A LADY NAMED ROSE
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I would like to express my condolences to
anyone who has suffered a loss due to the recent terrorist acts. Two members of
my family and at least one acquaintance narrowly escaped being in the World
Trade Center on Sept. 11, and my sister-in-law's cousin was one of the
firefighters who gave his life to save others. This is the first time I've been
able to write freely in two months. God bless everyone.
Rated NC-17 for Content
"He's been ill for a long time,"
Sebastian explained. "The doctors once predicted he'd be dead within three
months. That was two years ago."
They were traveling along a wooded country
road in Bay Shore, Long Island, where many of the city's wealthy had built
impressive summer homes. Sebastian had driven in silence for about an hour;
Rose interpreted his tight-lipped grimace as contained anger at her and
remained quiet as well.
But when he spoke of his father, she could
see his anguish and she realized that it had been there all along. Sebastian
was driven to distraction by his helplessness.
"My aunt--his sister--comes occasionally
to help out, but she lives some distance away. He usually has no visitors but
myself and Betsy, that's the housekeeper."
He slowed and pulled into the driveway of a
modest cottage overlooking the bay. Wordlessly, he opened the passenger door,
took her hand and led her inside.
It was chilly for such a warm spring
afternoon, probably due to the house's proximity to the water. A window in the
sitting room was opened to let in the salty breeze. The room was more than
clean; it was sterile. The mantle above the stone fireplace was bare of any
pictures or ornaments. In their place a wintry landscape hung on the wall.
"Sebastian?" A petite elderly woman
with a kind, if somewhat homely, face appeared from one of the back rooms. She
greeted them both warmly--though Rose felt sharp eyes appraising her as she
surrendered her shawl to the housekeeper--and offered them tea, explaining that
the elder Mr. Garrett was asleep.
Tea turned out to be quite a meal: roast beef
and mashed potatoes, barley soup and strawberry shortcake. Betsy rushed to
fetch a brandy for Sebastian, who was effusive in his praises.
"You never cease to amaze me,
Betsy," he complimented her while adding a taste of brandy to his tea.
Rose pretended not to notice. "You make all his favorite dishes to
perfection."
Betsy flushed like a teenage girl. "Only
with years of practice."
Rose stifled a laugh. If she didn't know
better, she'd think the two were flirting with each other.
They were well into dessert when Betsy
summoned Sebastian to his father's bedside, and returned alone to clear the
table. Rose offered her help but Betsy shooed her away. "That's all right,
dear." She hesitated before adding shyly, "Don't want you lifting a
finger on your day off."
Rose frowned. How much had Sebastian told
this woman about her? She decided she didn't care to know and instead inquired
about his father's illness.
"Heart disease," Betsy explained.
"He had rheumatic fever as a boy and I'm told it did lasting damage."
"Sebastian said he's been bedridden for
quite a while."
"Yes, it's a shame. Worked himself near
to collapse after that woman abandoned him, and--" She cut her diatribe
short, suddenly aware that she'd said too much, then quickly recovered.
"Why don't you go on back? I'm sure Sebastian won't mind and his Pa's always
glad to have some comp'ny. Second room on the right."
Alexander Garrett's bedroom was orderly, but
not as spotless as the remainder of the cottage. A glass-fronted cabinet held a
number of small figurines and several well-read leather-bound volumes. There
were numerous photographs on the vanity, as well as an untouched plate on a
bedside table.
Sebastian was cajoling his father to eat.
Rose approached slowly, afraid to interrupt. The figure under the bedcovers
were so small, so frail...
...and he was looking at her.
"You must be Rose," he said, his
voice a baritone so powerful it startled her. She later learned he spoke so
loudly because he was hard of hearing. "Sebastian, you didn't tell me she
was this beautiful."
He spent the next twenty minutes charming
her, much the way his son charmed women, making her feel at home with polite
questions about school and her artwork. She noted he never brought up the
subject of her family and was intensely grateful for it. She also noticed he
didn't show any traces of a British accent, and his eyes were dark. Did
Sebastian inherit gray eyes from his mother?
She'd almost forgotten Sebastian was in the
room until Alexander abruptly switched gears in the conversation. "What
news do you have of the war?" he asked his son.
Sebastian shifted uneasily. "Father, I
don't think Rose wants to hear about the war."
"Nonsense! Rose is a bright young woman.
