Stefan's Diaries 1 - Origins (4 page)

8

I’m not sure how long we stayed in the room together. The minutes ticked away on the grandfather clock in the corner, but all I was aware of was the rhythmic sound of Katherine’s breath, the way the light caught her angular jaw, the quick flick of the page as we looked through the book. I was dimly conscious of the fact that I needed to leave, soon, but whenever I thought of the music and the dancing and the plates of fried chicken and Rosalyn, I found myself literally unable to move.

“You’re not reading!” Katherine teased at one point, glancing up from
The Mysteries of Mystic
Falls
.

“No, I’m not.”

“Why? Are you distracted?” Katherine rose, her slender shoulders stretching as she reached up to place the book back on the shelf. She put it in the wrong spot, next to Father’s world geography books.

“Here,” I murmured, reaching behind her to take the book and place it on the high shelf where it belonged. The smell of lemon and ginger surrounded me, making me feel wobbly and dizzy.

She turned toward me. Our lips were mere inches apart, and suddenly the scent of her became nearly unbearable. Even though my head knew it was wrong, my heart screamed that I’d never be complete if I didn’t kiss Katherine. I closed my eyes and leaned in until my lips grazed hers.

For a moment, it felt as though my entire life had clicked into place. I saw Katherine running barefoot in the fields behind the guest house, me chasing after her, our young son slung over my shoulder.

But then, entirely unbidden, an image of Penny, her throat torn out, floated through my mind. I pulled back instantly, as if struck by lightning.

“I’m sorry!” I said, leaning back and tripping against a small end table, stacked high with Father’s volumes. They fell to the floor, the sound muffled by the Oriental rugs. My mouth tasted like iron. What had I just done? What if my father had come in, eager to open the humidor with Mr.

Cartwright? My brain whirled in horror.

“I have to … I have to go. I have to go find my fiancée.” Without a backward glance at Katherine and the stunned expression that was sure to be on her face, I fled the study and ran through the empty conservatory and toward the garden.

Twilight was just beginning to fall. Coaches were setting off with mothers and young children as well as cautious revelers who were afraid of the animal attacks. Now was when the liquor would flow, the band would play more loudly, and girls would outdo themselves waltzing, intent to capture the eyes of a Confederate soldier from the nearby camp. I felt my breath returning to normal. No one knew where I’d been, much less what I had done.

I strode purposefully into the center of the party, as if I’d simply been refilling my glass at the bar. I saw Damon sitting with other soldiers, playing a round of poker on the corner of the porch. Five girls were squeezed onto the porch swing, giggling and talking loudly. Father and Mr.

Cartwright were walking toward the labyrinth, each holding a whiskey and gesturing in an animated fashion, no doubt talking about the benefits of the Cartwright-Salvatore merger.

“Stefan!” I felt a hand clap my back. “We were wondering where the guests of honor were. No respect for their elders,” Robert said jovially.

“Rosalyn’s still not here?” I asked.

“You know how girls are. They have to look just right, especially if they’re celebrating their impending marriage,” Robert said.

His words rang true, yet an unexplainable shiver of fear rushed down my spine.

Was it just me, or had the sun set remarkably quickly? The revelers on the lawn had changed to shadowy figures in the five minutes since I’d been outside, and I couldn’t make out Damon within the group in the corner.

Leaving Robert behind, I elbowed my way past the party guests. It was odd for a girl to not show up at her own party. What if, somehow, she’d come into the house and she’d seen …

But that was impossible. The door had been closed, the shades drawn. I walked briskly toward the servants’ quarters near the pond, where the servants were having their own party, to see if Rosalyn’s coachman had arrived.

The moon reflected off the water, casting an eerie, greenish glow on the rocks and willow trees surrounding the pond. The grass was wet with dew, and still trampled from the time when Damon, Katherine, and I had played footbal there.

The knee-high mist made me wish I were wearing my boots instead of my dress shoes.

I squinted. At the base of the willow tree, where Damon and I had spent hours climbing as children, was a shadowy lump on the ground, like a large, gnarled tree root. Only I didn’t remember a tree root in that spot. I squinted again. For a moment, I wondered if it could be a pair of intertwined lovers, trying to escape prying eyes. I smiled despite myself. At least someone had found love at this party.

