When the Black Roses Grow (4 page)

“All doth not concern the persons of Salem any longer. With the absence of a Governor, Sheriff Corwin holds authority and his support lies with Reverend Perris. Not to mention, the reverend’s favor gains with every witch he hunts and hangs.”

I groaned and folded my arms against my chest, again.

“Miss Hawthorne, I implore thee to heed my caution. Release thy anger before you fall prey to thy mother’s fate.”

I drew in a deep breath and weakness bled through my bones. Adalene’s words rang with a truth I did not wish to admit. But, while the notion was not new to me, thoughts of the ring of black roses haunted me.

I bit my thumbnail, then wrapped my arms around my own body, rubbing my palms over the sleeves of my dress. My eyes danced at the ground, the trees, and the house, all of which closed in upon me.

“I shall heed thy caution,” I whispered.

Adalene patted the cow’s neck and sauntered out of the pen, closing the gate behind her. Her short steps, hobbled with her age.

“Before I leave, could I beseech you for a pail of milk when I am in need?”

I met her gaze. “Certainly, you may.”

“I will remember thy kindness.” She flashed another smile and meandered through the garden before disappearing on the path through the tree line behind my home.

With a deep sigh, I left the cow to the hay laid in front of her, and scaled the porch steps toward the back door. My feet trudged across the boards and my toes dragged as though weighted down as they thumped against the wood.

The door clicked shut behind me, a lonely hollow sound that mirrored my mood along with the empty house that mirrored my life. My aloneness always haunted me more on certain days than on others and today proved one of them.

I ambled across the house to my bed and lit a few candles for a little extra light. I untied my apron strings, unbuttoned my black dress, and dropped them both upon the floor. They landed in a heap, and I stared at them for a moment.

A small part of me desired to leave them where they lay, but of course, such a choice would yield the need for a washing, so I plucked them from the wood, folded them, and laid them upon the others in the dresser drawer.

I drew the bonnet from my head, allowing my short raven curls their freedom to bounce around my face. After wrapping my house dress around my shoulders, I closed the inside shutters on all the windows—blocking out the light of another Sabbath, and shutting out the world outside.

A bushel of veggies sat on top of my table next to the ball of unbaked bread dough, rising with the heat of the small fire that still slightly burned in the fireplace.

My eyes fluttered between the food, the door, and the windows.

Although sinful to bake or cook on this sacred day, my thoughts, my body, and my very soul growled with hunger.

Who would know if I prepared supper? The shutters are closed and I am alone. Who would ever know? Besides, Him.

Casting a prayer of forgiveness toward the heavens, I slipped my arms through the sleeves of my dressing robe and tied the strings tight over my collar bone. The long cotton material dragged across the floor as I strode toward the table, grabbed the ball of dough, formed it into several small rolls, and threw them into the oven box above the hearth.

I fetched a few vegetables from the bowl on the table, dunked them into a bowl of water, and scrubbed them clean with the palms of my hands before cutting them into small pieces. I poured leftover stew broth into my iron pot, adding in a few chicken bones and the cut vegetables.

My heartbeat mirrored my guilt and I rushed to complete my task.

Thu-thump, thu-thump, thu-thump.

Anxiety spread down my neck, spine, and into my legs, and I tapped my foot against the wooden floor.

No one will know. No one will know. No one will ever know.

I hooked the handle of the cast iron pot over the fire before my mind changed and then stepped away from the fireplace.

No one will know. No one will ever know.

My clammy fingers fidgeted with each other as I bit my lip and I sat at my table watching the fire crack and pop in colors of red, orange, and yellow. My stomach growled again and I retrieved a carrot from the bushel, snapping it in half before taking a bite.

Suddenly, in the corner of the room, a dark green plant stalk materialized and whispered for my attention. It grew quickly from my floorboards, growing a few inches every passing second. Several vines sprouted from the stem, curling in all directions while leaves grew, popped outward, and bounced from their sudden burst of movement.

I flung my arms—the sudden jerk of my body sent my rump slamming hard onto the floor. My hand slapped across my mouth to hide my scream as the dark magic fluttered through the air in a teasing and taunting dance, waving its leaves as if to scold me for my sins.

‘Tis the soup.

I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping on the leg of my table, and grabbed the handle of the pot, not caring that the hot piece of wire burned the palm of my hand. My bare foot kicked the back door open, and it collided with the outside wall of the house as I tossed the pot through the doorway. The cast iron flew through the air and plunged to the grass, landing with a loud bong.