Surely she's up to date on what's happening in Europe?"
"It's all right." She stood,
realizing that for some reason Sebastian had become uncomfortable. Perhaps the
visit with his father had made him weary. "We should be getting back to
the city."
Mr. Garrett looked confused. "You're not
staying the night? You're welcome to use the spare room. My son can take the
couch."
He grinned at her then, and although he was
teasing her it was a kindhearted smile. Rose bent to accept a paternal hug.
That evening, Rose and Sebastian stretched
side-by-side beneath a quilt before a dying fire. The couple had explored the
woods behind the house until sunset, then enjoyed a light supper with Betsy
before she retired.
"I'm sorry we missed the Follies,"
he said.
"We can see them some other time."
"I'll make it up to you," he
promised. "There's a quaint little inn not far from here. We can have
breakfast there and then go sailing--"
Rose put a finger to his lips. "I'd
rather spend the day here, if you don't mind. We don't need to go to any inn
for breakfast, Betsy's cooking is superb. How long has she been with your
family?"
"Oh, since we moved out here, about fourteen
years. I was twelve years old. She and her husband were my substitute parents
through my adolescence, before he passed on."
She inhaled, then plunged forward. "What
happened to your mother?"
Silence. Rose could feel him pulling away
from her. "I'm sorry, darling, I didn't mean for it to come out like
that."
"What did you mean, exactly?"
She stammered at the iciness in his tone.
"I--I was just--asking a question."
"She's dead. There's your answer."
He left the coziness of the couch and raked the coals in the hearth, his back
turned to her.
Rose slid to the floor and placed a gentle
hand on his shoulders.
"I'm sorry," he said without
turning around. "I tend to forget I'm not the only one who's lost a
parent."
She took his chin in the palm of her hand and
pulled his face to hers. She planted kisses on his forehead, eyelids, the
bridge of his nose, his full mouth. She welcomed his response, the tight
embrace that carried them both to the floor in a tangle of limbs, and as they
began to shed their clothing all rational thoughts fled her mind. There was
only this.
They lay before the embers, fully unclothed
now, unable to take their eyes off one another. Sebastian's fingertips trailed
a lazy pattern along her graceful neck, down to her breasts, circling each
nipple, teasing their way across her belly before climbing again. A giggle
worked its way up her throat and escaped. "They'll hear us."
"They won't," he whispered.
"My father can't hear anything outside of his room and Betsy sleeps like a
rock."
With that, he lowered his hand again, and
this time didn't stop until one finger had crept inside her. She gasped and
leaned into him, her hand wandering until she had a good grip on him. He
hardened instantly in her hand.
Both of them changed positions; he rolled
onto his back and pulled her atop him, using his free hand to stroke her hips.
His breathing was erratic as he brought his mouth to her ear. "Are you
sure, Rose?"
"Yes. Yes, yes, yes, please hurry!"
They collapsed in a frenzy of laughter, which
for her ended in a soft moan. His hand was still cupped between her thighs.
And he chose that moment to stop. "We
can't," he said, regret plain in his voice. "I don't want to be
responsible for--"
"Shh. Wait here." Rose was on her
feet and across the floor in seconds, dragging the quilt behind her. She
returned with a small packet that fit neatly in the palm of her hand. His eyes
widened.
"Where did you--never mind." He
shook his head at her wicked grin, and in a swift motion pulled her atop him
again. "I suppose you want to help me put this on?"
She helped him. And then guided him inside
her, and rode him furiously.
They made love for much of the night.
Rose wouldn't have traded her first time with
Jack on board the Titanic for anything; it would forever remain one of the most
precious moments of her life. But this, this was different. Sebastian was
obviously a more experienced lover; his appetite far exceeded her expectations.
She lay, spent, beneath him for the final
time, ankles twisted behind his back. He withdrew slowly, reluctantly, his
breathing slowing to an even rhythm. He barely had time to remove the condom,
the last of her supply, before settling into slumber, his arms around her.
Sleep didn't come as easily to Rose. She'd
enjoyed every moment of that night; God knew she wanted, no, needed the
release so badly it ached at times, and she was thankful for Sebastian's
discretion in not wondering aloud why she wasn't a virgin.
And yes, she loved him.
But did this mean she was ready to close the
door on her memories of the one she'd loved first?
"Jack," she whispered in the
darkness, "I'm keeping my promise."
There was no reply.