Upon a Midnight Dream (22 page)

The air within the house was frigid, void of any warmth. With a sigh, she notified Mr. Fitzgerald and Mary that they would all share the task of lighting the fires. She helped Mary with the downstairs while Mr. Fitzgerald brought in everyone’s trunks.

Exhausted, Rosalind sauntered up to her room, but stopped when she noted none of the bedrooms had any fires going. With a sigh, she walked into Mr. Fitzgerald’s bedroom and began the tedious task.

She jerked at the old fireplace and lost her balance sending her sailing into the desk near her. A flutter of papers flew to the floor. Swearing, Rosalind bent to retrieve them and froze.

Edward Willard Fitzgerald
, the correspondence said.

A chill ran down her spine. Perhaps it was merely a coincidence, perhaps…

“My lady…”

Mr. Fitzgerald’s smile froze on his face, then disappeared altogether. Fortunately, Rosalind was back at the fireplace even though the papers were still scattered.

“Yes, Willard? Sorry, I closed the window because a breeze came through. I was just going to right the papers once I finished with the fire.” She did her best to sound cheerful though her hands were shaking something terrible.

“No,” he said curtly. “That will not be necessary. Why don’t you go take a rest, dear?”

“If you think that’s what is best…” Rosalind brushed past him, hiding the note in her skirts as she did so.

By the time she reached her room, her heart was fluttering like a butterfly. She had to warn Mary, they had to get out of there, they needed…

A knock on the door jolted her. With a startled scream, she scolded herself then opened the door.

Mr. Fitzgerald was on the other side, tea in hand.

“Oh good, I’m so very glad you took my advice. Would you care for some tea to warm your bones? Perhaps it may even help you sleep a deep sleep, Rosalind.”

“Of course,” Rosalind smiled kindly and reached for the tea, willing her hand to stop shaking as she thanked him again and shut the door.

The tea smelt heavenly. It was too good to resist. She took a sip, and then another. After two or three sips her body began to feel heavy. Sleep, it seemed was finally going to overtake her, and make her pain go away. With a smile she stumbled to her bed, but didn’t make it, as she crashed to the floor and blackness overtook her.

"When beggars die there are no comets seen;

The heavens themselves blaze forth the death of princes."

—Julius Caesar

“Samson! Truly boy, you need to go faster!” Stefan had been riding through the night. Samson, good horse that he was hadn’t complained, only went faster and faster. He had no desire to run his own horse to the ground, but found that he had no other option. So he prayed his horse would not die on the excursion.

Rosalind would always come before Samson, so he explained quite plainly what the trip would mean to the horse. But if anything, the horse seemed to puff it’s chest out wider than before and nodded in understanding.

“Good man.” Stefan patted Samson again, his horse neighed and picked up speed.

They reached the estate by morning. Samson appeared exhausted. The minute Stefan hopped off, he sent Samson to the stables. The horse slowly trotted off in the general direction.

Stefan took the stairs two at a time and burst through the doors.

“Rosalind!” he yelled, his voice echoed off the walls. Where was everybody? Mary? Cook? And the evil Mr. Fitzgerald.

“Rosalind!” He tried again in vain. It was morning; surely they were breaking their fast. He rushed into the kitchen. The kettle was boiling over and cook appeared to be sleeping across the table. He shook her awake, but she merely opened one eye and closed it again without answering him.

“Blast!” He ran out of the kitchens and up to the bedrooms.

Bursting into Rosalind’s room, he stopped dead when his eyes took in the scene. Rosalind lay across the floor, appearing to be sleeping peacefully. And Mr. Fitzgerald cleaned a dagger by the window.

“Ah, so the prince comes to rescue the princess, does he?” Mr. Fitzgerald let out a bark of laughter.

“You!” Stefan roared. “It was you the whole time! There was no curse!”

