Shadow on the Rose

By Laura Jane Leigh

Marion and James Fraser are a young couple who appear to have it all. Their luck changes, however, when they move into a lovely, old mansion with a rose garden. Marion falls ill and begins to have strange dreams, in which she seems to be leading the life of a young Victorian woman, Mariana Wilkinson.

Mariana Wilkinson used to visit the house as the guest of a friend, whose mother is thought to have drowned in a boating accident. During her stays with the family, Mariana comes to suspect that foul play was involved. After investigating, she accuses someone of murder. Then a chance remark raises a terrifying doubt: has she persecuted an innocent person? Despite her best efforts, she never knows for sure.

Marion Fraser, in the twentieth century, is determined to find answers and drive away the guilt that has been hovering about the house like a ghost. Again and again, she travels back in time, gathering clues, but also falling in love. Obsessed with the past, she neglects her relationship with James, who threatens to leave her. Can she solve the mystery without losing him?

Note: Canadian spelling is used throughout.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Jane Leigh
• Release date: Apr 23, 2013
• ISBN: 9781498984850

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SHADOW ON THE ROSE

Laura Jane Leigh

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© Copyright 2012, Laura Jane Leigh

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

EPILOGUE

Prologue

June 1898

Rosamund stood in the sandy cove, gazing out at the grey river. On the far shore, a reddish light had appeared above the dark green pines. She could hear the lapping waves and the clunk of the rowboat against the dock.

Edward’s hand closed on her upper arm. Come along now, Rose. It’s getting late. You mustn’t stand out here in the cold.

Her eyes filled with tears. She’s a strong swimmer. I’m sure she made her way to the other side. She’s probably lying on a beach in her wet clothes and . . .

"Yes . . . perhaps."

Her heart jolted. You don’t believe me. You think . . .

I don’t think anything, Rosamund. I just don’t know. All we can do is hope.

I wish the men would hurry. She’ll die of exposure. She’ll . . .

They’re doing the best they can.

If she’s dead, I’ll never forgive him.

It was an accident. It wasn’t his fault.

Chapter One

April, 1981

There it is! Stopping the car, Marion pointed at a large house of grey stone, set well back from the road. We’ve finally found what we’ve been looking for.

James cast a quick glance across the property and at an OPEN FOR INSPECTION sandwich-board placed near the sidewalk. He turned to her with a mischievous smile. Are you sure, dear? You don’t sound very enthusiastic.

Yes, she said, ignoring his teasing. It’s exactly what we wanted—Victorian, solid stone, with beautiful bay windows. And even from here, you can tell that the ceilings are high. Puzzled, she shook her head. It’s not obvious to you? You don’t see right away that it’s perfect?

It’s a nice place, Marion, but it’s kind of big for just two people. Wonder how much it costs. Probably out of our price-bracket.

Easy enough to find out. She pulled into a parking spot. Shall we go in and have a look?

All right.

Marion bounded up the steps, ahead of James. Then, waiting for him, she paused on the front walk, admiring the vast, sloping lawn. On this afternoon in early April, the grass was brown and matted down, dotted with clusters of damp leaves. There were no flowers in sight, not even crocuses, just bare trees and thorny bushes. Yet the afternoon sun shone brilliantly, glinting on the grey walls of the house, flecking them with silver. Above the roof, the sky was a fresh, bright blue, with only a few white clouds.

Marion felt a vague peacefulness whose source she couldn’t quite identify. She stood there, trying to formulate in her own mind the reasons for this quiet contentment. At last, she turned to James. You studied Plato in college, didn’t you?

Yeah.

Then you’ll know what I mean when I say that, for me, this place is the Idea of House. The one perfect house, after which all the others are modelled.

James grinned at her, Houseness itself?

Yes, she said, smiling. Which is why I feel I recognize it. You know what Plato says about past lives.

No. Not really. He thinks we’ve lived more than once?

She nodded. "And in our previous lives, we’ve known the perfect Ideas. In this life, we forget them because we’re caught up in the workaday world. Every now and then, if we’re lucky, we’ll see something that jogs our memory."