I slammed the door, raced to my chopping block, and grabbed the knife.

If I cut it, it will wither and die. ‘Tis nothing more than a weed, a simple weed, and if I cut it, it will wither and die.

My heels dragged lethargically across the floor as though mired in mud. Hesitation stirred in my blood and my hands trembled as I hovered over the vine.

The familiar green vine I had seen before . . . floating over my mother’s grave.

In a bold, swift swipe, I slashed the stem. The green color blackened like the dark of night and the vine shriveled then vanished.

My rump hit the floor with a thud, and I curled my legs up into my chest, drawing them toward my thumping heart. My lungs heaved, and the thought of moving, even an inch, tightened my chest.

Please do not return. Please do not return.

I sat upon the floor, and pressed my fingertips into my temples, rubbing slowly to calm my breathing. My anxiety crawled and burned, prickling through my skin with an itch I could not scratch, though I desperately tried.

Please, Lord, do not allow it to return. Please.

I finally dragged myself up off the floor and onto my knees, then placed one foot on the floor, rose, and placed the other foot down.

Please, Lord, plea—

Suddenly, another stem sprouted before my eyes. In contrast, my limbs grew numb.

Clunk.
The knife slipped from my fingers, landed on the floor with a thud, and bounced.

My mind whirled, lost in a sea of unexplainable reasons and sheer terror, while the green vine curled through the air, and the leaves bounced and waved. Shadows closed in, hunting as they preyed on the panic pulsing through the deepest, fears of my mind.

A knock gently rapped against by back door. I spun on my heel and my hand slapped against my mouth. Surely, ‘twas nightfall. Surely, the sun had set, giving way to the darkness for its evening slumber. The only expected visitors were the ones invited, and I certainly did not invite anyone over to my home.

Another knock rapped, this time a little harder than the first.

“Who is there?” My voice cracked on the last word.

“James DeKane.”

FOUR

“’Tis the Sabbath, Mr. DeKane.”

“Please, Miss Hawthorne, will you open the door?”

The sound of my name uttered across his lips shuddered through my body. His perfect voice both calmed me, and yet, left me breathless and sent my mind reeling as I tiptoed to the back door from which he knocked.

Why is he here?

“Miss Hawthorne?”

His whisper broke my hesitation, and before I could waver, words left my lips. “Bestow me one moment, please.”

My clammy hand trembled around the brass doorknob. I pressed my forehead into the wooden door, hoping the coolness of the lumber and a few calming, deep breaths would lessen the storm of thoughts brewing in my mind.

I slowly twisted the knob, the latch bolt clicked and the door opened a crack.

Moonlight shone down upon his back, darkening the front of him so much I could barely see him—although, such did not matter. I memorized his face long ago.

“My apologies for the lateness in the hour, Miss Hawthorne.”

“Why do you visit my home?”

Not meeting his gaze, I glanced over his shoulder, squinting as I investigated my dimly lit yard and garden for anyone who might be watching us. My abrasive, sharp tone created sadness in his eyes and his smile vanished.

“I suppose ‘twas foolish and inconsiderate of me.”

“Then, why are you here?” As soon as I asked my question, I bit my tongue. Why inquire when the answer did not matter? Nothing mattered except that he leave immediately before anyone sees him.

“To be honest, Miss Hawthorne, I hath desired to visit you for quite a while. However, I simply did not know how to approach you. I did not think you cared for anyone in town, especially me.” He raised his eyebrows and chuckled a little, as though trying to soothe the honesty in his words should I agree with him.

“Oh.” The only word I could think to say was not a word, but more of a sound of astonishment that left my lips as I exhaled. Surely, not could be further from the truth, while I did not care for many in the village, he was not included.

“Doth that mean my theory is true?” Hesitation slowed a few of his words. Did he desire the truth? And, if my answer was not what he wanted to hear, could he endure it? He fidgeted with his shirt sleeve with one hand and then clasped both of them behind his back and sighed deeply.

“No, ‘tis not true. Nonetheless, thou are courting Mary, and—”

“No, I am not.” With his eyes widened, a sense of hurried refusal swept through his body. He stepped forward and shook his head to emphasize his retort. “I promise you, we are not. I would not visit you if we were—I swear such to you.”

His admission sent a flutter of butterflies in my stomach and I cleared my throat.

“Oh, I thought . . . you spend so much time with her, thus, I assumed Deacon Pruett bestowed his permission for you to call upon and court her.”

