fucking, he thankfully left unsaid.

“Thanks for…well…” I lamely threw out a hand to finish that statement.

“Daphne, get in bed.”

“All right,” I mumbled. “Thanks again.”

I started to the door.

His arm around my belly stopped me.

I looked up at him.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“To bed.”

He jerked his head to the left. “The bed is that way.”

My mouth dropped open.

“You think I’m going to let you sleep alone?” he demanded.

“I—”

“You shrieked at me.”

Oh God.

How embarrassing was this?

“I’m fine now, Ian.”

“You’ll be more fine if you have another nightmare that wakes you up, terrified, and you don’t have to race through the house in the dark to get where you feel safe. You didn’t go to Lou. You didn’t go to Portia. You came to me. That shares all I need to know. Now, get in my bed.”

“I don’t want to—”

I stopped talking when he looked to the ceiling.

This had to do with him being clearly exasperated, and I felt bad it was me exasperating him.

This also had to do with the fact his throat and shoulders and collarbone and chest were on display, all of that was close, and I was no longer freaking out (so much), so I could process it, and what I was processing was making me weak in the knees.

He looked down at me and his voice had gentled when he urged, “I need sleep. You definitely need sleep. And honest to fuck, I need you in here with me. Swear to Christ, the way you looked when you rushed in here, I thought the devil was on your heels.”

“God, I’m so sorry,” I whispered.

He pulled me into his arms, close, giving me a comforting hug and a soft urge of, “Come to bed.”

His arms felt good, and I didn’t have the energy to fight it any longer.

“All righty,” I mumbled to the skin across his bulging pecs.

He let me go but took my hand and guided me to bed.

I climbed in and scooched over. He folded in after me.

He turned out the light, pulled the covers high over us both, then found me and tucked me to his warm body.

It could be, all the muscles he was no longer hiding under his clothes were just hard normally.

But I sensed he was tense.

“Did I freak you out?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Stupid question,” I muttered.

“No, it wasn’t. I’m fine,” he assured.

“So am I. I’m okay. It’s all okay. It was just a very bad joke and me winding myself up about things.”

“I’m not freaked out anymore, Daphne.”

“You’re tense.”

“Yes. Because I’m out of my brain angry at your sister.”

He could say that again.

“I just—”

His hand came to rest tenderly on my cheek, good aim, because it was dark as pitch in his room.

“Daphne, what might hasten this process is if you’d be quiet.”

I shut up.

He slid his hand back into my hair and then commenced running his fingers through it.

That felt nice.

I started to unwind.

I felt his body begin to relax.

He switched to stroking my back.

I unwound more.

He stopped stroking and pulled me close.

I cuddled my cheek to his chest.

And fell asleep.

In the dark, on the face of the tablet by Ian’s bed, the clock ticked the minute change.

It was three oh three.