And this house jogged yours?

Exactly.

You’re extremely romantic. You pretend to be joking, but you’re not.

She took his hand. "How well you know me." They continued along the path and up the steps to a porch. The front door was wide-open. A real estate agent was seated at a desk in the hall. After an exchange of introductions, she began to speak with great enthusiasm about the property she had to sell.

At one point, James interrupted her. How much are they asking? When the woman answered him, he said to Marion: It’s more than we can afford.

It’s a good price, James. We could manage it if we cut back on other expenses. And maybe we can get it for less. You’re a good bargainer. It’s what you do for a living.

He looked doubtful. "Well."

Oh, come on. Don’t make up your mind till we’ve had a proper look. As she spoke, she noticed a staircase with a carved banister, skirting three walls. Near each landing was a casement window. Light streamed through the leaded-glass panes, casting a crisscross design on the floor.

Opening wide double-doors, the agent ushered them into the living room. The twelve-foot ceilings were edged by a delicate cornice. Along one wall was a fireplace with an ornate mantelpiece of polished oak. The hardwood floors were dark and shining with wax. Beautiful, said Marion, admiring the bay windows. She glanced upwards. And look at the lovely rose medallion in the middle of the ceiling.

James followed her gaze. Nice plasterwork. But it’s damaged.

We could fix it ourselves.

He shook his head. No. Repairs like that can only be done by a professional.

They passed through an arched doorway into another large sitting room. Just beyond was the dining room. Marion smiled when she saw it, imagining the furniture from their apartment dwarfed in the vast space. Crossing a corridor, they entered an old-fashioned library lined with glass-paned bookcases. This room, too, had a fireplace.

It’s a beautiful house, James said, sounding reluctant.

"It’s wonderful," Marion insisted, her voice warm with emotion.

James stopped to examine the shelves. These need re-finishing. We’d have to sand them and varnish them. A lot of work.

But not difficult. That’s something we could do ourselves.

The agent escorted them into a big modern kitchen near the back of the house. Marion noted with approval the stainless-steel fridge and stove. Patting the granite countertops, the agent said, Redone, only a year ago. Top-of-the-line materials, as you can see for yourself, Mrs Fraser. After a moment, she added, The house used to belong to the Elliott family. Old Mr Elliott—the last owner—didn’t live here, though. He rented it out. When he died, it passed to a distant cousin, who lives in Vancouver. He’s the one who decided to sell. Given the circumstances, it’s wonderful how well the house has been maintained.

Marion was curious. Why didn’t he want to live here?

Mr Brown, the cousin?

No, Mr Elliott, the previous owner. Did he move away to another city?

I don’t think so. Never really thought about it. I’m not sure.

It’s rather odd, Marion said, with some satisfaction.

You think everything is odd, James said, laughing.

The agent appeared to lose interest in the subject. Motioning with her chin, she said, The steps to the basement are over there. But I imagine you’d rather see the upstairs first.

No, said James. I’d like to take a look at the furnace.

At the bottom of the stairs was a workroom, barely illuminated by an overhanging bulb. A few old tools were lying on a workbench. Marion noticed a sledgehammer, smudged with cobwebs, leaning against the wall.  They passed through a series of dark, airless rooms. Structural problems? James asked, pointing at a metal post that went from floor to ceiling. I’ve noticed quite a few of those down here.

"Yes, there has been some settling, the agent said. As one would expect with a house of this age. But it’s been corrected. All these supporting-beams have been put in quite recently. An engineer has checked them. I have the papers upstairs."

Good. I’d like to see them. Later, if we make an offer, we’ll ask for a home inspection.

Of course. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I would have suggested it myself.

As the conversation continued, Marion’s attention drifted away. It was the house itself that fascinated her, not these cold, practical matters. They had reached a dark corridor near the back of the cellar. She felt a spark of curiosity, noticing three metal doors, the last of which was blocked by a wooden post. What’s that—another supporting-beam?

Yes.

It’s not like the others.

