The sound of horse hooves clopping against pebbles echoed throughout the manor. Rose flinched, setting her book down. She turned her head to face the window.
Bright white stallions with glittering gold reins pulled a silvery carriage; it could have been made of diamonds with how it twinkled in the sun. A short, plump man sat atop it, ushering the horses onward. The picture was so pretty. It didn't seem fitting that such a splendid carriage should roll up the driveway to her dilapidated manor.
"Here comes your chariot, Lizzie!" sounded the booming voice of her brother from the Grand Hall.
Rose closed her book and tucked a hair behind her ear. "Thank you, Ferguson."
Ferguson. A name that sounded like the trumpeting of a horn during a fox hunt. It had the rumbling feel of horse hooves as they pounded into the ground. And the hearty taste of fresh meat.
He bounded into the gathering room, his boots clambering against the floors. "Well, what're you waiting for? Come on!"
Rose smiled, her eyes falling to the floor. "Oh, Ferguson, I'm so nervous." The girl shakily rose out of her chair—her favorite spot in the entire manor—and laid her book down on the table. She decided that she didn't necessarily need to escape into a fantasy world anymore, not when her life was about to begin.
"I can't believe you're getting married already—and before me!" Ferguson shouted, his ruddy face beaming.
"Well, it's different for bachelors like us, don't you know?" Rose's other brother, Harrison, spoke from behind the large frame of Ferguson. The smaller man leaned against the doorframe leading into the gathering room.
"Ah, there you are!" Ferguson said, slapping a hairy hand across his brother's back. He then laughed a deep belly laugh. "You know, you'll probably get married last out of all of us, Harrison."
Harrison. Rose saw a sly, furry tomcat sneaking about the manor whenever she heard that name. Its paw prints steeped in the mud.
Harrison smirked, his trim black mustache curling into his dimpled cheeks. "I'm not so sure, Ferguson," he said, peeling his brother's hand from his frame. "After all, which would the ladies prefer: a suave gentleman, or a boisterous buccaneer?"
"Well, personally I'd go for the buccaneer myself if I were a lady," Ferguson boasted, putting his hands in his pockets.
Harrison frowned. "You would."
Rose shook her head at the folly of her brothers', grinning. "Now, now, can you both at least quit your qualms for one day?" She walked past the small, slender build of Harrison and then took her other brother's arm. "Won't you walk me out, Ferguson?"
Putting on an air of someone in the ranks of royalty, Ferguson said in an unusually high-pitched voice, "I'd be delighted, mademoiselle."
Rose giggled, leaning into his muscular forearm.
Harrison rolled his eyes, then followed as his siblings made their way to the front door.
The sun broke through the tree limbs that shadowed the manor. Rose squinted, her eyes following the carriage as it drew nearer. They walked down the front steps together.
"Just remember, Lizzie, if he does not treat you in the manner with which you ought to be treated, you just let your ole brother Ferguson know, and I'll bring my rifle—"
"I'm not sure that will be necessary, Ferguson," Rose said, giggling. "My goodness. You are so protective of me."
"It's my job, my duty." He laughed.
Rose smiled slightly, but it soon faded. "What if we aren't compatible, Ferguson?" she said, looking off into the distance.
Her brother grinned, his yellow-ish teeth glinting in the sunlight. "Now, now, Lizzie, what man in his right mind wouldn't love to have you as his beautiful bride?"
"Oh, Ferguson, you've always been so kind to me. But I'm afraid my 'beauty' alone will not a good wife make."
"But you have so many other good qualities too!" He faced her, and she looked into his muddy brown eyes. "You're intelligent, you've good conversational skills, and you're understanding."
"But I don't know how to run a house, nor do I know the duties of a baroness."
"I'm sure someone will help you along, Lizzie. The baroness will be beside you throughout this entire process. Out of all of the maidens in the village, she chose you to take her place. There is a reason for that, you know."
"And what is that?"
"Well…" he faltered. "I'm not exactly sure. Perhaps you can ask her when you arrive."
Rose nodded her head, her eyes falling away from her brother. The carriage closed in on her. This was it. With each step the horses made, the sooner her fate was to be sealed.
The front door creaked open. Father, Minnie, and Hattie soon came bounding down the steps to send Rose off.
