Black Rose

think of her that way, but to think of her as a living, breathing woman, a woman who had been born, lived a life, dressed, ate, laughed, cried, walked, and talked.
    She had existed. She had a name. It was his job to find who , what , when . Why was just the bonus question.
    He dug the sketch out of his file, studied the image Roz had created of a young, thin woman with a mass of curly hair and eyes full of misery. And this is how they’d dated her, he thought with a shake of his head. By a dress and a hairstyle.
    Not that it wasn’t a good sketch. He’d only seen Amelia once, and she hadn’t looked calm and sad like this, but wild and mad.
    The dress could have been ten, even twenty years old. Or brand-new. The hairstyle a personal choice or a fashion statement. It was impossible to pinpoint age or era on such, well, sketchy information.
    And yet, from his research so far, he tended to think they were close to the mark.
    The talk of dreams, the bits of information, the lore itself appeared to have its roots during Reginald Harper’s reign.
    Reginald Harper, he thought, kicking back in his chair to stare at the ceiling. Reginald Edward Harper, born 1851, the youngest of four children born to Charles Daniel Harper and Christabel Westley Harper. Second and only surviving son. Older brother, Nathanial died July 1864, at age eighteen, during the Battle of Bloody Bridge in Charlestown.
    “Married Beatrice...” He rummaged through his notes again. Yes, there it is, 1880. Five children. Charlotte, born 1881, Edith Anne, 1883, Katherine, 1885, Victoria, 1886, and Reginald Junior, 1892.”
    Big gap between the last two kids, considering the pattern beforehand, he thought, and noted down possibilities of miscarriages and/or stillbirths.
    Strong possibilities with the factors of unreliable birth control, and the natural assumption that Reginald would have wanted a son to continue the family name.
    He scanned the family chart he’d generated for Beatrice. A sister, one brother, one sister-in-law. But neither female relation had died until well after the first reports of sightings and dreams, making them unlikely candidates. And neither had been named Amelia.
    Of course, he hadn’t found a servant by that name, either. Not yet.
    But for now he circled back to Reginald Harper, head of the house during the most likely era.
    Just who were you, Harper? Prosperous, well-heeled. Inherited the house, and the holdings, because the older brother ran off to be a solider, and died fighting for the Cause. Baby of the family on top of it.

    Married well, accumulating more holdings through that marriage. Expanded and modernized the house, according to Roz’s notes. Married well, lived well, and you weren’t afraid to spend the dough. Still, there’d been a consistent turnover of housemaids and other female staff during his years at the helm.
    Maybe Reginald liked to play with the help. Or his wife had been a tyrant.
    Was the long wait for a son frustrating and annoying, or was he happy with his girls? It would be interesting to know.
    There was no one alive to say.
    Mitch went back to his computer and contented himself, for the moment, with facts.
    SINCE SHE HAD so many houseplants from the division of her own, Roz rotated some into store stock, and at Stella’s suggestion worked with her to use more in creating some dish gardens.
    She enjoyed working with Stella, and that was rare. Primarily when she was potting or propagating, Roz preferred only the company of her plants and her music.
    “Feels good to get my hands in the dirt,” Stella commented as she selected a snake plant for her arrangement.
    “I figure you’ll be getting plenty of that soon enough dealing with your new gardens.”
    “Can’t wait. I know I’m driving Logan crazy changing and redefining and tweaking the plan.” She blew a stray curl out of her face and slid her gaze over to Roz. “Then again, plan isn’t exactly the word for what he was doing with the landscape. It was more of a concept.”
    “Which you’re refining.”
    “I think if I show him one more sketch he might make me eat it. This coleus is gorgeous.”

    “Focusing on the gardens helps keep down the nerves over the wedding.”
    Stella paused, hands in dirt. “Bull’s-eye. Who’d think I’d be nervous? It’s not the first time around for me, and we’re keeping it small, simple. I’ve had months to plan, which hasn’t made him all that happy, either. But we had to at least get