Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(61)

Chapter Twenty-five


"O true apothecary!

Thy drugs are quick. Thus with a kiss I die.”

—Romeo, Romeo and Juliet



Rosalind wished for one of her spells to come upon her again, for no other reason than to sleep away the pain stabbing at her chest.

To be forever separated from the man she loved, could anything be worse?

The carriage pulled to a stop. Mary reached across and patted her hand. “Twill be alright, you’ll see. My Alfred won’t let the duke be so hair-brained for long, you’ll see.”

“Your Alfred?” Rosalind was partially amused. “Is that where you were running off to so often?”

A blush rose to Mary’s cheeks. “It isn’t proper to talk of such things. Your duke will come for you. I know it in my bones.”

“He isn’t my duke.” Rosalind sighed. “Not anymore.”

“My lady?” Willard held out his hand. With reluctance, she grasped it as he helped her out of the carriage.

Her country estate mocked her with its dark and gothic scenery. The last thing she wanted to do was walk into an empty home. It reminded her of her heart, her soul. Black and empty for Stefan had taken every ounce of love she had, and she feared she had nothing left to give, to anyone.

Her sisters were still missing, though Stefan promised that they would surely be found, he had sent men in both directions after them.

So now Rosalind, was left to live out the rest of her days in a dark castle with no one save her godmother and her family’s odd valet.

It was still strange that he decided to escort them back to the estate. After all, he was now in charge of the London home, but he had been so worried. She was at least grateful that the man cared.

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.





Chapter Twenty-six


"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.