"Oh, my daughter." Father opened his arms wide. "What an exciting day this is. The day of your betrothal! I didn't think it would come so soon." He chuckled, taking his handkerchief and wiping away a tear from his eye.
"Father, don't cry." Rose let go of Ferguson and headed toward her father, embracing him. "I'll visit often. I promise."
"Are you sure this is what you want?" he asked, pulling away from the embrace and holding her hands. His dark eyes searched her icy blue ones for the truth.
Rose forced a small smile. "Yes, Father. I'm certain."
"Alright then." He laughed, holding back more tears. "I wish you well, my daughter. My Darling Lizzie Rose." The old man clasped her hands tightly, but his eyes darted away from hers, looking off into the front lawn.
Rose spun around, her pale blue gown swirling with the wind.
The coachman had ordered the horses to a halt and then plopped down out of his seat. He took a few steps forward, bowing in front of the family. They bowed in return. When he picked his head back up, he eyed Rose.
"Miss Elizabeth Bourne, I presume?"
Miss Elizabeth Bourne. There was something so gentle, so formal, so docile about this name. Yet at the same time, it was not Rose. It was everything she was to the public, to society, and yet it was not her at all. It missed her flowery essence. It forgot life and love. The life and love that only the name "Rose" possesses.
"Yessir," she responded, her stomach twisting into knots. "And I presume you are here to take me to… Ashworth Castle." The words tasted like a poisoned apple on her tongue.
"But of course," he said, beaming. The coachman backed up and opened the silvery carriage door, gesturing for her to enter. "His Lordship awaits."
The girl spun about, the color draining from her rosy cheeks; a look of horror spread across her face.
Her eyes fell to her sisters, who were fighting back snickers. At once, Minnie and Hattie ceased the inappropriate behavior and pretended to be crying instead.
"Oh, Lizzie, my little sister!" Minnie wailed. "I can't believe you are leaving us to become a baroness. We will miss you so." She ran forth to embrace her sister.
Rose smiled, gently petting Minnie's soft brunette curls.
Hattie followed in her twin's footsteps, crying out words of nonsense.
Rose took their hands."Thank you both. I am truly glad to have such wonderful, kind, caring sisters." She winced, forcing a smile.
"Of course," they replied in unison.
The girl backed up, almost tripping over a rock, but her father caught her. "Be careful, my Darling Lizzie Rose," he said.
"I will, Father."
She turned around, facing her brothers. "Harrison, Ferguson, thank you for being such strong and loving brothers. I couldn't have asked for a better family."
She kissed them both on the cheek. Ferguson turned a deep, ruddy red, chuckling, while Harrison remained the same pale gray color. There was a slight tilt upward at his lips, however.
Rose waved goodbye. She then took the coachman's hand as he guided her up the carriage's steps. As she entered it, everything was a diamond-encrusted blur. Her head felt foggy; everything was much too bright. But, oh, it was beautiful. A beautiful brightness.
The coachman flapped the reins and the horses took off. Rose jolted forward. But as they rode off, the girl swore she heard a mocking laugh coming from one of her sisters, and then the words: "I bet those tales about him are true."
◜❦︎◞
The name Ashworth tasted like hemlock on Rose's tongue. So, surely, Ashworth Castle would be the dark, gloomy place of her nightmares. It would look just like it tasted. Even though she had been there years before, she couldn't quite remember how it looked. Her memories faded away as her fears came forth.
But as the carriage broke through the forest, leading up to the castle on the tip-top of the mountain, something in Rose stirred. The forest wasn't black, as she had imagined. It was a vibrant green, and it had a little brook that led up to the gardens of the estate. Everywhere, birds chirped and sang love songs to one another. Pretty spring flowers fell throughout the air, dancing in the sunlight that broke through the tree limbs. Fawn-colored deer grazed on some wildflowers next to the stream, but they soon bounded away into the thicket upon noticing the horses and carriage.
And then, as she drew nearer to the castle, Rose's heart stopped. It was… it was the castle of her dreams—not her nightmares. Not a slimy gray color with ooze seeping out of the cracks on the walls and vines swirling up about the sides. But rather, the castle was a dazzling, shimmering white, with silvery details. Suddenly, memories of the castle flooded in, and the taste of the name "Ashworth" altered on her tongue. Initially bitter, with a sweet aftertaste. Like tart blackberry pie.
