Stained Rose: Chapter 2

Content warning: this chapter contains use of alcohol.

Two o’clock in the afternoon…

Daylight streams through the laced curtains, drenching the boudoir in its rays. Rosalie reclines on the chaise, an arm over her eyes and nails digging into her white sleeve. A sharp burning sensation courses through her biceps.

That accursed day repeats itself in her memory: the young gentleman wrought with anguish full as he recounted Marie’s fate; a landslide buried her beneath the mountains of Quebec. Despite the rescue party’s efforts, they never found her body. The only piece they managed to recover was a dirt-covered reticule. Rosalie sinks her nails deeper until they bruise, an invisible hand began closing around her throat.

She loosens her hold, guiding the hand towards the ceiling. Though the gift had long since vanished, its presence lingered. Last night was quite memorable, a concoction of emotions beyond her comprehension much less a suitable description for it. While she was glad to see Marie once more, there was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. Maybe it was her pallor appearance, the bitter touch, or perhaps her strange movements?

Whether she was real, a ghost, or some creature wearing her skin; she longed for her tender embrace even if it sent her to the worms.

Rosalie clenches her hand in a tight ball at Lawrence’s story and a possible hand in her demise. It might be plausible that Marie faked her death and went into hiding for three years or got ambushed by a wild animal. Numerous ideas played through her brain, yet the truth remained elusive. She groans, pinching between her brows.

She goes to the golden oval mirror mounted on the wall– a slender maiden reclines on the upper perimeter, whereas a deer pokes behind the curved bottom– her reflective counterpart mimicking her side-to-side turns as she pats the strands back into her Gibson.

The bell chimes through the entire house. Rosalie immediately sprints out of the room, weaving past the spooked servants and various furniture to the front entrance. She briefly tucks in the loose pinstripes back in and straightens her black necktie. The hand wraps around the knob in sticky sweat, bracing herself for what awaits on the other side.

Marie stands poised, hidden beneath the black veil, exchanging her deep mourning attire for a silver-grey cape with a skirt to match– all except her gloves. The flower brooch remains in its usual spot on her blouse. The rest of her body is cloaked in sweet violets on a warm Spring morning, yet there was a hint of a crisp Winter’s night sprinkled in.

She tears away from Marie, stepping aside from the entrance with her arm stretching towards the cozy abode, “Shall we?”

The soft taps trails behind Marie, as opposed to her hushed ones after midnight. Bit by bit Rosalie yanks her leaden legs to the previous room, assuming a blank face suited for a round of poker against the best players. The servants catch a glimpse of their mistress’s visitor without being affected by their daily tasks. Her chest thumps harder in its suffocating prison.

"Rosalie?”

She gasps, waking back to the boudoir illuminated by the electric lights behind the sea-green dragonflies glass case, whilst a faint halo shines beneath the heavy curtains. Marie watches her with vacant blue eyes and thin red lips pulled down, no longer behind the sheet– a dark fluffy pompadour with parts of her hair draping over the back and half of her ears.

Rosalie glances at the pale hand, sapping any warmth from her cheek. “I’m fine, fit as a fiddle.” She reaches for her touch, only to fall on her arm, “It’s been far too long.” She pulls away from her, long nails cut to a fine point tickles her skin, “Did you make it back ho–” she stopped for a second, “safe last night?”

“Not a single scratch,” she spins in a circle with arms stretched out. “Why?”

Rosalie picks up the folded newspaper from a side table, passing it over. Marie snaps the papers open, the headlines reads, “BODY DISCOVERED IN THE CHURCHYARD! EYEWITNESS ACCOUNT!” She falls back onto the chaise, languid eyes following the rows of text.

Rosalie settles on the opposite end. “If a man prances in the woods and snaps his neck, he’s just one of a thousand ants living amongst us. That is the hard truth.” She leans back on the thick armrest, “But the day you left this world, you took a piece of my soul.” A sigh passed her lips, “I almost turned the paper into kindling before taking a glance.”

A hand lifts her jaw to Marie’s countenance, “I’m not going away.” She props her arm on the frame, “I’ve traveled too far to perish in another land!” Her sight’s on Rosalie, as sharp nails gouge into the walnut. She lets go, switching back to her regular demeanor, “Besides, I can fend against…” she pulls out a bottle of Pinot and closes one eye, “The killer who’ssss– man AND beast! I’ve seen ‘em wit ma own eyes, officers! They don’t lie,” shaking the bottle in one hand and pointing a finger at her open eye.