It’s one of the older posts, said the agent. Put in by a former owner. Some household handyman who didn’t know what he was doing. The others were removed when the new ones were installed. I don’t know why they left that one. It’s not needed. You could take it down if you wanted.

In an excited voice, Marion said, Then we could see what’s behind the door.

The agent laughed. It’s just a coal-cellar. It’s marked in the plans.

"How mysterious—shutting it up like that forever."

Not really. No one heats with coal anymore.

That reminds me, said James, when was the furnace put in?

Three years ago. The agent pushed open the second door. And here it is.

James leaned in, examining it. As he plodded on with his questions, Marion felt bored. Do you mind if I go upstairs and have a look round?

Not at all.

Returning to the kitchen, Marion inspected the cupboards. One of the panels was warped. It’s probably something we could fix ourselves, she was thinking, as she glanced out the back window. Everywhere were beds of small, thorny bushes like those she had seen along the front path. They were roses, she realized with pleasure, picturing a rambling garden in the English style. Suddenly she noticed something strange: a row of narrow six-foot-long trenches, mounded with earth.

My God, she thought uneasily, they look like graves. When James and the agent came in, she asked, What are those bumps in the grass?

The woman joined her at the window. "Oh, those. They’re trenches for the rose trees. In the late autumn, the trees have to be bent over and covered with earth. Otherwise the cold would kill them. We are in Canada, after all."

Oh, said Marion, feeling relieved. It’s just to stop them from freezing.

Frowning, James stared outside. Neither of us knows anything about roses. And look at the size of that lawn. If we bought this place, we’d have to hire a gardener. So that’s another expense.

No, James. We could do the work ourselves. I get lots of time off in summer. I could do the mowing. And as for the roses—I’d get a book from the library or ask someone what to do. It would make a nice hobby for me.

Maybe, he said doubtfully.

Returning to the front hall, they followed the agent up the stairs. At the top was an oak-panelled corridor lined with closed doors, set back into little alcoves. The faint, shadowy light seemed gloomy to Marion. Then the agent turned a handle. Now they were staring into a bright, airy bedroom. The windows were huge. Nearby was a sitting room, also flooded with light. How beautiful, said Marion, as they inspected the master suite. Oh, and look—another fireplace.

Nice, said James. Despite his matter-of-fact tone, she could tell he was impressed. That’d have to be fixed, he added, pointing at a crack in the wainscoting.

When they had completed their tour, they went up to the attic. Here the rooms were dingy and box-like. The partitions were made of flimsy, cardboard-like wood, thickly coated with paint. The old servants’ quarters, the agent said.

James shook his head. A less pleasant side to that elegant lifestyle.

Yes, said Marion. It does seem a little depressing up here.

What these people needed was a union.

Marion laughed. "And you to represent them. Addressing the agent, she said, My husband’s a lawyer. He does a lot of arbitration."

Later, when they had returned to the front hall, Marion asked, Are there many sports facilities in the neighbourhood? We play a lot of tennis. And I like to swim.

Oh yes, the woman answered. There’s a gym and a pool at the community centre. And there’s a tennis club down the street.

Perfect. Marion glanced at James and smiled. Sounds ideal, doesn’t it?

Yeah, it does.

Well, said the agent. I’m sure you’ll want to discuss this on your own. Discreetly she stepped aside and busied herself with papers on her desk.

James and Marion began talking in an undertone. I love it, she said, squeezing his arm affectionately. It’s even better than I imagined. I already think of it as ours. I’m sure our friends would love it, too. Just imagine the housewarming party we could have: fires ablaze in all the fireplaces and each room filled with people.

It’s a nice place, but there are a few things that concern me. For one thing—all the repairs that need to be done.

We can do some of them ourselves.

But not all of them. And if we have to hire professionals, it won’t be cheap. The house is already too expensive and if you add those extra costs . . .

Oh, come on. I know you love this place as much as I do.

Yeah, I like it. But we can’t afford it. Unless . . .

She glanced at him hopefully.

"Unless I can get the price down. And . . ." Looking stern, he raised one finger. Any offer we make is contingent on a home inspection. Electrical work checked. Plumbing, too. No dry rot.

