The Rose Bride (3 page)

Celestine was determined not to let the terrible disappointment mar the dawn. “I call on you, my patroness,” she murmured as she scattered dried white rose petals before the marble statue. It was the beginning of winter, and the hands of all the bushes, including the white ones, had been trimmed back. Their fingertips were painted with frost. “Goddess,” she prayed, “give Rose a gift as she enters the sisterhood of women. Send Laurent home for her birthday.”

The crescent moon rippled, and a spray of shooting stars cascaded like a falling arrow over the craggy mountaintops.

A night breeze sighed against Celestine’s ear as if to say,
“I cannot force the actions of another.”

“Alas,” Celestine murmured as the last of the petals drifted from her fingertips. “Then, at least, please let her know her father loves her.”

“I cannot guarantee the heart of another,”
the breeze replied.

“
My
heart is guaranteed,” she pledged. “Let her know
my
heart. Let her know that she is loved with a love that is true and will never fade as the rose petal fades. If she knows that, it will be all that she needs in this life.”

“That is your request? Is that the gift she will have for her birthday?”
asked the breeze.

“Oui,”
Celestine replied.

“You desire this for your daughter beyond riches?”
asked the breeze.
“Is it better to know that you are loved or to live in plenty?”

“It’s better to know that you are loved.” Celestine answered. Who knew the answer to that question better than she? “A woman who is loved is the richest woman on earth.”

As she spoke, a dappled fawn cautiously entered the rose grotto, gazed at her with its large brown eyes, and hesitantly approached the stream. Celestine stood motionless, so as not to frighten the sweet little creature.

The fawn lowered its head and lapped at the water.

“And what of safety? Is it better to know that you are loved or to know that you are safe?”
the breeze challenged her.

“It’s better to know that you are loved,” Celestine whispered, watching the deer. “There’s no greater harbor than that.”

“What if death takes the one who loves you? Then love is gone and you have nothing.”

“True love never dies,” she insisted. “It lives beyond the grave, in the heart of the beloved.”

“That is what you wish your daughter to know?”

“Oui,” she said again. “Then she’ll be rich and safe for all her days.”

The moonlight shifted above her, casting her in a shower of light. The luxurious scent of roses wafted around her, although there were no blossoms on the
branches. She gazed up at the moon and then back where the fawn had been drinking.

The creature had turned snow-white and it was glowing like the moon itself. As it lifted its head and gazed at her, she saw that its eyes were dark blue, like Rose’s.

“You have the wisdom of Athena and the heart of Demeter,”
the breeze declared.
“Best Beloved, it shall be as you wish.”

Something tugged hard at her heart, stealing a beat from it. Her lips parted as she pressed her hand against her chest.

Where the shimmering fawn had stood, a luminous being appeared, shining from crown to heel as if it too, were made of moonbeams. A silver bow was slung over its left shoulder, along with a quiver of arrows made of light. Perhaps it was Eros, God of Love.

Celestine shielded her eyes; the figure was so bright that she could hardly look at it. She felt another tug on her heart and she lost another beat.

“Fear not. It is done,”
said the luminous figure.
“Go and fetch your child. Bring her here. Leave her nurse asleep. Quickly, before the dawn, or your wish will not come true.”

The being raised its right arm and pointed toward the topmost turret of the
château
, where Rose slept. Beyond the circular roof, the hem of the sky was growing light.

Celestine dropped a curtsy. Then she turned and skirted the silvery stream, racing past the double
statues of deer at the grotto’s entrance. At last she dashed into the
château
, startling the night watch. She raced to her daughter’s pink-and-white chamber and opened the door.

Her breath caught at the sight of her child, asleep in her canopy bed of creamy satin hangings embroidered with roses. The first hint of morning filtered through the stained glass windows, brushing Rose’s petal-soft skin with feathery kisses.

“Bonjour
, Rose,” Celestine murmured, rousing her daughter ever so gently. “It is your birthday, my love. The happiest day of my life. Come to the garden and receive your special gift.”

“Maman?”
Rose said drowsily as she opened her deep blue eyes. They widened; hope danced in them. “Is Papa here?”

“Not quite yet.” She held her close.

Rose’s lower lip trembled and she looked away to hide a tear.

“The day is young,” Celestine said.

“Oui, Maman,”
Rose replied, but the tear sparkled like a diamond.

“Come with me.” Celestine reached for Rose’s ermine cloak and fleece-lined leather slippers. “There is magic in the air.” She helped Rose out of bed and wrapped her in the warm cloak and slippers.

“Magic? What magic?” Rose asked.

“Birthday magic,” her mother answered, leading her out of her room. “Let’s wake up Tante Elise.” She rapped softly on the nurse’s door. The snoring
continued. Celestine knew they must hurry and she wished she’d thought to awaken Elise first. She decided to let her sleep, mindful of the beings command to bring Rose to the garden before the dawn.

“We’ll come back for her in a little while,” Celestine said.

Like naughty children, they tiptoed through the sleeping household, down the circular staircase, moving so fast that Celestine felt dizzy and almost missed a step.

Snow sprinkled their bare heads as they ran breathlessly out the door, past the topiary figures dusted with snowflakes: a dragon, a gryphon, a lion. A lark trilled. A wind whipped up, sweeping the snow from their path as they tripped through the hedge maze. They turned left and left again, leaving the grandeur of the
château
behind, to enter the wintry simplicity of the bare rose garden.

They froze in their tracks.

“What is this?” Celestine whispered.

All the bushes had burst into full bloom. The grotto was a trove of color. Fiery curtains of orange and crimson petals pooled on top of the snowbanks. Pinks dotted the overhanging clusters of billowy yellow. Ivory blossoms piqued the snow like rosettes on a wedding gown.

