Chapter Twenty-Five - Marianne
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Marianne
ROSAMUND WAS NOT certain how or when she made it back to Blackthorn Hall that night.
Someone had found her on the stairs, had asked Tomas to bring the carriage round whilst another had waited with her, their arms around her.
The faces swam into each other. All she could think of was what she had done, and what would now happen.
My fault. It was all my fault.
When she was younger, she and her sister had sneaked out the window one evening.
A dance was happening in the nearby town, and their mother had told them that under no circumstances could they attend.
Rosamund had forged the vines down to the ground for her and Evelyne and they had giggled the whole way to town.
That was until the storm began to pick up.
The wind howled through the trees as the rain battered against their faces, ruining the hair they had spent hours arranging.
Carriages and carts pounded down the road beside them and one of them hit a loose rock, careening to the side and smashing into a fence.
Rosamund had been quick to move out of the way; Evelyne had not been so lucky.
Part of the debris had become lodged in her sisters leg.
She remembered sitting at the side of the road, tears running down both their faces as she tried to heal her sisters leg.
Then a pair of strong hands had been placed over hers, gently pulling her to feet.
“I’ll take it from here darling.”
Her father had knelt by Evelyne, whilst her mother had wrapped Rosamund in her arms, chastising her and holding her close.
Both had pursued them the moment they had realised they were gone.
It had been her fault. But this time, there was no one coming to fix it.
No gentle hands on hers, no loving embrace to protect her from the storm.
She was alone.
Mother and father dead.
Elder brother dead.
Aunts and sister spirited far away.
Elswyth. Where was Elswyth.
Why had she not been there? Had she known what her husband had intended? Would things have been different if she had been there? The woman she had come to rely on, to look up too, gone when she needed her most.
Dorian.
Her heart ached to think what she had done to him. The hurt in his eyes, the hatred. His face as they dragged him away. Whenever she closed her eyes that was all she could see. He had let down his walls for her, and she had repaid him with betrayal.
My fault.
Someone had brought her to her rooms in the East Tower. At some point the tears had stopped. There was nothing left in her. When she had first come to this place she thought she had lost everything. She could never have believed that there was further to go. Not until now.
She had considered locking herself away in the East Tower.
Like she when she first arrived. However, the next morning, when Gnash woke her with unusual gentleness, she dressed and went to breakfast like any other morning.
They had all been surprised to see her there.
They had tried to engage her in conversation and been met with silence.
What could she say to them? What could she say to any of them?
These people had been loyal to Dorian, had loved him, and she had ruined everything.
The people of The Veil, they depended on him to protect them, and she had ripped him from their lives.
What would they do now? How would they survive Bastian’s tempest?
She walked through her routine like a ghost on its haunt.
Most of her time was spent by the window next to the main door, looking at the long road that led out from Blackthorn Manor.
Watching. Waiting. Expecting to see that familiar looming shape walk up the front steps.
But he did not come. Mrs Hawthorn would bring her tea.
Rowan would bring her blankets and shawls to keep her warm.
Gnash would try to speak with her but inevitably would give up and curl up on the window seat beside her, watching the droplets of rain race down the window.
Wulf tried to encourage her to rejoin their fencing lessons, and Corvin would try to bring her some of the missives from the Veil, but she would shake her head and resume her watching.
He has to comeback. He has to.
In the evenings, she would go down to the crypts.
The Hall of Prince’s. She would lie on the floor and try to listen for the words of advice that Corvin once told her the old tombs would give.
But the spirits did not speak to her. Perhaps they sensed her treachery and refused to offer guidance to the one that had betrayed their descendent.
Please…tell me what to do…help me…
But her silent pleas continued to go unanswered.
Time meant nothing. The days and nights passed and she remained in the crypts or on the seat by the window, looking out at the dying garden beyond. As if it already knew the fate of its master.
One night, as she lay on the cold slabs of the crypt she heard footsteps on the stairs. Voices. In her delirium, she thought she had heard her sister.
“Evelyne?” she croaked, and sat up, rushing to her feet, “Evelyne!”
My sister. My sister is here.