Agreed. She beamed at him. Come on. Let’s tell her.

Chapter Two

August, 1981

The first scrap of paper was hidden in an oversized picture book on the coffee table. When the children found it, Marion read the clue out loud: look for something topsy-turvy on the terrace. The children raced through the kitchen and out the back door. A little boy lifted an overturned flowerpot and uncovered the next folded scrap. A few moments later, the players went racing across the lawn, followed by their mothers and Marion. It was late afternoon—the hottest point of the day—and the sun was on a sharp slant. The numerous trees dotting the grounds spread out shadows like ghostly limbs.

Music wafted from the open windows of the house. Inside, grown-up guests were chatting and having drinks. Running with the younger crowd, Marion had a joyous sense of well-being. The weather was perfect; everyone was having fun; and here she was on her own beautiful property, surrounded by roses and other flowers.

Children’s laughter rang out. With little shrieks of delight, they discovered a clue under a deck chair: look for something with bright, shiny paint. Back they ran across the smooth green lawn. Behind the house, a red-lacquered box was filled to the brim with salt and sand. Lifting the lid, one of the bigger girls uncovered a brass key. Is this it—the treasure? she asked in a disappointed voice.

Ah, said Marion, smiling. Come inside and we’ll see what it unlocks. When they returned to the kitchen, she took a box of chocolates down from the shelf. Hamming it up, she twisted the key in the air. Open Sesame, she said, flicking the box open.

The little ones ate to their heart’s content. Then they ran off, laughing and shouting, exploring the ground-floor rooms. After an hour or so, Marion’s colleague, Gisèle spoke up. Come along, Mélanie, she said, taking her daughter’s hand. It’s time for bed.

You, too, said another woman, leading her son up the stairs.

Soon the smallest visitors were sleeping in the guest rooms. Gisèle came down again and said, That was a great idea, Marion—letting the kids nap until their parents are ready to go home.

Yes. It means everyone can enjoy the party. And for as long as they want. When the other mothers returned to the front hall, Marion went round, offering glasses of wine. Sipping drinks, the women chatted and joked before joining the others in the front room.

A man Marion knew from work asked her to dance. Rolling Stones music blasted from the speakers as she and her partner moved to the beat. At first, she barely noticed the teenagers, standing on the sidelines. Then, turning, she saw that one of the boys was mocking her.  He flailed his hands and bopped his head, parodying a dance from the sixties. Oh, yes, the Monkey, Marion said. Unfazed, she copied his gestures. Bopping and bouncing, she grinned at the kids.  Lots of fun. Come and try it.

Looking amused, the teenagers joined her, followed by some older guests. Soon everyone was laughing and dancing, having a good time. Meanwhile James stood by the wall, chatting with his friends. Between sips of beer, the men shouted to make themselves heard. Yeah, James bellowed. My wife is a better tennis player than I am.

She beat you again this afternoon? someone asked.

Yup.

But you play racquetball at lunch-hour, his colleague Andrew said. Shouldn’t that help?

"Should. Doesn’t. James looked pleased with himself. But I beat her at most things. Poker. Monopoly. And anything else that involves money. In a stage-whisper, he added, That woman doesn’t know how to bargain. If I hadn’t been there, she would have paid asking price for this house."

When the dance had finished, Marion headed for the refreshments table. Quit boasting, she said, as she passed by her husband.

About what?

Imitating him, she spoke in a deep baritone: ‘My wife doesn’t know how to bargain,’ he said, lowering his voice to a sonic boom.

His friends laughed. Oh, James said, looking sheepish. Did you, um, hear anything else?

All of it. Smiling, she kissed his cheek. But I forgive you, because you got us this house.

And a great house it is, said Andrew.

Fantastic, said another man.

Wonderful party, someone else said. Great food. The others chimed in.

Thanks, said Marion. Glad you’re enjoying it.

I like the sixties music, said Andrew. Perfect for tonight’s crowd. Most of us are over thirty.

Not me, said Marion. I still have one year to go.

Enjoy it while you can, her husband advised.

"I