Her eyes fell to the gardens. Fountains with mermaids and fish and beautiful men and women spouted out water that looked like diamonds in the noon sun. There were freshly trimmed bushes everywhere; most were just a dark green, but some bore dark red roses. That deep, romantic red coloring was something she always admired about the flower. Neither pink, nor white, nor yellow roses could compare to that shade of red: The color of love and life itself.
Surely, if he owned such an arresting, dazzling estate, how could Lord Ashworth not himself be beautiful?
Rose leaned back in her plush seat. She felt the knots in her stomach unwind for the first time that day. She breathed in deep, and the fresh air was delightful and pleasing to her soul—as if the wind were saying: "Welcome home, Rose."
"Welcome to Ashworth Castle, Miss Bourne," the coachman said, enthusiastic.
Rose leaned forward, widening her eyes. "Thank you, sir. I appreciate your escorting me here."
"Of course, ma'am." He pulled in the reins, and the horses whinnied, coming to a halt.
The coachman stepped down and the next thing she knew, Rose's door was opening. Green grass, the bright blue sky, and tall trees greeted her. She crawled out, taking the coachman's hand while doing so.
Another man—tall and lanky and pigeon-toed—waited for her at the side of the carriage. He bowed. "I don't believe you remember me at all. You were twelve or thirteen the last time we saw each other, Miss Bourne. What a lovely lady you've become."
Rose shook her head, smiling. "I'm afraid I don't remember you, sir. My apologies."
"Well, that's alright." He made a clicking noise with his tongue. "Anyhow, come, miss. Let us get you inside before that devilish sun does any damage to your fair skin," he said, grinning and holding his arm out for her to take.
Rose ran her hands over her thin arms, feeling their softness. They were translucent, the colors of ripples in lakes that have been kissed by the sun. Shimmering white. Baby freckles, barely there, had popped up on her arms already. It wasn't even two weeks into spring.
The man cleared his throat, and Rose beamed up at him. She pranced over to his side, curtseying quickly before taking his arm. They strolled along, walking through a narrow path in the gardens that led directly to the castle entrance.
"Allow me to introduce myself, Miss Bourne. I am the Head of Household, Frederick Irving."
Frederick Irving. It was a name that could belong to some great novelist. Someone who writes adventure novels because they wish they could see the world but have no traveling abilities whatsoever—destined to only write about what they wish they could see. The echo of the name as it sounded through the gardens was like the fading voice of an old opera singer.
You may call me Mr. Irving if you'd like. Although I'm sure the closer we become, the more you might feel the slightest irk to call me Freddie."
Freddie. The dusty, familiar feel of an old book, an old friend. With flaps on the page corners from folding them down as placeholders, and grooves and fingerprints all over the cover.
Suddenly, Rose felt as if she remembered him. Not because of his looks, nor his voice, but because of the sobriquet. But she couldn't bring herself to say it when it felt so informal to do so. "I'm sure one day I will have the urge to call you that, Mr. Irving."
He winked, his friendly, playful old eyes meeting her youthful, icy blue ones. His pepper hair toppled over onto his wrinkled forehead, sort of like a grandfather.
As they traveled through the extensive garden, which was becoming larger than Rose thought it would be, something caught her eye. On the other side of the castle, hiding behind some bushes, a few carriages had been parked. But one, in particular, caught her eye. It was not the deliciously-decorated carriage that had carried her to the castle, but a plain one. Stale white. Like a piece of parchment paper.
Rose squinted; the carriage seemed to be from somewhere in the past, somewhere from her early adolescence. She had seen it before.
"Excuse me, Mr. Irving."
"Ah, yes, ma'am?" He leaned in, his hunched back drooping forward.
"What might that carriage over there be? The plain one."
He glanced at it momentarily, before blinking and returning his gaze to the path in front of him. The man cleared his throat and his happy demeanor fell away. "Ah… that would be the doctor."
The doctor. Shuffling feet. A white coat. Empty hallways. Slamming doors. A white carriage. Whispers. Bland, rotten food. Green mold on cheese. Death and decay.