“Maman
, it’s so beautiful!” Rose whirled in a circle, her ermine cloak making a disc of white around her. Damascene moonlight and sunshine glowed against her eager face. “What a gift!
Merci, Maman!”

Celestine gazed this way and that, searching for the luminous being. But neither it nor the shimmering fawn was anywhere to be seen.

How can this be?
Celestine silently asked the statue.

As if in answer, tears welled in the statue’s eyes. Tears? On a joyful occasion such as this? Frightened, Celestine felt her heart tug again, much harder this time. She lost three beats at once.

The tears spilled from the marble eyes onto a spray of white roses, and they immediately turned a subtle shade of blue.

“Maman
, look!” Rose cried. Unaware of her mother’s confusion and of the weeping statue, she picked one of the blue roses and held it out to Celestine. But as Celestine reached for it, her chest seized again and her hand jerked. She pricked her finger on the blue rose’s thorn, and three droplets of blood fell onto the azure petals.

A rich, deep purple spread through the petals like blood through veins.

“You are wounded!” Rose cried as she dropped the flower. It fell onto the bush. The color seeped from that blossom to the next, and to the next, until all the roses on the bush were the same vibrant shade.

And in that moment, Celestine knew that she was dying. Her wish had set her death in motion, and her request was to be her last.

“Rose,” Celestine said urgently as she sank against the soft pillows of snow, “listen to me.”

“What is happening? What’s wrong?” Rose demanded, dropping to her knees beside her. “I’ll go for help!”

“No. Stay. Listen,” Celestine ordered her. Her words came with difficulty as she gasped for breath. “The purple roses. They’re your birthday gift. They’re my promise that you are loved with real, true love. Remember that. Love is real and it is the greatest gift, and it is yours.”

“What are you saying?” Rose asked shrilly as Celestine’s eyes flickered and the light began to leave them. She threw back her head and cried to the last traces of the night, “Help! Tante Elise!
Au secours!
”

“
Attends
. Listen,” her mother whispered. She gripped Rose hard, with the desperation of one who is putting to sea on the barge of the dead, yet has unfinished business in the land of the living. “No matter your griefs or your sorrows, your trials or your fate, always remember:
Ma belle, ma petite
, you are loved.” She began to weep as Rose’s image grew fainter and more distant. “Never forget. You are loved.”

“Maman!”
Rose screamed, understanding at last that her mother was dying. “Don’t leave me!”

“You will always have my love,” Celestine gasped. “Always.”

Rose burst into tears, leaning over her mother, embracing her, kissing her, willing her to stay in the mortal world. She rocked her and begged her and wept for what seemed like years.

The deer statues at the entrance to the garden lowered their heads. The goddess sighed. As the blazing chariot of Apollo galloped on the horizon, Celestine Marchand breathed her last.

The roses in the bower immediately withered and died—all save the purple rosebush. Golden sunshine gilded the magic petals, and they whispered to the distraught girl:

“You are loved
.

“You are loved
.

“You are loved.”

By midday, Monsieur Valmont, the elegant old majordomo, sent riders to bear the news of Madame’s death to Laurent and bid him to speed home. Elise laid out the still-lovely Celestine, dressing her in her white wedding gown, combing and arranging her hair. Weeping, she sprinkled dried rose petals over the intricate lace of her lady’s bridal veil. Between Celestine’s dead hands, Elise placed a miniature portrait of Laurent and a plaited knot of Rose’s hair.

She wrapped Rose’s splendid pink dress in tissue and muslin and put it away.

Wrapped in ebony mourning with Elise at her side, Rose drooped beside her mother’s bier in the
chateau’s
temple to Hermes. Laurent was a disciple of the god.

Elise held Rose’s hand, but Rose was too numb to feel it.

A week dragged by. Two. Three.

Laurent didn’t come. The messengers reported that he was nowhere to be found. Celestine retained her beauty, as if she were only sleeping.
Night and day Rose watched Celestine’s unmoving chest, willing her to breathe. But she never did. Her heart did not beat and her skin was as cold as the icy burial vault.

The new moon rose, signaling the death of the first month of winter. More messengers rode out. They came back empty-handed. Elise begged Rose to come away, to take more than a sip of soup, to rest.

“I am here. I will care for you,” Elise promised, but Rose could not hear the words. She would not budge.

The
château’s
priest explained to Rose that her mother had a journey to make and Rose must let her go. As things stood, her mother’s spirit could not move forward and it could not return.

“But I love her,” Rose whispered.

The priest was a wise man and a gentle teacher. He said, “It’s not your love that holds her hostage. It’s your need. True love wants, but it doesn’t need. True love thinks of the beloved first.”

So she agreed to bury her mother.

Banshee winds howled as Celestine’s marble sarcophagus was sanctified and sealed in the burial vault of Château Marchand. Draped over the lid, Rose wept until her ribs ached. She had no idea how she would endure the pain that seized her heart as surely as the God of Death had seized her mother’s.

“It’s over now, my darling,” Elise murmured to her. Her cheeks were wet. Her black wimple framed her round face, taut with grief. “She is at peace. And we must find joy in that.”

But it was not over. The servants muttered among themselves about a father who wouldn’t come home to comfort his own daughter. About a man who was seen in a tavern, drinking mead, with a woman on his lap.

“There’s an explanation for why he hasn’t come,” Elise promised. “A good one. Although I’m sure he’s well,” she added hastily. “And safe.”

But he didn’t send word and he didn’t return.

Night after night, beneath the harsh winter snows, Rose crept to the garden and fell to her knees before the only flowers that blossomed—the purple roses. In gauzy moonlight and bitter snowstorm, they whispered,
“You are loved, you are loved.”
But Rose’s broken heart could scarcely hear the words.