However, the person that stepped into the cavern did not have the familiar blonde locks of her younger sister, her dark blue eyes, or glowing smile. Instead, her shoulders slumped to see grey silks, and burnished brown hair.
Marianne’s otherwise nervous demeanour suddenly filled with concern as she bustled towards Rosamund.
“Rosamund!” she gasped as Rosamund stepped away, her eyes dropping to the ground.
Her voice. I had heard her voice.
“I thought…I thought you were someone else,” said Rosamund with a shake of her head, and turned to move off further into the crypts, “you can go now.”
There was the rustling of skirts, Marianne blocked her path, “seven days. Seven days I’ve been sending my cards to you, and you haven’t responded. Isolde said she had done the same, nothing. Osric even agreed to bring them and was told that you wouldn’t see anyone.”
“I’ve been unwell,” said Rosamund bitterly, not meeting her eye.
She tried to move around her, but Marianne stepped into her way again.
The young woman was shaking, her hands wringing tightly around the handle of the parasol she had brought with her.
Droplets of rain tumbled down from the fabric as the parasol shook in her hand, staining the dress with a darker grey.
Her tone was one of irritation, but Rosamund could see the girl was terrified.
I don’t care, she tried to tell herself, she’s not my sister.
“Unwell? You’ve been wallowing,” said Marianne, with more conviction than she had ever heard since meeting the young woman.
Rosamund snapped her head up to look at her, “excuse me?”
Marianne nervously held her ground, lifting her chin defiantly, “that’s right, you heard me. Wallowing.”
“Forgive me for not following proper decorum, I wasn’t aware I wasn’t allowed to wallow,” spat Rosamund as again she tried to move past her, “I’ll remember that the next time my life falls apart.”
This time Marianne let her pass, but spun round on her heel to face her, “it’ll only fall apart if you let it.”
Rosamund ignored her and sat down with her back against one of the tombs, pulling the blanket Rowan had brought her around herself.
Marianne swept forwards and pulled the blanket from her hands, tossing it away.
Something flashed within Rosamund, something different from the void that had grown within her.
Something normal. Something mundane. A small spark. It begged to be ignited.
She ignored it.
She was tired. She wanted to crawl under the blanket that Marianne had taken and disappear. She was tired of trying. Tired of fighting. Tired of surviving. She had worked and worked, and all she had done was make things worse. For everyone.
Marianne moved closer to her, softening her tone, “Look, I don’t know what arrangement you and Dorian have managed to work out, but whatever it was it was working. He was…human. Even Osric noticed it. Whatever you did, whatever you were doing, it was working.”
Dorian, another stab in her chest as Marianne said his name, Dorian, the man I love. The man I betrayed.
“For the first time in a decade, things have been better, with all of us. Osric and I, we’ve been talking, actually talking to each other.
That night you and Dorian helped us out of the Ironhold, Osric started to make time for me.
Aurelian, he won’t stop talking about his brother being at the ball, it had made him so happy.
He’s so prone to melancholy, but he’s better now.
Goddess, even Lavinia is more tolerable because she knows she can’t throw her weight around like she used to.
And all I know is that all of that started to happen when you appeared,” said Marianne, “you have to get up. You have to fight.”
“How? What can I do?” said Rosamund wearily, as she stretched out to retrieve the blanket.
Marianne hesitated, the frustration coming back into her tone, “I don’t know! Something! Not this,” she gestured to where Rosamund had lifted the blanket, “I don’t know who this is. This isn’t the woman who turned up at Celeste’s palace and didn’t give a fuck what any of us thought.”
Rosamund was not sure who was more taken aback by Marianne’s language.
It certainly derailed whatever retort she had planned and allowed the princess to keep going, “This isn’t the woman that stood up to Lavinia in her own home.
Who humiliated Lord Bastian. This isn’t the woman who agreed to betroth herself to the Prince of Death to save her family”
The more Marianne spoke, the less recognisable this woman became. Was this really her? Had she really done this?
“This isn’t the woman who time and time again has been beaten, disgraced and degraded, and each time has gotten back up stronger than before. I don’t know who you are, but it is not the Valehart I came here for.”
The spark ignited.