But then the clouds shifted, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated the tree—and the form beneath it. I realized with a sickening jolt that the shape wasn’t two lovers in mid-embrace. It was Rosalyn, my betrothed, her throat torn out, her eyes half open, staring up at the tree branches as if they held the secret to a universe she no longer inhabited.

9

It’s difficult for me to describe the moments that followed.

I remember footfalls and shrieking and the servants praying outside their quarters. I remember staying on my knees, yelling out of horror and pity and fear. I remember Mr.

Cartwright pulling me back as Mrs. Cartwright sank to her knees and keened loudly, like a wounded animal.

I remember seeing the police carriage. I remember Father and Damon wringing their hands and whispering about me, allies in trying to develop the best course for my care. I tried to talk, to tell them I was fine—I was, after all, alive. But I couldn’t form the words.

At one point, Dr. Janes hooked his arms under my armpits and dragged me to my feet. Slowly, men I didn’t know surrounded me and dragged me to the porch of the servants’ quarters. There, words were mumbled, and Cordelia was called for. “I’m … I’m fine,” I said finally, embarrassed that so much attention was being paid to me when Rosalyn was the one who’d been killed.

“Shhh, now, Stefan,” Cordelia said, her leathery face creased with worry. She pressed her hands to my chest and muttered a prayer under her breath, then pulled a tiny vial from the voluminous folds of her skirt. She uncapped it and pressed it to my lips. “Drink,” she urged as a liquid that tasted like licorice ran down my throat.

“Katherine!” I whimpered. Then I clapped my hand over my own mouth, but not before a startled expression crossed Cordelia’s face. Quickly, she dosed me with more of the licorice-scented liquid.

I dropped back to the hard steps of the porch, too tired to think anymore.

“His brother is here somewhere,” Cordelia said, sounding as if she were speaking underwater. “Fetch him.”

I heard the sound of footfalls and opened my eyes an instant later to see Damon standing above me. His face was white with shock.

“Will he be okay?” Damon asked, turning to Cordelia.

“I think …,” Dr. Janes began.

“He needs rest. Quiet. A dark room,” Cordelia said authoritatively.

Damon nodded.

“I’m … Rosalyn … I should have …,” I began, even though I didn’t know how to finish the sentence. Should have what? Should have gone looking for her far earlier, instead of spending my time kissing Katherine? Should have insisted on escorting her to the party?

“Shhh,” Damon whispered, hoisting me up. I managed to stand, shakily, beside him. From out of nowhere, Father appeared and held my other arm, and I haltingly managed to step off the porch and back to the house. Revelers stood on the grass, holding each other, and Sheriff Forbes called out for the militia to search in the woods. I felt Damon guiding me through the back door of the house and up the stairs before allowing me to collapse on my bed. I fell into the cotton sheets, and then I remember nothing but darkness.

The next morning, I awoke to beams of sunlight scattered on the cherrywood floorboards of my bedroom.

“Good morning, brother.” Damon was sitting in the corner in the rocking chair, the one that used to belong to Great-grandfather. Our mother had rocked us in it when we were infants, singing songs to us as we went to sleep. Damon’s eyes were red and bloodshot, and I wondered if he’d been sitting like that, watching me, all night.

“Rosalyn’s dead?” I voiced it as a question, even though the answer was obvious.

“Yes.” Damon stood up, turning to the crystal pitcher on the walnut dresser. He poured water into a tumbler and held it toward me. I struggled to sit upright.

“No, stay,” Damon commanded with the authority of an army officer. I’d never heard him speak like that before. I fell back against the goose-down pillows and allowed Damon to bring the glass to my lips as if I were an infant. The cool, clear liquid slipped down my throat, and once again, I thought back to last night.

“Did she suffer?” I asked, a painful series of images marching through my brain. While I’d been reciting Shakespeare, Rosalyn must have been planning her grand entrance. She must have been so excited to show off her dress, to have the younger girls gape at her ring, to have the older women take her off to a corner to discuss the particulars of her wedding night. I imagined her dashing across the lawn, then hearing footsteps behind her, only to turn and see flashing white teeth glistening in the moonlight. I shuddered.

