Black Rose: NRoberts - G2 Black Rose

What she did now, she did for duty.

It took her less than fifteen minutes to conclude she and her great-grandmother wouldn’t have understood each other.

Weather remains fine. Reginald’s business keeps him in New Orleans. I was unable to find the shade of blue silk I’m seeking. The shops here are simply not au courant. I believe we must arrange a trip to Paris. Though it’s imperative we engage another governess for the girls before we do. This current woman is entirely too independent. When I think of the money spent on her salary, her room and board, I find myself most dissatisfied by her service. Recently I gave her a very nice day dress, which didn’t suit me, and which she accepted without a qualm. However, when I ask for some small favor, she behaves very grudgingly. Surely she has time to run a few simple errands when there’s nothing else on her plate but minding the girls and teaching a few lessons.

I have the impression she considers herself above her station.

Roz stretched out her legs, flipped through pages. Most of the entries were more of the same. Complaints, tidbits about shopping, plans for parties, rehashes of parties attended. There was very little dealing with the children.

She set that one aside for later, picked up another. Skimming, she found an entry on dismissing a maid for giggling in the hallway, another on a lavish ball. Then stopped, and read more carefully when an entry caught her eye.

I’ve miscarried again. Why is it as painful to lose a child as to birth one? I’m exhausted. I wonder how I can suffer through this process yet again in the attempt to give Reginald the heir he so desperately wants. He will want to lie with me again as soon as I am able, and that ordeal will continue, I suspect, until I conceive once more.

I can find no pleasure in it, nor in the girls who are a daily reminder of what I have yet to accomplish.

At least, once I conceive yet again, I will be left to myself for the months of waiting. It is my duty to bear sons. I will not shirk my duty, and yet it seems I am unable to bring forth anything but chattering girls.

I want only to sleep and forget that I have failed, once again, to provide my husband and this house with the heir they both demand.

Children as duty only, Roz thought. How sad. How must those little girls have felt, being failures because of their sex? Had there been any joy in this house during Beatrice’s reign as its mistress, or had it all been duty and show?

Depressed, she considered switching to one of her grandmother’s journals, but ordered herself to glance through one more.

I’m sick to death of that busybody Mary Louise Berker. You would think because she’s managed to birth four sons, and is once again fat as a cow with yet another child, she knows all there is to know about conception and child-rearing. This is hardly the case. Her sons run around like wild Indians, and think nothing of putting their grubby little hands on the furniture in her parlor. And she just laughs and says boys will be boys when they and their scruffy dogs—three of them!—come romping in.

She had the nerve to suggest I might see her doctor, and some voodoo woman. She swears she’ll have the girl she pines for this time because she went to this hideous person and bought a charm to hang over her bed.

It’s bad enough she dotes on those ruffians in a most unseemly way, and often in public, but it’s beyond belief that she would speak to me about such matters, all under the guise of friendship and concern.

I could not take my leave soon enough.

Roz decided she’d have liked Mary Louise. And wondered if the Bobby Lee Berker she’d gone to high school with was a descendant.

Then she saw it, and her heart took a hard jump into her throat.

I have locked myself in my room. I will speak to no one. The humiliation I have been dealt is beyond bearing. For all these years I have been a dutiful wife, an exceptional hostess, I have overseen the staff of this house without complaint, and worked tirelessly to present the proper image for our societal equals and Reginald’s business associates.

I have, as wives must, overlooked his private affairs, satisfied that he was always discreet.

Now this.

He arrived home this evening and requested that I come to the library so he could speak to me privately. He told me he had impregnated one of his mistresses. This is not a conversation that should take place between husband and wife, and when this was my response, he brushed it aside as if it was no matter.

As if I am no matter.

I am told that I will be required to create the illusion that I am expecting. I am told that if this creature delivers a son, it will be brought into our home, it will be given the Harper name and raised here. As his son. As my son.

If it is a girl, it will be of no matter. I will have another “miscarriage” and that will be that.

I refused. Of course I refused. To take a whore’s child into my home.

Then he gave me this choice. Accept his decision, or he would divorce me. One way or the other, he will have a son. He prefers that I remain his wife, that neither of us are exposed to the scandal of divorce, and he will compensate me well for this one thing. If I refuse, it will be divorce and shame, and I will be sent away from the home I have cared for, the life I have made.

So there is no choice.

I pray that this slatern delivers a girl child. I pray it dies. That she dies. That they all burn in Hell.

Roz’s hands shook. Though she wanted to read on, she stood first, walked to the terrace doors. She needed air. With the book in her hand, she stood outside, breathing in the early morning.

What kind of man had this been? To have forced his illegitimate son on his wife. Even if he hadn’t loved her, he should have respected her.

And what love could he have had for the child, to have subjected him to a woman who would never, could never, care for him as a mother? Who would always resent him? Even despise him?

And all to carry on the Harper name.

“Roz?”

She didn’t turn when she heard Mitch’s voice behind her. “I woke you. I thought I was quiet.”

“You were. You just weren’t there.”

“I found something. I started reading through some of the journals. I found something.”

“Whatever it is, it’s upset you.”

“I’m sad, and I’m angry. And I’m surprised that I’m not surprised. I found an entry . . . No, you should read it for yourself.” She turned now, held the book out, open to where she’d stopped. “Take it into the sitting room. I just need another minute here.”

“All right.” He took the book, then, because there was something in her eyes that pulled at his heart, he cupped her chin in his free hand and kissed her softly.

She turned back to the view, to the grounds and the gardens going silver with oncoming dawn. The home that had been her family’s for generations. Had it been worth it? she wondered. Had the pain and humiliation one man had caused been worth holding this ground under one name?

She walked back in, sat across from Mitch. “Is this where you stopped?” he asked her.

“I needed to absorb it, I guess. How cruel he was to her. She wasn’t an admirable woman, not from what I’ve read in her own diaries. Selfish, self-absorbed, petty. But she deserved better than this. You haven’t given me a son, so I’ll get one elsewhere. Accept it, or leave. She accepted.”

“You don’t know that yet.”

“We know.” She shook her head. “We’ll read the rest, but we know.”