Rosalie swells her cheeks bright pink, a squeak escapes through her tucked lips. Marie heads to the cabinet, not long after she comes back with a couple of glasses and a corkscrew. She gives it a few twists then pulls the cork out, pouring a dark crimson stream into the glass.

“It’s not evening yet.”

“Well it isn’t morning either,” Marie passes the drink to her. “Besides, I heard they make a splendid pair,” she pulls out a box of dark chocolate from a hidden pocket all in a neat row in their little wrappers, retaining their square shape.

Rosalie takes a bite of the bitter confection, melting it in her mouth before washing it down with wine, neither overtaking the other as they perform an intense yet elegant duet. She covers her mouth with three fingertips, going from the glass to Marie chewing her treat.

“Speaking of daylight,” she washes the last bit of chocolate away, “why did you close the curtains? It's a lovely day out today.”

Marie raises her head– lids half-opened, “The sun was bothering my eyes.” She raises her glass towards Rosalie, sharp teeth peaking below her curling lips, “To our reunion?”

“To our reunion!” The two tap their glasses together, wine swirling in slender confines.

***

The bottle is nearly depleted, three pieces of chocolate left in their wrappers. The two continue to entertain one another, not a day passes by. Marie’s dull irises brightened once more similar to last night, giving her body a renewed vigor. Though much merriment was had, Rosalie looks at her reflection, a smile that didn’t fit her eyes. The heart flutters against its cage, yet the other half wept in a padded room, clawing out its own chest.

“How is he? Lawrence.”

The young lady snaps out of her thoughts, silence filling the space. She writes her script posthaste. “He’s… he’s doing alright. Alyose started talking in full sentences, you would've been proud of him,” she takes an extra swig, “It wasn’t always this,” her finger traces the rim, “his body moved and acted as usual but his spirit seemed to wander elsewhere. The work, the house, even looking after the little one… were all too much,” the dark liquid follows her twisting wrist. “I didn’t think he cared, especially after the pact we all took before the wedding.”

The smile vanishes– void of joy or a spark of ire– Marie leans forward without breaking contact. “Our marriage may have been built on convenience, but that doesn’t mean he’s heartless. Of course we argued and bickered like a ‘couple’, but never pointed knives at each other’s throats.”

Rosalie didn’t move a single muscle, even as the thunderous beat deafens her ears. “I thought that–” she shakes her head, “I digress. Later on he… remarried to an English woman named Laura Brown. A good mother to your boy by the way. But just between you and me,” she leans next to her ear, “she’s a bit dull.”

Marie puts a hand to her mouth, puffing through her nose.

Rosalie pulls away, “Don’t get it twisted. She’s lovely to be around in polite company, but grass is much more entertaining.” She rests her cheek on her hand, “She never rides horseback or dirties her hands! All she does is stay indoors, either doing needlepoint or playing on her typewriter!” She places her jaw on the joints of her knuckles, letting out a sharp huff through her nose.

Marie chuckles as her lips quirk up, “But Soleil, I write all the time. So doesn’t that make me dull?”

Rosalie brushes her ginger hair back, letting out a heavy breeze, “Sternicht, there’s a difference between excitement, and a fenced-off garden with no fresh air.” She slumps into the cushions, sighing, “You can catch them at tonight’s dinner, but I’d advise hiding your face.”

Marie suppresses a chuckle, “Trust me, the last thing I want for him is to manger les pissenlits par la racine and shatter poor Elias’s heart into a million pieces.” A thin wrinkle forms on the brow, peering into her soul, “Is everything alright? You’ve been acting off.” Marie lays her back fingers on her forehead, “Are you under the weather?”

Rosalie looks away, lines creasing her forehead. “It’s just… you’re suppose to be… be–”

“Dead?”

Rosalie reflexively pulls back, looking at her like she heard the most offensive thing imaginable. “Not a word I would have chosen, but yes. I almost didn’t send the twins over to Lawrence today, lying to my face for three years!” She gets close to her face, putting up three fingers.