Damon crossed over to the bed and put his hand on my shoulder. Suddenly the rush of terrifying images stopped. “Death usually happens in less than a second. That was the case in the war, and I’m sure it was the same for your Rosalyn.” He settled back in his chair and rubbed his temple. “They think it was a coyote. The war is bringing people east for battle, and they think the animals are following the blood trail.”

“Coyotes,” I said, my voice tripping on the second syllable. I hadn’t heard the word before. It was just one more example of new phrases like
killed
and
a widower
that were about to be added to my vocabulary.

“Of course, there are those people, including Father, who think it was the work of demons.”

Damon rolled his dark eyes. “Just what our town Damon rolled his dark eyes. “Just what our town needs. An epidemic of mass hysteria. And what kills me about
that
little rumor is that when people are convinced their town is under siege by some demonic force, they’re not focusing on the fact that war is ripping apart our country. It’s this head-in-the-sand mentality that I simply cannot understand.”

I nodded, not really listening, not able to view Rosalyn’s death as part of some sort of argument against the war. As Damon continued to ramble, I lay back and closed my eyes. I visualized Rosalyn’s face at the moment I found her. There, in the darkness, she’d looked different. Her eyes had been large and luminescent. As though she’d seen something terrible. As though she’d suffered horribly.

10

September 4, 1864

Midnight. Too late to fall asleep,
too early to be awake. A candle burns
on my nightstand, the flickering
shadows foreboding.

I am haunted already. Will I ever
forgive myself for not finding Rosalyn
until it was too late? And why is she 
—the one I vowed to forget—still on
my mind?

My head is pounding. Cordelia is
always at the door, offering drinks,
lozenges, powdered herbs. I take
them, like a recuperating child. Father
and Damon glance at me when they
think I’m asleep. Do they know of the
nightmares?

I thought marriage was a fate
worse than death. I was wrong. I was
wrong about so many things, too
many things, and all I can do is pray
for 
forgiveness 
and 
hope 
that 
somehow, somewhere, I can summon
strength from the depths of my
existence to step firmly onto the path
of the right again. I will do it. I must.

For Rosalyn.

And for her.

Now I will blow out the candle and
hope for sleep—like that of the dead 
—to engulf me quickly….

“Stefan! Time to get up!” my father called, slamming my bedroom door.

“What?” I struggled to sit, not sure what hour it was, or what day it was, or how much time had passed since Rosalyn’s death. Day faded into night, and I could never really sleep, only doze into terrifying dreams. I wouldn’t have eaten anything, except that Cordelia continued to come into my room with her concoctions, spoon-feeding them to me to ensure that they were eaten. She’d make fried chicken and okra and a thick mash of what she called
sufferer stew,
which she said would make me feel better.

She’d left another one, a drink this time, on my nightstand. I drank it quickly.

“Get ready. Alfred will help you prepare,” my father said.

“Get ready for what?” I asked, swinging my legs onto the floor. I hobbled to the mirror. I had stubble over my chin, and my tawny hair stood up on all ends. My eyes were red, and my nightshirt was hanging off my shoulders. I looked awful.

Father stood behind me, appraising my reflection. “You’ll pull yourself together. Today is Rosalyn’s funeral, and it’s important to me and the Cartwrights that we are there. We want to show everyone that we must band together against the evil that’s scourging our town.”

While Father prattled on about demons, I thought about facing the Cartwrights for the first time. I still felt horribly guilty. I couldn’t help thinking that the attack wouldn’t have happened if I’d been waiting for Rosalyn on the porch, instead of lingering in the study with Katherine. If I’d been outside, waiting for Rosalyn, I would have seen her walking from the fields in her pink dress. Maybe I could have faced death with her, too, and she wouldn’t have had to confront that nightmarish animal alone. I may not have loved Rosalyn, but I couldn’t forgive myself for not being there to save her.

“Well, come on,” Father said impatiently as Alfred walked in, holding a white linen shirt and a double-breasted black suit. I blanched. It was the suit I’d have worn at my wedding—and the church where we were mourning Rosalyn was to have been the site of the ceremony establishing our union. Still, I managed to change into the suit, allowed Alfred to help me shave, since my hands allowed Alfred to help me shave, since my hands were so shaky, and emerged an hour later ready to do what I had to do.

