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  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2019 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Table of Contents

  The Roses of Mobile

  All the Summer Roses

  Blooms Torn Asunder

  A Garden of Thorns

  Wreath of Roses

  The Roses of Mobile

  Book One

  Return to Seven Sisters Series

  By M.L. Bullock

  Text copyright © 2017 Monica L. Bullock

  All Rights Reserved

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to the ghosts of my childhood.

  Some of you were pretty creepy.

  I dwell in a lonely house I know

  That vanished many a summer ago,

  And left no trace but the cellar walls,

  And a cellar in which the daylight falls

  And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

  O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield

  The woods come back to the mowing field;

  The orchard tree has grown one copse

  Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;

  The footpath down to the well is healed.

  I dwell with a strangely aching heart

  In that vanished abode there far apart

  On that disused and forgotten road

  That has no dust-bath now for the toad.

  Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart;

  The whippoorwill is coming to shout

  And hush and cluck and flutter about:

  I hear him begin far enough away

  Full many a time to say his say

  Before he arrives to say it out.

  It is under the small, dim, summer star.

  I know not who these mute folk are

  Who share the unlit place with me—

  Those stones out under the low-limbed tree

  Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

  They are tireless folk, but slow and sad—

  Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,—

  With none among them that ever sings,

  And yet, in view of how many things,

  As sweet companions as might be had.

  Robert Frost

  Ghost House

  1906

  Prologue

  Mobile, AL, 1880

  Sunlight splashed across my face as the carriage wove slowly through the overgrown carriageway that would lead us to Seven Sisters. If I were a poetic person, I suppose I should later pen lines that described the beauty of the mossy oaks or the broken fences covered with honeysuckle and other vines that I could not yet identify. But I was not a poetic person. I was a woman of science, or so I aspired to be. I reminded myself of this so I would not be awestruck by the prospect of living in such a stately old home. I refused to live like a foreign queen in a faraway land, as Mama planned to do. We were far from home now. Would I ever see my beloved Spain again? I supposed not. After ten years of traveling, it seemed unlikely, and now the images of Spain’s white sandy beaches and tall cedar trees had begun to fade from my memory. Sadness tugged a sigh from my heart.

  Strange that Seven Sisters would not have been destroyed in America’s Civil War when so many other plantations and monuments of the South’s former glory had met such a fate at the hands of Union soldiers. But Seven Sisters hadn’t suffered bombardment by cannon fire or been torn down by the plundering hands of hungry rebels looking for a quick dollar.

  No, this place had a reputation, Papa wrote in his last letter. “It was as if she were supernaturally protected,” he wrote, “and just waiting for the Delarosa family to claim her as our own.” He went on to say that the place had been abandoned for nearly a decade, and in the absence of anyone to care for her, she was in want of repair.

  But she has lovely bones.

  Papa had a way with words, I thought as I leaned against the window and closed my eyes. I loved seeing sunlight fade in and out through the pink veil of closed lids. My father, Nobel Delarosa, was the poet in this family. Not I.

  Adding to the enchantment of our approach was the heavy scent of honeysuckle—it grew thick on the roadway, and as I opened my eyes I could spot white, yellow and even a pink variety of the flower that I’d never before examined. I made a mental note to do so. I would definitely need a specimen for my book, The Delarosa Compendium of Flowers and Plants. It was a labor of love, and thanks in part to our extensive travels, I’d managed to create quite a comprehensive collection.

  “Lafonda, be careful. You will end up freckled. Sunbathing is not an occupation for ladies.” Why Mama whispered, I would never know; there were only three people in the carriage: the two of us and my brother, Jonatan. He sat serenely on the seat beside me, never daring to peer out the window like a commoner—as Mama often described me. I was a great disappointment to her; I knew this because she told me so frequently. Jonatan, however, was quite different. She pinned all her social aspirations on him, but I didn’t fault him for it. My beautiful older brother was doomed to live life as a statue, silent, forever admired but never allowed to breathe real life. If he stayed silent, his secret would remain safely hidden away.

  “Lafonda, are you listening?”

  Oh, how I wanted to tell her to mind her own business and that I never freckled since I had my father’s olive skin, but doing so would have upset Jonatan, who already felt uneasy about this trip. In fact, change often made him cry. And in our lives, we’d had much change. I couldn’t bear to be the cause of further unhappiness.

  Despite his unearthly beauty, his chestnut brown hair and lively brown eyes, his cleft chin and unusually fair appearance, my brother wasn’t like other people. He had no mind for complexity. In fact, one of his tutors, a Mr. Foster from Greenwich, labeled my brother as simple-minded at an early age and was fired without recommendations or pay for his trouble. The idea that Jonatan Delarosa could be anything other than perfect did not suit Mama—or Papa, for that matter. In this one thing, they agreed. No one must know, they said without speaking it aloud. For his part, I believed Papa truly thought Jonatan would come around; he was just a late bloomer, slow to mature. He mentioned that his own brother, Jacques, was the same way but later became a husband, a father and something of a businessman.