Rose felt the life as it left her body, but she shook the past away and focused on the dark green bushes around her instead. She focused on life.
"Who is unwell, if you don't mind my inquiry?" she asked, although the girl had her premonitions.
"The baroness, ma'am." The old man's head fell. "She has drifted off into a deep slumber, and is not seeming to wake up."
Rose's thin eyebrows furrowed together. "My condolences, Mr. Irving. She was a wonderful lady." She sighed, her head dipping. "I—I wanted to see her one last time before she passed."
"I'm afraid that will not happen, my dear. The doctor says it is very unlikely she will wake. Only close friends, family, and servants are allowed to visit anyway. Those other carriages you saw belong to them. Although…" he thought for a moment, his forehead wrinkling and his chapped lips pursing together, "you are marrying His Lordship, aren't you? Perhaps the doctor will make an exception for you."
"Oh, no, Mr. Irving. I wouldn't want to spoil something so intimate. I hardly knew Her Ladyship. I would rather her final moments be spent with loved ones, instead of having to make time for me, too."
He smiled, looking at the girl. "You are very considerate, Miss Bourne." He chuckled. "I think I understand now why Her Ladyship chose you to take her place."
Rose nodded her head awkwardly, hesitantly. "Thank you, Mr. Irving."
They walked in silence for a few moments, soon reaching the entrance of the castle. Mr. Irving knocked on the tall doors that stretched up high and long—many meters in the air—and not long after, a butler opened them from the inside. The man bowed, then allowed the pair to come in.
Her eyes flitting around every which way, Rose took in the grandeur of the inside of the castle. Not even the Grand Hall of her manor in its by-gone glory days could hold a candle to the majesty of Ashworth Castle. The insides were all white marble, and porcelain structures of beautiful men and women lined the hallways. They could have been angels. It looked like what she had imagined heaven to be. The high ceilings seemed to stretch upwards forever, disappearing into fluffy clouds and blue sky.
Mr. Irving squeezed her hand, then patted it.
Rose's eyes fell back down to earth.
"I'm afraid I have to go, Miss Bourne. But the Head Maid is here to assist you."
He gestured toward a lady at the other end of the Grand Hall, around the same age as him. Her hands were wrapped around one another in front of her dress. It was a plain silvery outfit, with a white apron tied around the midriff. She was a little plump, like a plum.
"Thank you so much, Mr. Irving," Rose said. "I appreciate your kindness in welcoming me here."
"But, of course!" he responded, bowing, before walking away.
Rose's eyes followed him up the stairwell that led to the upper quarters of the castle. But soon, the clickety clacks of the Head Maid's heals captured the girl's attention. She turned about and found the stone-cold eyes of the lady boring into her soul. The Head Maid's nose stuck outward, like a woodpecker's beak, but it was old and wrinkly, not sleek and shear like a beak. Rose wondered how the lady's skin had not cracked open with how many wrinkles there were.
"Good day, Miss Bourne," the lady said in an old, grandmotherly accent, curtseying. Although she was a servant, she was a high-ranking one, and her accent reflected that. "I am the Head Maid, Mrs. Kensington."
Mrs. Kensington. The name reminded Rose of the streets of London, and little courts where the wealthy lived. She heard the wobbling wheels of carriages as they rolled over cobblestones. One of the wheels on one of the carriages got stuck.
"How do you do, Mrs. Kensington?" Rose curtsied as well.
"Fine, thank you," she said, sniffling, sucking air into her sharp, straight nose. "Now, why don't we go into the gathering room and have a little chat, shall we?"
"I'd be delighted."
Rose followed the short, fat woman into the gathering room. They were roughly the same height, although Rose was a tiny bit shorter.
The room had a similar appearance to the Grand Hall—sporting the same colors and swirling designs on the walls and ceilings. However, it did not obtain any porcelain or marble structures; instead, silvery furniture was scattered about the room. Settees, sofas, and chairs.
"Please, have a seat, Miss Bourne." The Head Maid gestured for the girl to sit in a small, round chair.
Rose did as she was told.
Mrs. Kensington set herself down in a larger chair across from Rose and then crossed her ankles together before dusting off her gown. "Now, Miss Bourne, I will try to make this short and succinct. I don't believe in long, drawn-out conversations when such serious matters are at stake."
