Short Story: A Rose By Any Other…

Short Story: A Rose By Any Other Name

Rose Tudor hid behind the door. If she were lucky her half-brother Morris would not discover her hiding place, but move on to more likely places where she might be hidden. Her other half-brother Edward was less inclined towards these kind of games, if they could be termed as games, which Rose didn't think they could, but Morris did. Edward would be at his studies, preparing for Oxford later in the year. Morris too was due there if he put his head to his studies, but he was less inclined, preferred games.

- I know you're about somewhere Rose, Morris called out with menace in his voice. Rose stiffened. She felt alarmed and intimidated. She pushed her back against the door, tensing the muscles in her back and shoulders. Rose, where are you? he called. His voice seemed nearer; footsteps along the passage. Rose closed her eyes, sensed her body break into perspiration; wetness clung to her white dress and petticoats. I’m going to find you, he chanted childishly. Rose clenched her hands until her fingers dug into her flesh and her muscles began to ache in their stiffness.

- Morris! came a voice from afar, Edward's Rose assumed. Morris what the blazes are you doing? Edward's voice was nearer now.

- Looking for Rose, Morris replied. Can’t find the little minx.

- Well, make less noise, Edward stated, moving away, back to his studies. Morris's footsteps went along the passageway following his brother, mumbling. Rose felt the hardness of the wooden door against her back and in the darkness behind her closed eyes, feared Morris was lurking outside the door, even though she thought she heard him move away down the passageway. All was silent except for her own breathing. The sound of it seemed too loud as if it a chorus were breathing. Moving reluctantly she came away from the door and sensed the dampness of her dress against her legs and the sleeves clinging to her arms.

Opening her eyes, she looked around the small room. Years ago it had belonged to one of the maids, now it stood empty unless a guest stayed and no other rooms were available. But here, for the moment, she felt relatively safe. It was of the few rooms, apart from her father's library, where she felt a sense of safety, a place of sanctuary. Her own bedroom was not such a place. There once, she recalled, Morris had cornered her and groped her, his fingers fumbling her against the wall, his lips pressed on her neck; his breathing against her cheek. And there was the time, she remembered, moving across the room stealthily, when he dragged her into his own bedroom and...She tried to block out the memory, but failed, it lingered like an ill-smelling odour.

She felt sure Morris was outside the door, waiting, biding his time, ready to pounce. She moved back against the far corner of the small room and tried to hide herself in the slight shadow. The window let in little light and the curtains were thick and partially drawn. If she kept absolutely still he might not hear or see her. Again, she stiffened. Once more, she perspired. Once more the wetness clung to her clothes as if she was drowning, sinking into the darkness.

Leonard Fox sat in his study. On his desk were manuscripts neatly stacked and before him, with his pen over it, was the manuscript of his proposed book: The Arts and Social Being. He couldn't concentrate. Looking out of the window he mused darkly on his wife, Rose, upstairs in bed where she'd been since their return from the honeymoon. A complete disaster, he thought, tapping his teeth with the pen. She became hysteretic and I frustrated. The sexual side of the relationship seems doomed, he told himself, putting down the pen and placing his hands over his face. The Titanic disaster a week before had almost pushed her to the brink. They had told him to watch her; be aware for the signs, but it had come so suddenly, so abruptly, that he'd been wrong-footed and almost useless. He had slept in the spare bedroom and given her her space and himself peace to a certain extent. Their maid, Maud, was uncertain, but carried on, day in day out. He could see, he was sure, fear in the girl's eyes. The nurse came most days. He thought he heard her scream again; it seemed carried as if brought to him by demons; entered him, tormented him. He rose from the desk and went to the small window. The angled garden slanted away from the house down a slope and out of sight. It was a form of sanctuary. Now he needed it to protect his own sanity and stability.

Rose Tudor-Fox sat up in bed. She dreamed she had gone down on the Titanic and was drowning. Waking with a start she sensed salt water in her mouth and spat it out on to the bed covers. Wiping her mouth with the back of her right hand she gazed at the spittle. It was a dream, she told herself, wiping her hand on the bed covers, it was all a dream. Sitting still she listened for sounds: of voices, of the sea, of the wind. But there was nothing. She strained again, her eyes now closed. Nothing. The silence itself seemed menacing. All seemed menacing. The honeymoon was damnable and detestable, though to be fair to Leonard, she mused sadly, he was kind, understanding, but the attempted deed. She pulled her legs up to her chin and wrapped her arms around them as if they were her children. And Morris was at the wedding with his stare and smiles, she recalled sighing heavily, as if all were well and nothing out of place. She closed her eyes. The silence seemed more menacing. Perhaps Morris was outside the door, she thought suddenly. And seeing the door handle turn, screamed as if a child again knowing her hiding place was known and her sanctuary lost. The maid standing by the open door watched her mistress pull at hair and scream. She dropped the tray and ran as if pursued by Medusa.