Her face remains unaltered, still trained on Rosalie, “What he told you is true. However, he didn’t snuff my life,” Marie explains, “if he did dirty his hands, then he wouldn’t be here at all.” She takes a short sip, “Wouldn’t you rather hear the true tale from moi rather than hearsay?”

Rosalie ceases to move, the words lodged in her throat. Her nails dig themselves into the sleeves, unable to let go of the material. She shakes her head from side to side, loosening the threads.

Marie hangs her hand in the air, sighing out, “C’est la vie. The book is always open to you, should curiosity arise.” She pulls Rosalie into her arms without a fuss, taking out the pins and tie from her hair, letting it cascade down her back. Soon after, she nuzzles her locks, “I’ve missed you, mon Soleil,”

She nestles on her shoulder, embracing her cold tender embrace “Me too, mein Sternlicht.”

***

The passage of time seemingly blur together. Marie brushes through the plush vermillion strands, a claw gliding down her neck– following the pulsing vein. Rosalie shudders, pressing an ear to her chest, a slow-faint beat much slower than hers or any typical heart. At times, she began to wonder if the rhythm was ever present.

She nudges her arm, “You’re still wearing it?”

Rosalie lifts her heavy lids, the blurry splotches form into fingers, a silver ring– a red gem embedded in a star sits on the fourth. A grin sprouts from her mouth, “A personal favorite.” Shortly after the grin wilts away, “The few pieces that kept your memory alive.” She slides a slothful hand up the sleeve towards her pallid hand. Marie takes hold of her wrist, lifting the limp hand close to her lips, eschewing the polished band and gives it a quick icy peck on the back.

A pleasant heat blooms from within Rosalie’s face, together with a familiar pain pulling at her other half. Marie brings her close to her face. The warm comforting glow erupts into a burning pyre stretching higher into the void.

Three loud strikes overtake the room. The two snap their attention to the chestnut door. Another set of knocks invade the space. “Madame? The Bonheurs are waiting in the living room, and the twins are getting dressed upstairs!” A maid’s voice cuts through the barrier.

“What?” Rosalie slips out of her companion’s grasp, “It's been 30 minutes!”

The knob shakes and jiggles, but never gives way. “It's five o’clock!”

Rosalie curses under her lips, drumming a couple fingers to her temple. “Tell them I’ll be there in five minutes!”

“Will do Madame!” The maid’s footsteps fade away.

“Shoot!” Rosalie gathers her hair, holding it in a ponytail. “Sternicht, can you help me?” Marie takes the bundle, brushing the strands out. “I don’t think I locked it? Did I lock it?”

She shrugs, “Possibly? Look ahead for me,” she points next to her head, only seeing a couple fingers in her peripheral.

The heel thumps on the rug without end and sweat seeps beneath the chemise. Her head inadvertently turns from its place with her nails. “Is it done yet? I really have to go!”

Immediately Marie clutches her jaw, reverting to its original position– her head struggling under her iron grip, “Hold on just a little longer. I can’t help you if you keep moving.” Rosalie’s body becomes stiff as a board, a pleasant fog blankets her mind, failing to recall her panic. The hair twists and pulls in various spots. “And done! You can turn around now.”

Rosalie regains her senses, turning around to Marie, “How do I look?” Only a phantom smile paints her face, pointing to the mounted wall. She dashes towards the mirror, the silver glass presenting a single braid attached to a bow made of her own hair with loose locks. Her pupils dilate, unable to tear away. “I… How long has it been since I’ve–” She shakes her head, “I have to go.” A brass key is pulled out from her pocket as she makes for the door. “You might want to…”

“I was planning to do that anyway, silly goose,” Marie grabs her hat, raising it in front of her face.

She flushes hot pink, slipping through the door and shuts it from behind, quickening her pace to the living room. Lawrence is on the sofa, bouncing Alyose on his lap; on the other end Laura was preoccupied by her knitting needles, gradually constructing a child-sized hat. Rosalie catches herself on the back chair, letting out a coughing fit.

His leg stops, putting the boy aside. “Good Lord, no need to lose a lung over it!”

Rosalie’s coughs die out gradually, “Sorry,” she pulls out a handkerchief, patting down the sweat on her forehead, “When you’re painting, time tends to lose its meaning.”

Laura sets her needles aside. “Being off by a minute isn’t worth the fuss.”