“Only the curse that Rosalind’s mother brought into the family. I so wanted my love to be happy. So I gave her everything she wanted, even when she married the late earl. So very tragic, his accident. The man didn’t even taste the hemlock as it claimed his sorry excuse for a life.”

“Why kill him?”

“Because she started to care for him, why else?” Mr. Fitzgerald smiled and closed his eyes. “You see, I’ve been slowly poisoning the family for years. I wanted the earl to be unable to father children. He did, however, father two. Rosalind and Gwendolyn. Isabelle was a creature of my own making, though she never knew. Her mother, bless her soul, was so easily manipulated. I poisoned her against her husband, told her he was not able to father children. The family of course blamed her, so I offered her an escape. We could continue our love in secret. I would be the rightful father and when the time was right, we would threaten to expose the secret and run away together.”

Stefan made a move towards Rosalind, but Mr. Fitzgerald pointed the dagger at Stefan. “Confession is good for the soul, don’t you agree?”

“Of course.”

“I mean to confess my sins before I kill you. It would be polite after keeping you in suspense for so long.”

“Then by all means,” Stefan ground out, waiting until the perfect time before he strangled the man and sent him to his eternal punishment.

“She fell in love with him. It was slow—she tried to hide it from me. So I killed him. She was unable to get over the death, so I began to give her tea. I began to poison her mind with lies. Truly, it was so easy to confuse the woman it hardly seemed fair, so lost was she in her pain. I even convinced her that she helped kill her husband. It was too easy to allow her to nearly kill Rosalind. You see, if the mother was crazy, the fingers would not be pointed in my direction.”

“And now?” Stefan asked.

“Now,” Mr. Fitzgerald laughed. “Now I’m rich. All of my daughters are gone or will be the minute I drive my dagger into Rosalind’s heart. For I hate her the most of them all. She looks like her father the most, and she had his heart in her hand. She had his love. I never got to experience love from my daughters because the countess refused to tell anyone.”

“Jealousy is a sad excuse for murder.”

“Murder,” Mr. Fitzgerald said, “is never an excuse. It’s an ending. A finale. And it’s the only way to keep everyone silent. Unfortunately, Rosalind’s sleeping spells were happening less often, she became too accustomed to the tea. I imagine only her body sleeps now when she is exposed to it. In her sleep, she hears all. But she is paralyzed, do you know how frightening it must be for a woman to hear about her death, yet be unable to do a thing about it? Though I don’t claim to be a botanist, I’ve read that the body can almost become frozen in this state.”

Mr. Fitzgerald pulled out a pistol and aimed it at Stefan as he slowly walked to Rosalind’s side.

“I killed your father, my sweet. I sold your sister, and provoked the other to run away. I destroyed everything, and now I will kill the man you love.”

Stefan ducked just before the pistol went off.

Mr. Fitzgerald swore as Stefan’s body rammed into his. The dagger came slashing about Stefan’s face. With love driving him, Stefan grasped the blade of the dagger, letting it dig into his skin as blood trickled down his wrist, and slowly twisted it towards Mr. Fitzgerald’s throat.

Shaking, he slowly pushed it in until no life was left in the man’s cold eyes. With an oath he pushed away and ripped some of his clothing to cover the deep cuts.

“Rose,” he whispered as he sat across the bed. “Rose come back to me, awake my sleeping beauty.”

His lips brushed across hers as a single tear slid down her cheek.

“I love you,” he choked. “I love you so much.”

Green eyes flashed at him, and the beauty mouthed. “I love you, too.”

She’s beautiful, and therefore to be wooed;

She is woman, and therefore to be won—Henry VI, Part I

Rosalind had never been so terrified, as when she overheard all the horrendous actions Mr. Fitzgerald had taken against her family and his own flesh and blood. She still shivered when she thought upon it.

