The Old Rose Garden

A Victorian Romance and Erotica short story
by Lady T. L. Jennings

How on earth did he see me? I wondered in shocked surprise as our eyes met. My sitting room was on the second floor, and I had been standing very, very still behind the light summer curtains to avoid being seen, but somehow he had subconsciously detected my presence, and his eyes gazed into mine for the briefest of moments.

He had dark eyes, slightly tilted, that looked a little bit too large and pretty for a man, I noticed before he quickly looked away. His brown-red hair was cut unevenly and short in the neck, but the fringe was longer and fell down in his eyes.

He seems different from the others, I thought and leaned forward to study the odd young man more closely. In fact, he looked oddly out of place among the other workers, who laughed and talked together loudly and who were passing a bottle with an unknown content in between them, even though it was quite early.

The young man walked quietly behind the wagon. He was not tanned like the rest of the crude workers. Instead his face was a mess of thousands of freckles on rather pale skin. It should have given him a roguish or vulgar appearance; however, it did not. He was neither as broad shouldered nor barrel-chested as the other men, but he was not thin either. And although I do not know why, I felt slightly disappointed that he did not look at me again; however, it also made me rather curious.

I stood by the window and watched the wagon until it drove out of sight around the corner to the kitchen entrance, and I spent the better part of the day wondering about the mysterious young man and how he had been able to see me in the first place.

In the end, the only plausible explanation I could come up with was that I must have accidently moved the curtains without noticing it. Although, to be honest, I did not believe it entirely myself.

*

“Are you completely sure?” Stuart asked in a concerned voice. I sighed. I really did not know what he expected me to answer.

“Yes, I am,” I said.

“But it does not look that bad,” Stuart commented and looked through the window and inspected the sky. “Perhaps it will stop raining soon?”

The clouds had gathered, and around noon it had started to rain. It began as an innocent drizzle; however, before teatime the workers had to abandon their outdoor work, and I started to take my ordinary precautions.

I closed the wooden window panels one after the other in front of the bay windows and pulled the thick velvet curtains shut before I double-checked them. I could almost feel the sky darken outside.

“You know that I am never wrong, Stuart,” I told him, more calmly than I felt.

“I suppose so,” Stuart said, beaten. “Are you going to take the mixture that the physician prescribed to you?”

“It does not work,” I explained kindly.

Stuart could be aloof at times and we would argue like cats in a bag, however, when it came down to it, he was always my kind-hearted older brother.

“Well,” Stuart said, apparently unwilling to leave my bedchamber. “I will leave the bottle here, in case you should change your mind,” he added hopefully and placed the glass bottle of laudanum and a silver teaspoon at the bedside table before I gently, but firmly, ushered him out of the room.

It is going to be fine, I lied to myself as I silently prayed that perhaps this time it would not be as bad. I ignored the bottle that Stuart had left by my bed. Doctor Bewley’s opium drops only made it worse, turning everything into hazy shapes and making it even more frightening.

When the first sound of thunder suddenly shook the house an hour later and the rain pelted hard against the mouth-blown, thick window glass, I flinched and had to stifle a scream that threatened to tear its way through my throat. I knew that my screams only made everyone worried. Still, as I sat with my knees drawn up to my cheek in the dark wardrobe with my hands pressed hard over my ears and my eyes tightly closed, I imagined that I could still see the tiniest flicker of a lightning flash at the thin gap between the uneven doors of the wardrobe, and I swear I felt the old scars along my feet and legs burn.

Desperately, I tried not to remember the odd smell of lightning, dead animals, and burning trees.

*

Next page
(4 of 10)

Copyright © 2013 Lady T. L. Jennings