  Unlike our parents, I took a scientific approach to the matter and studied in depth on the subject of mental diseases and mental acuity and came to agree with Mr. Foster. But the love I bore for my brother prevented me from speaking of it. I knew the truth, and that would suffice. And like our parents, I kept his secret. But it wasn’t pride that drove me to do so. It was the desire to protect him from those who would ridicule, despise or mock him. He did not deserve such treatment, for he was a lovely soul with a playful heart. All he ever wanted to do was play. Now that he was eighteen, he was allowed to do this less and less, and I could sense his growing melancholy.

  Instead of obeying Mama, I leaned forward a little more and craned my neck to see the house appearing in the distance. Yes, I could see there was much to be done, but Papa was right, she had lovely bones. White fluted columns appeared through bushes with dark green leaves. As we drove closer, I could see the house needed painting and some repair.

  “Oh, Jonatan! You must see this! Stop the carriage!” I called to the driver. The carriage stumbled to a halt and I climbed out, determined to make the rest of the journey on foot. “Jonatan! Come with me! We can run the rest of the way! I can see the house.” I began to run down the dirt path, happy to stretch my legs and breathe in the warm air. How I loved spring! It filled my blood with new life. But no, I wasn’t a poet.

  Mama hissed at me an
d then said sweetly to my brother, “Jonatan, please sit down. Your sister can run by herself. On, driver!” I glanced back to see Jonatan’s crestfallen face peering back at me from the carriage window. Well, if he didn’t have the courage to run, I couldn’t force him. They left me on the road to Seven Sisters, and I happily planned to walk the rest of the way by myself.

  I decided to step through a gap in the broken wooden fence and approach the house from the left side, which according to Papa was where a neglected rose garden awaited my exploration. Roses were my favorite subject of study. I could barely contain my excitement. I hitched up my skirts and picked up the pace. I could see now that I had not been the first visitor to Seven Sisters who preferred a less formal approach. I quickly found a worn footpath and pushed arching hedges away from my face as I scurried along. Yes, this had been a good idea. I had already spotted a few varieties of flowers that I was not familiar with. And by arriving late to the house, I would avoid being paraded in front of the staff as if I were a foreign princess, which I was not.

  Neither was Mama, but she loved to pretend that we were descendants of whatever aristocrat came to mind. At least in Mobile, no one would be the wiser if she indulged in such fantasies again. Who here would know or care about the lineage of obscure Castilian families?

  I could see the side of the house now and a wild patch of garden so dense that I knew immediately I would not explore it today. Even I did not wish to endure Mama’s wrath on such a fine afternoon, and I surely would if I tore my silk lavender dress. Honestly, who traveled in silk? I was wrinkled from head to toe.

  Wait! I saw an entrance into the garden, one I hadn’t seen from the side path. It was an archway made of vine roses, Bourbons, I believed. I picked one and sniffed it. Yes, Bourbon. Light scent, small round flowers; this variety was known as Honorine de Brabant. The soft pink blooms felt smooth and cool beneath my fingers. The leaves of the runaway climber were light green and the barbs sharp and long. I stepped under the archway and was completely overwhelmed by the heady fragrance that surrounded me. There were a large oak tree and a bench to my far right, but I wasn’t in a hurry to sit. I’d been sitting for days. Standing in the sunshine felt liberating.

  Oh, yes, this was a delightful place! Just as Papa had promised. I would love it here. And this wasn’t the only garden—there were two more to explore, document and cultivate as I saw fit. Papa already promised that I could make any changes I liked, but why would I change it? Except to trim it here and there, weed the long-neglected beds and open the old paths by removing the debris. But I couldn’t do this by myself. I would need help, and Papa would surely approve the hiring of a gardener or two to work under my instruction. And Jonatan could help, if Mama allowed him to.

  I spun around with my arms outstretched, laughing with pure joy. My lavender skirts spun about me, and for a moment I felt like a flower.

  And then I heard crying—it was a woman crying, and her sobbing was the sound of someone who knew the depths of despair. I was frightened but moved by her tears. I searched and searched but couldn’t spot her. It was as if she were here, there and all around me. My heart sank and my skin felt so cold, almost like it was wet. I froze and forgot completely about the joy of the previous moment.

  “Hello?”

  No one answered me, and I felt as though I’d probably interrupted someone, someone who wasn’t supposed to be here. This was my garden now. Whoever or whatever it was in here would have to leave. “You can’t be here. This is my garden now.” Another sound and then even more heartbreaking sobbing caught me by surprise, but it came from another direction, as if the woman was outside the rose garden now. I ran to the archway and peered to the left and right. I saw no one. I thought perhaps I caught the tail of a dress turning a corner in the hedgerow, but surely that was a trick of the light. Frowning now, I walked back into the garden. I’d sort that out later. Now I wanted to explore.

  And I did explore for nearly thirty minutes. I heard Jonatan calling me and decided to take my samples and make my way to Seven Sisters. It wasn’t far away, and there was much to do to get settled in. He’d need me with him, for he was always so unsure of everything when we moved. We would have to set up his tin soldiers on his dresser and arrange his clothing just so.