“I know, I know.” She huffs, putting the handkerchief away. “How are you two holding up? I hope the youngsters weren’t too rowdy.”

“They weren’t a problem, although they were mostly playing with this little nipper.” He pats his son’s back.

“Although when it came time to leave, they didn’t want to go, practically begging us to adopt them.” Laura chortles. “Oh, speak of the devil,” she points up to the stairs.

The twins descend the steps in unison, Victor in a suit and bow tie and Vivian wearing a frilly dress. By the time they passed the last step, Rosalie was waiting at the base, crouching to their level with outstretched arms. The two pause for a few seconds, looking at each other then their mother before walking into her embrace.

Their mother asks, “Did you two have a nice time over there?” Victor and Vivian’s shoulders loosen and wrap their arms around her, nodding their heads. She gives them both a brief squeeze albeit stiff, “Good.” Rosalie pats them on the back.

A high-pitched scream erupts from her daughter. The brother pulls away, leaving their mother on the ground clutching her ear, a sharp ring muffles her hearing. She looks up at the twins trembling on the ground, eyes following something, until their sights land on her.

A familiar sensation soaks through her bones, little bumps tingling her skin. “Are you alright?” She turns to a veiled Marie with a gloved hand on her shoulder. Never catching a light footfall.

Rosalie’s grip slips from her ear, the pain subsides. Marie helps her to her feet, they turn to the couple. Lawrence stares at the veiled woman with eyes so wide they might roll out of their sockets, Laura pushes her back into the sofa, whereas Alyose remains placid, his face lit up.

“Hel… hello there,” Laura breaks the silence. “You gave us quite a start, I didn’t even hear you come in.” She lets out a sheepish laugh. “Mrs. Winsloe, is she a friend of yours?”

Rosalie straightens her back, “Right!” She clears her throat. “Mr and Mrs. Bonheurs, I’d like to introduce you to my dearest friend! Miss… Miss…” but everything came blank, she neglected to ask Marie for a name, cursing herself. Her mind runs rampant with different scenarios of future events, each worse than the last.

“Lilian Roberts,” She steps in, giving the couple a curtsy, “it's nice to meet you, Mrs. Winsloe talked a fair bit about you.”

“Did she by chance mention the skiing incident?” A spot of pink strikes Lawrence’s face, muggy sweat sticking to his clothes.

Marie titters, “Nothing too incriminating if that’s what you’re implying, even if the contents of that story is amusing.”

Laura turns to him, “The skiing incident?”

Lawrence steps in front of Laura, his smile fraying at the edges of his reddening face, “Miss Roberts, are you joining us for dinner tonight?”

Marie nods through her veil, “Absolutely, I’ve been dying to chat with you and… your beloved,” the word almost stumbles out, even cognizant of the marriage being null and void. “Unfortunately I won’t partake in tonight’s feast, unless I break my fast.” Rosalie blinks at her in befuddlement, still maintaining a veneer. “But I assure you, it won’t be dull!”

She escorts the guests to the dining room: the twins cling to one side of their mother away from Marie, meanwhile Lawrence holds his son, and Laura walks next to him. The servants admit them to a room bathed in artificial light– a long sheet of linen drapes the rectangular tabletop, curved feet hide behind the cloth, porcelain dishes and silverwares sit on the surface accompanied by three cushioned chairs on both sides. Rosalie beckons a maid over– whispering in her ear– she nods and scurries off, not long after she returns with a spare chair. The butlers move the rows of chairs over, sliding the new addition in.

The Boheurs take their seats, Laura draws air in through her nose, “Everything smells divine!”

“That’s only a sample for the evening! You can thank our chef after dinner.” Rosalie bounces her foot anew, keeping the heel away from the hard floor. The maid comes close to her ear, hiding behind a hand. “That won’t be necessary,” she whispers, waving her away. An unruly energy pours into her body with nowhere to go.

The servants come out of the kitchen, some carrying oyster stews accompanied by rosemary bread and other assortments while others brought glasses of pear juice. Most of the meals were set in front of the guests, all except for Marie. Rosalie’s leg picks up more speed as she roughly tears pieces of the bread. Until a foot brushes her wool stocking, the hurried pace peters out to a soft tap.

Though the thin barrier obscures her face, she gave her an assuring smile. Marie turns to the couple, clasping her hands together, “How has the day treated you all?”