“To be honest he did, but you forget the man also has to agree on a courtship, and I hath yet to agree.” He gave a slight wink and smiled. “When I saw you today at service I decided that I must visit you tonight.”

“You . . . you must visit me?” Once again, my voice cracked on my last word. “Why?”

“Because, I desired to.”

The sparkle in his eyes weakened my knees.

No, do not do it, Emmalynn. Do not say the words you wish to say in this moment. Do not say them. He should not be here. He should not be here.

A war waged in my head as I struggled between telling him to leave, or asking him to stay. A part of me longed to say yes while the other part of me shouted no. Do I face the harsh truth of sin or follow my own desires?

I glanced over my shoulder and my eyes fell upon the vine.

My stomach twisted upon itself.

“No.” My voice raised an octave and James’s eyes widened at my shouted answer.

“No . . . no, I did not want to visit you?” he laughed. “But, I just informed you I did.”

“No, no, ‘tis not what . . . what I meant.”

“I know I should not be here, Miss Hawthorne, and I am sorry for causing you unrest. I only wished to see you.” He bit his lip, and his eyes danced from the door to me and then to the doorknob. A silent question he asked through the movement.

No, Emmalynn, do not do it.

My shoulders straightened against the door, drawing the lumber closer to my body.

He chuckled and gave a slight nod as though he understood my unspoken answer. “And as I stand here, I hath done what I desired to do. I shall leave thee to thy prayer, then, and I hope you hath a pleasant evening.”

As he spun away from me, my reason wavered. My sweaty palm rubbed the back of my neck as his boots thumped against the wood boards of my porch, each thud stole a little more of my breath and resolve. I cannot allow him to leave. I simply cannot.

“No, Mr. DeKane, I meant . . . please bestow me a moment, please.”

“Of course. Take as much time as you need, I will wait.”

With several swift movements, a blanket from my bed lay upon the vine, covering it as best as it could. I fetched the dress I wore to service from the dresser. The black cotton glided up my legs, over my hips, and around my shoulders as I slipped my arms into the sleeves. My trembling fingers struggled with the buttons. They slipped from my grasp, while the holes suddenly seemed too small.

Finally, pushing the last one through, I groaned, and whipped the apron from the drawer. My clammy hand stuck to the cotton strings that refused to knot, and I surrendered to them as I opened the door and bestowed James the unspoken permission to come inside.

Yes, I toyed with sin. Yes, I toyed with such an imprudent choice. Utterly improper beyond words could describe. And, yet, the trace of indifference pulsed through my veins.

Lust proved the fickle toy, teasing as it played. Sin could not live without desire. They travel with one another, hand in hand, strolling down the road for everyone to gawk at, gossip about, and yet, secretly wished they could be as bold—capricious emotions, lust and sin, that constantly waged war against the other version of itself.

Only the truly strong could resist and ignore, and I certainly did not hold any strength. They preyed upon my weakness, and won.

As I shut the door behind him, he spun around and held up the pot I had heaved only moments ago into the darkness outside.

“Thou will probably need this someday.” He winked and smiled as the black iron handle hung from his finger and the pot swung back and forth in front of me as if mocking me, just as he had done.

“I . . . I only thought I would . . .” I bit my tongue and reached for the handle. Before I could grasp it, he pulled it away.

“I hath prepared the occasional meal on a Sunday, Miss Hawthorne, so I bare no judgment.”

“Yes, but I should not hath done what I did.” Fiddling with my apron strings once more, my words cut through my gritted teeth as I struggled.

He chuckled as he set the pot on the floor, strode around me, and grasped the ties from my hands. His body close to mine, his breath warmed my skin. With a few jerks, the apron wrapped tight around my waist.

“When one is famished, one is famished,” he whispered from behind me. “If thou do not mind, I could prepare us supper.”

“Should . . . should not I . . . be the one to—”

“I cook a rather delicious stew.”

His smile weakened my knees and I forgot all words of protest as he wandered
away from me and began searching through the cabinet standing in the corner.

“Can I lend a hand with anything?” I asked.

“No.” He faced me, smiled, and laughed. “Hath a seat. I shall be done in a moment.”

Nearly a year had passed since a man entertained the inside of the four walls of my home. The sudden arrival of a male presence only worsened the loneliness deep down in my chest. An ache I did not know if I would ever escape by chance, or even, by choice.

From the moment I had seen him for the first time, the very sight of him intoxicated me. He was a stranger suddenly thrown into the world of a new town, and yet, such did not seem to intimidate him at all. I longed for his companionship, even if such was an utter transgression.