Rest was the last thing she wanted, especially now that she knew she wasn’t dying and that her sleeping spells had been caused by nightshade in her tea. A botanist, Mr. Fitzgerald, or Edward was not, for he hadn’t realized a person could become used to the stuff in small doses. His greatest mistake was in trying to trick Rosalind into thinking she was dying, when really the plant was only dangerous in large doses and only if injected.

A chill ran down her spine when she thought of the other plants found in his possession. Monkshood being one of them. She would have surely died had he given her something more potent, and she was suddenly thankful that he had been thinking he was harming her with nightshade instead of the more poisonous plant.

The orangery smelled delightful, she let herself in and closed her eyes. A male voice began to hum. Surely that wasn’t Stefan, that would be too romantic, it would be—

“—
Have I found you? The one who makes me sing? Once upon a midnight dream…”
Rosalind followed the voice as it became louder.
“As I lay me down to sleep, my midnight dream I know will keep. The stars in your eyes tell me what your heart is afraid to say. That while I wait for my prince, he will one day say…”

She turned the corner and smiled. Stefan was down on one knee, roses in hand. He stopped singing and cleared his throat.

“My love…”

“Oh, good start,” Rosalind commented, laughing.

“Yes, I thought so, too.” Stefan smiled. “My love.” He winked. “With lips as red as a rose, eyes as blue as the sea, I find I cannot keep myself from wanting thee.”

“And it rhymes! How very poetic,” Rosalind couldn’t help saying.

“Yes well, I’ve worked on it all day. Now, may I continue?”

She nodded.

“Where was I? Oh yes, I find I cannot keep myself from wanting thee. When I close my eyes, all my mind conjures up is pictures of you. My perfect Rose. My love, you are my little dove.”

“Little dove?”

Stefan squirmed. “Yes, well, it rhymed with love.”

Rosalind’s heart burst with joy. How she loved this man! “Pray, continue.”

“Yes.” He cleared his throat again and looked at the paper, then cursed and threw it to the ground. In two steps he was in front of her, pulling her roughly against his chest as his mouth slanted possessively across hers. “I cannot exist without you.”

He kissed her until she felt her knees would buckle, his tongue teased hers in a game of domination and devotion. “I cannot breathe without you.”

His hands reached savagely into her hair, pulling it out of its pins as he moaned against her lips. “I am lost without you.”

“Stefan,” she gasped as his hands dipped into her bodice.

“Yes?” He sounded distracted as he pulled away her dress and corset.

“It seems you’ve discovered how to woo.”

With a laugh, he stripped her upper torso of any clothing. “All I needed was some inspiration.”

Rosalind let out a laugh as his lips claimed her throat.

“We must marry at once,” he joked.

With a burst of laughter, Rosalind pulled at his jacket. “Well, since you asked so nicely…”

“Come here.” He plundered her mouth as his hands roamed across her silky skin. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

“And I love you,” Rosalind choked out as a tear ran down her face.

“No more talking,” Stefan ordered as he dragged her to the nearest table and pushed the plants onto the floor, making the pots shatter. With little effort the lifted her onto the table and used slow languid movements to show her exactly what he’d rather be doing.

“Your Grace?” Alfred cleared his throat several times before continuing. It was strange to see him out by the stables; he looked so horribly out of place. Stefan had half a mind to feel sorry for him. Was the man shaking? Unfortunately the near death experiences as well as the murders taking place under Rosalind’s roof did nothing but make Stefan paranoid about anything and everything.

“Yes, is something wrong, Alfred? You look ill?”

“Ahem.” Alfred gave Samson a nervous pat. “I am in need help, Your Grace.”

“What is it?” Stefan leaned in close. “A debt? Have you been gambling? Trouble with the law? Truly, I would do anything for you, Alfred. You need but ask.”

“I’m in love.”

“Yes, well, anything but that. Now, try. What can I help you with?” Stefan was the last person in London from whom his valet should be seeking advice. Had the man missed the past month when Stefan’s proposals set Rosalind to laughter and angered her enough to want to throttle him?