  Clutching my rose samples lightly, for the thorns were painful to handle, I smiled to myself as I stood up and dusted the soil from my skirt. I heard an odd sound, the sound of paper fluttering in the breeze, and noticed a book lying open on the bench. I hadn’t seen it before…maybe it belonged to the sobbing woman who’d snuck out earlier. Yes, that would explain it.

  “Silly woman,” I said. Imagine leaving a book outside unprotected from the rain. And it did look like it might rain soon, if the dark clouds on the horizon were any indication. I set my roses on the bench, picked the book up and flipped through the pages. Yes, this must belong to a well-read person, for it was a rare book of poetry. Inside the book was an embroidered blue silk ribbon. The embroidery work was finely stitched, and I detected two C’s and a small blue flower. I flipped to the front and read the inscription:

  To my dear sister, Christine.

  All my love, Louis

  Yes, I would have to find this Christine and give her a stern warning about leaving books outside. I flipped to another page, a blank page. But then it suddenly wasn’t blank. It was as if an invisible hand began to write—the writing was clear, and the lettering was in red. Is that blood? So shocked was I that I dropped the book, but I quickly and carefully picked it back up.

  Get out now! Leave this place!

  And that was it. The writing stopped and the letters began to fade, as if the words had been written in disappearing ink. Seeing it made me think of Jonatan, who loved to prank me.

  But the voice! How could he have tricked me with that? He sounded nothing like a woman.

  I shook my head and decided to leave the garden in search of my brother. I shivered at remembering the woman crying here. The smell of roses overwhelmed me. It was time to leave the garden and go into the house. I tried to remain calm. I must remain calm and think about sensible things, not spirits in the garden.

  Poor Jonatan had no head for such things. I would never tell him about this. He preferred watching corks bob on the water or chasing butterflies. In that moment, the truth became clear—I was lonely. With Papa’s constant traveling, I was very lonely. Despite my continued declarations of self-dependence, lonesomeness had crept in.

  But all that was about to change. I jutted out my chin and walked to the house with the book and my roses. And with every step, the foreboding grew.

  Whatever was here, they would find that the Delarosas came from tough stock. We didn’t scare easily, and we fought for what we wanted. And for now, we wanted Seven Sisters.

  Despite that, my heart raced a little as I caught the last trace of whimpering behind me. I did not turn around.

  Go home! Leave here now! she whispered in my ear.

  No, I wasn’t going home. This was my home.

  Chapter One—Carrie Jo

  Mobile Memorial Gardens was quiet today, unlike yesterday when a family of mourners laid their loved one to rest. The grieving family was so near Momma’s grave that I felt like an intruder spying on their sad gathering, but I did not wish to leave her alone. I’d been here for hours today. I brought a bouquet of pink roses with me, which I carefully arranged in the bronze vase attached to her gravestone. “Here you go, Momma. I know how much you love flowers. I thought you might like roses today. Maybe some irises next time.” I tugged at the grass that had finally begun to sprout up—soon her resting place would be covered with a blanket of soft green grass.

  Ashland did not come with me today; he said he had some business to attend to, and I didn’t ask for details. Maybe he just needed a break from me. All I did nowadays was cry and stare off into the distance. I wasn’t eating much, or talking or dreaming, for that matter. I was lucky I climbed into the shower occasionally. Detra Ann had
kindly volunteered to stay with Baby Boy so I could come out here today. Momma had been gone two weeks, and it was still hard to believe I would never see her again. Never hear her laugh, never see her kiss on my son and hold him in her arms. Baby Boy asked about her all the time, but in a few months, her sweet presence would be a faded memory. He would eventually forget her completely, but I would try to keep her memory alive for him.

  Over the years, Momma and I had a complicated relationship, but that had improved when she came to Mobile. She had become an integral part of my family—it was as if we’d never been estranged. In the end, Deidre Jardine proved to everyone that she had the courage she needed to face up to her fears. In a way, she had made things right with herself. And for that at least I was grateful. But the loss was great, and I was not sure how I would ever get through this. I didn’t know why I brought pink roses with me today, it wasn’t as if they had been Momma’s flower. But they were lovely, and I was sure if she could see them she would appreciate them. I didn’t talk to her today. There wasn’t much else to say. In the past few weeks, I’d poured my heart out to her, and those feelings often alternated between anger, sadness and a host of other emotions I could barely discern.

  I rose from the grass and said my goodbyes, promising to return tomorrow come rain or shine. I decided to take a walk by the Memory Pond before I went home. It was a lovely spot with benches. It was strange to think that Momma and I had visited the pond just a few months ago. We’d brought Baby Boy to feed the ducks before heading to Jerry’s for sandwiches, and he had loved every minute of it. Maybe someday, when he was older and understood that she was gone, I’d bring him back.

  I had no bread to feed the ducks today, but they must have remembered me because they swam over to me as soon as I cleared the hill. Perhaps they did this to everyone? I imagined dozens of people came by each day to feed the greedy birds. There were quite a few of them now. I shooed them away and sat on one of the benches, hoping to have a few minutes just to stare at the water and consider what my next steps would be.