I kept my eyes down as I followed Father and Damon to the carriage. Father sat up front, next to Alfred, while Damon sat in the back with me.

“How are you, brother?” Damon asked above the familiar clip-clop of Duke’s and Jake’s hooves down Willow Creek Road.

“Not very well,” I said formally, a stiff lump in my throat.

Damon put a hand on my shoulder. The magpies chattered, the bees buzzed, and the sun cast a golden glow on the trees. The entire coach smelled like ginger, and I felt my stomach heave. It was the smell of guilt over lusting after a woman who was never to be—
could
never be—my wife.

“Your first death, the first one you witness, changes you,” Damon said finally, as the coach pulled up to the white clapboard church. The church bells were ringing, and every business in town was closed for the day. “But perhaps it can change you for the better.”

“Maybe,” I said as I descended from the coach. But I didn’t see how.

We reached the door as Dr. Janes hobbled into the church, his cane in one hand and a flask of whiskey in another. Pearl and Anna were sitting together, and Jonathan Gilbert sat behind them, his elbows perched on the edge of Pearl’s pew, just inches from her shoulder.

Sheriff Forbes was in his usual place in the second pew, glaring at the cluster of rouged women from the tavern who had come to pay their respects. At the edge of their circle was Alice, the barmaid, cooling herself with a silk fan.

Calvin Bailey, the organist, was playing an adaptation of Mozart’s
Requiem,
but he seemed to hit a sour note every few chords. In the front pew, Mr. Cartwright stared straight ahead, while Mrs. Cartwright sobbed and occasionally blew her nose into a lace handkerchief. At the front of the church, a closed oak casket was covered with flowers. Wordlessly, I walked to the casket and knelt down in front of it.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered, touching the casket, which felt cold and hard. Unbidden, images of my betrothed popped up in my mind: Rosalyn giggling over her new puppy, giddily discussing flower combinations for our wedding, risking the wrath of her maid by planting a covert kiss on my cheek at the end of one visit. I moved my hands off the casket and put them together, as if in prayer. “I hope that you and Penny have found each other in Heaven.” I leaned down, letting my lips graze the casket. I wanted her to know, wherever she was, that I would have learned to love her. “Good-bye.”

I turned to take my seat and stopped short.

Right behind me was Katherine. She was wearing a dark-blue cotton dress that stood out in the sea a dark-blue cotton dress that stood out in the sea of black crepe that filled the pews.

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” Katherine said, touching my arm. I flinched and drew my arm back. How dare she touch me so familiarly in public? Didn’t she
realize
that if we hadn’t been carrying on at the barbecue in the first place, the tragedy might never have happened?

Concern registered in her dark eyes. “I know how hard this must be for you,” she said. “Please let me know if you need anything.”

I immediately felt a wave of guilt for assuming she was doing anything other than showing sympathy. After all, her parents had died. She was just a young girl, reaching out to offer her support.

She looked so sad that for one wild second, I was tempted to cross the aisle and comfort her.

“Thank you,” I said instead, sucking in my stale breath and walking back to the pew. I slid next to Damon, who had his hands crossed piously over a Bible. I noticed his eyes flick up as Katherine briefly knelt down by the coffin. I followed his gaze, noticing the way several curls had escaped from beneath her hat and were curling around the ornate clasp on her blue necklace.

A few minutes later, the
Requiem
ended, and Pastor Collins strode up to the pulpit. “We’re here to celebrate a life cut far too short. There is evil among us, and we will mourn this death, but we will also draw strength from this death …,” he intoned.

I covertly glanced across the aisle at Katherine. Her servant, Emily, was sitting next to her on one side and Pearl on the other.

Katherine’s hands were folded as if in prayer. She turned slightly, as if to look at me. I forced myself to look away before our eyes could meet. I would not dishonor Rosalyn by thinking of Katherine.

I gazed up at the unfinished, steepled beams of the church.
I’m sorry,
I thought, sending the message upward and hoping that Rosalyn, wherever she was, heard it.