“Do you hath broth?”

“I hath a bit from yesterday in the pot in the cupboard. It should be fresh enough.”

After filling the pot with a mix of ingredients, he poured in the broth, hung the pot on the wire above the fire, and cast on a few wood logs to coax the extinguishing flames to reignite.

“It should simmer for a bit.” He strode to the table and sat in the chair across from me.

I straightened my shoulders, pressing the blades into the back of the chair with a force I did not know if the chair could manage. Both of our eyes darted around the room, occasionally befalling upon each other, and then quickly moving on to the table, the fire, the pot of stew, and anything else we could gaze upon, aside from each other.

Words evaded me and I cleared my throat a few more times than I should—silently cursing each time.

“’Tis a good home, Miss Hawthorne, quite good.” Finally breaking our silence, he adjusted his weight in the chair, and rested his elbows on the table.

“Thank you. And, you may call me Emmalynn.”

“I will, then. And, you may call me James.”

We both smiled and resumed the awkward dance, glancing at everything around us, except each other.

I held my breath, and exhaled slowly without making a sound, while James tapped his fingertips on the table and sighed a deep breath, himself. His shoulders tense and ridged as though unspoken words sat on the tip of his tongue as he listened to the fire popping and cracking in the hearth.

“How is thy cow?” He fidgeted with his slightly trembling hands.

I gaped at him for a minute before the utter ridiculousness of the topic he chose sent us both into laughter.

“Do you honestly desire to know about the bovine?”

He opened his mouth to answer, but his own laughter silenced him, and he shook his head. “My apologies, Miss—Emmalynn, I am afraid I am at a loss for words at the moment.”

“A dilemma which seems to hath affected us both, so no apology needed, I assure you.”

He nodded and glanced down at his hands for a moment before returning my gaze. “How long since thy husband—” He cleared his throat. “Since thy husband passed away?”

“Nearly a year.” I adjusted my weight in the chair, unsure if I desired to divulge details. “Fever took him, just as with my father a couple of years ago.”

“My apologies for thy loss. How long were thou married?”

“Only a month.”

Please, no more questions about my husband. Please
. I did not wish to speak of the dead. A pointless topic when thought about.

He nodded again and sat in silence for a moment. “A month is not long.”

“No, ‘tis not, but the fever takes who it desires, when it desires.”

“And, you never remarried?”

“No,” I whispered.

“Do you wish to remarry?”

I bit the side of my lip. His eyes held not except friendly curiosity, however, the impropriety of the conversation left hesitation in my answer.

By law, widows could remarry if they desired. Marriage was a civil union, not a religious one, joining two people, who, while they are in love, benefited from the union outside of that love in property, offspring, and money. However, should either half of the whole find love, and themselves, in the arms of another or in a grave, then the one left behind would be granted a divorce and could remarry—a subject broached by a courted couple, not two people who were conversing in sin at this moment.

“I hath never considered my feelings toward another marriage.”

“Surely, another man has beseeched thee for thy affections.”

I shook my head and his smile faded.

“I suppose my mother’s reputation precedes me. Not to mention, the clout of the Pruett family has left me rather disliked.” I shrugged my shoulders and bit my tongue to halt the honest words of the abhorrence I shared.

James laughed a little to himself. “My apologies, Emmalynn, I did not mean to pry. You are just such a mystery to me, and quite intriguing.”

My elbow rested on the table. His innocent tone satiated with an honesty that knocked the breath from my lungs. My fingers brushed against my neck, tracing along my jaw as his words repeated in my head:
a mysterious, intriguing woman
. The thought was almost too laughable to entertain. Two words never once uttered in a sentence about me, and I cradled my cheek in my palm as I slightly curved my face toward him and met his gaze.

Nothing more than the town outcast, how could I possibly intrigue someone?

“No one finds me intriguing, Mr. De—James.” I laughed, waving off his words.

“I do.”

“Why?”

“Because, I think you are beautiful, you hath a humor to you that you barely let anyone see, and I am quite fond of you.”

My elbow slid off the side of the table and my chin nearly hit the wood.

“Are thou speechless by what I say?” With an amused smirk, he studied my shock.

Hesitantly, I nodded.

“Why?” He paused for a second waiting for an answer I could not bestow. “Thy husband was quite fond of you, was he not? He thought you were beautiful and interesting, otherwise, he would not hath married you. So, why would you be speechless that another man could carry a similar fondness?”