Rose sat on the garden seat. By the camellias Leonard was talking to Grant Duncany an old friend from his university days. Rose studied them, watched as they walked slowly by the pink camellias. Over by the roses Morris was laughing with his wife Anna and her brother Anthony Marshweed. Rose feared that Morris would come and speak to her without Leonard being present; with her husband present she could cope with Morris. She wondered, looking now at Morris, how Anna coped with him; how she could bear going to bed with him, as no doubt she did. How she could put up with his hands over her. Morris laughed aloud as if he'd listened to her thoughts and was mocking her as he often did.

- They say the war will be over soon, Grant said suddenly. He was sitting on the seat beside her. Leonard was with Morris, Anna and Anthony. Not before time, he added, staring moodily ahead at the lawn.

- So many dead, Rose said, so much slaughter. She turned and gazed at Grant and mused at his dark hair and deep eyes. There was something of a Greek god about him.

- Victor went last month, Grant informed quietly. Thought he'd make it. Owen too. He then became silent as if out of respect. Then breaking the silence he said, very talented was Owen; wrote beautifully. All lost now apart from what he left behind.

Rose could hear the sparrows, now. So loudly that she put her hands over her ears. She saw the lawn awash with birds like an ocean. - Mind where you tread! she shouted suddenly as Morris came towards them. Grant stared at her and placed his hand on her arm. Leonard turned from Anna and Anthony and saw Rose pushing away Morris who had gone to speak with her. You’ve killed them! she screamed, struggling with Morris, You've squashed them! And the lawn she saw was awash in blood; redness was everywhere, even the camellias were stained.

Leonard walked with Rose away from the lawn and down by the house where they sat on an old seat well weathered, with the scent of rosemary and mint behind them. Rose looking down at her shoes frowned at the blood splattered there. Feathers stuck to her dress smeared in redness against the whiteness of the material. She tore at her face with her fingers until Leonard held her tight towards him. He then whispered to her softly, calming her, relaxing her.

Up on the lawn Anthony, Grant, Morris and Anna stood in a clump whispering. They sounded like pigeons to Rose. Maud Minstop the maid knelt beside Rose and patted her hand. Leonard left the two women and walked back to the lawn to the others.

- Nothing I said, I hope, Grant said. Leonard shook his head.

- Herbert’s death last month on the Somme, Leonard muttered.

- Damnable war, Morris said. Anna squeezed his arm fearing his return to the front. You’re the lucky one, Grant, Morris said.

- Nothing I could do about my flatfeet, Grant replied.

- Let's not talk of war, Leonard said. Looking back he saw the maid walking Rose back into the house, holding her hand as if she were a child far from home and frightened of the dark.

Rita Sackworth sat opposite Rose. There was something of the spinster about Rose, she thought, even though she's a married woman. The way she looked; her dress sense; the way her hair was tired back primly. Nonetheless, she loved Rose. And studying her there opposite her in a moment's silence, she let her eyes flow over this woman like a wave over pebbles. - Does Leonard mind you coming? Rita asked, dispelling the silence.

- He’s in London, Rose said, following up the aftermath of the General Strike. She sat back in the chair to get comfortable, but couldn't. He doesn't mind me here; says it did me good last time. She smiled at Rita and watched the dark almost black eyes fall on her and then the smile followed, a broad mouth smile, and she knew Rita remembered.

- I’ve had your room prepared in case you stayed, Rita informed a hint of gladness in her tone.

- Leonard said your book should sell quite well, Rose said sitting forward and clutching at the arms of the chair.

- Maybe it will, Rita said, but it will be forgotten while your books will be talked over by men of learning. Rose pulled a face.

- I hope not. I'd hate my books to be scrutinized over by such men, Rose said with emotion. To be dissected and analysed like some corpse. I'd hate that. Rather they were forgotten. Rita raised her eyebrows and shook her head.

- They'll not be forgotten, Rose, dear, Rita said, they're here to stay. Rose closed her eyes. She wanted this talk of books to end; those books cost her dearly. Her sanity suffered; they drained her, those books. You look ready for bed, Rita said softly. Come; let's get you to bed before you drift off here. And Rita took Rose by her hand, led her out of the large lounge, and along the dark passageways to the room where, that morning, Rita had made sure all was prepared by the maids, just in the hope that Rose, her love, might stay. And she was. Rita was glad and felt as Rose squeezed her hand, that Rose was glad too. And that the night before would bring joy.

Rose let the newspaper fall. The papers were full of Adolf Hitler's coming to power. A dark cloud appeared on the horizon just over the small orchard where Leonard was talking to Morris. She sensed a headache coming. Her book was slow moving and was tiring her Leonard said over breakfast. Take rest he'd said; leave things for a few days. But she knew she couldn't. The book wanted to be written, damned slow as it was. She couldn't face Morris, not today. His smile almost undone her last month, she recalled rising from the chair and walking to the window. There was something damnable about men, she said to herself, what with Hitler and Morris and that fat Italian Mussolini. She wanted Maud, she sensed, pulling the bell urgently. The birds were coming, she could hear them. Maud came running and Rose clung to her like one saved from drowning.