Rose felt her heart sink into her stomach. Suddenly, the white walls of the room seemed to fall away, sinking into the ground. This was no longer heaven, but hell.
"I understand, Mrs. Kensington," she whispered, frozen.
"Good girl." The old lady seemed to perk up a bit but in a prideful sort of way. "Do you know why Her Ladyship chose you to take her place, Miss Bourne?"
"That almost seems like a rhetorical question with the manner you're using," Rose said, lifting a slender brow.
Mrs. Kensington shrugged, smirking.
Rose's eyes fell to the floor. "But, I am afraid… I am not sure. Some have told me it's my kindness and ability to care for others that drew Her Ladyship to me. However, I have a premonition that this is not so. I…" she locked her fingers together, "don't feel so unique in my abilities. Yes, I do care a great deal for others but, there are much kinder and more considerate women out there who would make much finer baronesses." Rose dropped her shoulders, sighing, before lifting her head again to the Head Maid.
Mrs. Kensington had furrowed her brows, and her prideful demeanor melted away. "Well, I must say, that was quite a humble response. And you are correct. There is another reason as to why she has chosen you…"
Hope arose in the girl's chest. Her eyes twinkled in the sunlight that shone through the windows.
"As you have already stated, Miss Bourne, there are many other women out there who would have been more qualified to become baroness of this estate. For instance, the woman he was previously engaged to, Miss Greta Newall."
Miss Greta Newall. Rose could hardly taste the name, it was so bland. Like eating wood chips. Chewing on twigs.
The girl leaned back in her chair and let out a huff of air. "So, if Her Ladyship thought Miss Newall was more apt to become baroness than I, why was the engagement broken off? If it is not my place to ask, feel free not to answer."
Mrs. Kensington shook her head. "No, it is your place to ask. You must know who you will be marrying."
Rose's pupils shrunk, falling back into her head. "Of course."
"Miss Bourne," the lady said, her strong gaze faltering, "there is something which you ought to know about your future husband."
The girl clutched the arms of her chair, her nails digging into the fabric. She couldn't help it and blurt out: "Is he…?"
"Deformed?" Mrs. Kensington lifted her head and frowned. "That's just a tale that's been passed around. We had to tell Miss Newall something to ease her into the shock of her life."
Rose sat still, first keeping her eyes locked on Mrs. Kensington, but they soon darted to one side of the room and then the other.
"Miss Bourne," the old lady leaned forward, "he's not exactly deformed, but he's also not entirely well-formed either."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Rose said, shooting her neck upward. "Is he homely? Because I would never judge—"
"No, no, no." Mrs. Kensington waved her hands in front of the girl and shut her eyes. "Well, actually," she opened them, "in a way, yes, I suppose. But we've grown so used to him I hardly seem to notice anymore. For the most part."
Perspiration rose on the girl's neck. She felt herself shrinking into the chair, becoming one with it. Her legs molded together, she squeezed them so tightly to one another.
"But, Miss Bourne," the old lady said, "His Lordship does want to make sure you know that you have a choice—a say in the matter. You do not have to marry him if you do not wish."
Almost instantaneously, a greater terror came over Rose. The fear of the unknown, the fear of what her future husband might be, was frightful enough. But, even worse was that her Father remained in debt and had to sell their manor. Death and disease and decay… all because of her. It was too much to bear.
"I have no choice but to marry him, Mrs. Kensington. I do not care what he looks like or whether or not his demeanor is pleasant, I must marry him either way." Rose stared into the older lady's eyes, breathing heavily. Almost appearing as if she were exhausted from nights of no sleep, there was an intense, fiery redness in the white of the girl's eyes. A desperation. She was almost leaning over entirely, her stomach pressing into her lap.
Mrs. Kensington sighed heavily. "The reason that Her Ladyship believes you will be a better bride is that she thinks that you will be able to bear this news, Miss Bourne. She has deemed you a strong young woman, who will not judge people by their appearances, but by their character."
The redness faded in the girl's eyes. They became watery.
"I only hope she's right."
Rose's feet shifted.
"Miss Bourne, you must know… His Lordship is… unhuman."
"U-unhu…?"
"He is a… a beast."